The smell of burnt hide and blood was thick enough to chew.
Leonhardt stood in the centre of the ruined orc village, embers floating past his cheek like glowing snow. Firelight licked the edges of his coat, revealing the dried stains down his chest, the red streaks on his hands. His eyes burned brighter than the flames.
The corpses around him didn't scream.
Not anymore.
He bisected some of them and tore apart others using his webbing and ignited them in mid-air, with limbs still twitching.
But Leonhardt wasn't looking at them.
He stared past the charred huts and overturned stone cauldrons, toward the northern ridge where the fleeing orcs had vanished. His sword, blackened along the edge, still dripped fat.
"I've been too focused on leading my dungeon..." he murmured, voice low, more to himself than anyone else. "...that I forgot one key truth."
The next group of Orcs rounded the slope, war cries rising as they saw what he had done.
