Crimson blood slowly slid down the hammer's heavy handle, winding its way along the notches and scratches etched into the metal from countless battles.
It reached the grip, soaked into the worn leather, and finally—
Splash...
Splash...
—dripped to the ground, darkening the dusty earth with each fall.
Each drop, though small, echoed in the minds of the Blue Hammer soldiers like the tolling of a funeral bell.
Thunderous. Final. Irrevocable.
Their gazes remained locked on the bloodied weapon—no one blinked, no one breathed. Time itself seemed to halt.
The soldier who had delivered the fatal blow stood frozen, the warhammer still in his hand, though now it felt heavier than a mountain. The color had vanished from his face, and his body trembled like a dying leaf in the wind.
If one were to step close enough, just close enough to hear the tremors of his thoughts, they would hear the broken whispers leaking from his trembling lips:
