Page 107 of Savage Throne
Something had shifted.
I closed my eyes and rubbed them, hoping the clarity I felt was just fatigue, a trick of sleep.
But when I opened my eyes again, the world looked sharper—crisper.
It was as if someone had handed me glasses and for the first time, I could see every edge, every detail, every flaw.
The mountains weren’t just beautiful.
They were commanding.
Terrifying.
The sunlight gleaming off their snow-dusted peaks was almost too bright.
Too vivid.
Even the embroidered dragons on the tent walls seemed alive, their scales shimmering as though they might rise from the fabric and slither into the room.
Is this what killing does to you? Or am I just losing it?
I swore I could hear better—the rustle of silk ribbons brushing against the tent poles, the soft, rhythmic beat of my own pulse pounding in my ears.
Or was that something else?
I closed my eyes and focused, listening deeper.
I swore I could hear the mountain itself, the way the wind danced over the peaks and whistled through the valleys.
The subtle hum of life surrounded me—an insect buzzing near the netting, the distant call of a bird, even the faint scrape of boots on rock far beyond the tent.
Am I imagining this? Or am I becoming something else entirely. . .due to killing?
I flexed my fingers in front of my face and stared at them as though they belonged to someone else.
These hands. . .
They’d been hands that had once been soft, untainted.
Now, they were a killer’s hands.
I had blood on them last night. Someone washed my hands while I was sleeping?
More important, I wondered if the blood that had been washed off hours ago had truly gone or if it had seeped into me, burrowing deep into my skin, into my soul.
Something about me was different now.
No, not just different.
Permanent.
This is who I am now?
A deep voice sounded behind me. “Good. You’re awake.”
Who is that?
Slowly, I turned around.
