Zephyr stood motionless, swaying. His ribs ached, his scythe was fused to his hand, his vision swam in red. The air still hissed with heat, filled with the sickening stench of scorched flesh and vaporized blood. And yet, none of that clung to him as tightly as the scene before him.
The boy was crouched now—knees bent, face stretched into a grin too wide, too crooked. His eyes gleamed with something darker than bloodlust. He wasn't here for vengeance. He wasn't mourning a friend. No—he was entertained.
And then he moved.
He pressed his foot against Lyria's lifeless backside, grinding it slowly, deliberately. A moan escaped him, followed by a muffled grunt as his hand slid under his waistband.
Zephyr didn't blink.
He should've shouted. He should've vomited. He should've screamed that it was wrong, that this wasn't war or justice or revenge—it was filth.
Instead, he thought.
