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... lay still in the dirt, unmoving—his blood soaked into the earth as if even the ground mourned.

Hans and Richard stood over him, their chests heaving, the adrenaline still pumping… but there was nothing left to fight.

Nothing but the horror of what they'd done.

And witch they failed to hunt.

Richard looked around to see the bodies of villagers littered the streets—men, women, even the elderly—slain by his blade.

Blood clung to his armor like a second skin. ...

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The gourd of wine at the waist is deep, and the light of the sword behind the back is cold,

Not for fame, not for money,

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