Morning came, and usually this would have been announced to Aric by the chirping of birds in the sky, but there was no such thing. Here it was far too cold for birds to fly, and even the sunlight came in a pale, gloomy glow. There was barely any warmth in its rays.
Aric had donned his armor again, and he went to the water reservoir that was placed within the tent. He dipped both hands in it before splashing his face with the freezing cold water. It was only then he realized the stains of blood on his hands, none of it his.
It belonged to the men he had felled the previous night.
He soaked his hands in the water and scrubbed to wash away the blood, as if washing their murders off his hands along with the crimson stains, but he knew better—such a sin was one that would follow him all his life.
He stood, looking at his face in the reflection of the water a while before he heard a call from outside the tent.