Prince Ricard could smell the blood and hear the screams even before he reached the infirmary. He strolled there, the booming sound of falling structures and pleas for mercy ringing down the hallways like wedding bells in his ears.
He let out a low whistle, his eyes shimmering with sadistic bloodlust as he deeply breathed in the metallic scent that lingered in the air. It was an intoxicating smell, and his veins throbbed with desire, his fingers flexing and unflexing themselves as magic gathered and faded at his fingertips.
"Do you smell that, dear brother?" he asked. He let out a low whistle. "It seems like Duke Elsher has been busy."
Raziel merely frowned, wrinkling his nose as he stared at his brother with unhidden disgust.
"You are sick."