Chapter 8 - The Blood on His Hands

Tears fell slowly from Mira's eyes, streaking down her dust-covered cheeks in the cold night air. The little girl stood trembling, her voice shaking as she finally spoke.

"I… I'm really scared of you now, Brother."

The words hit Riven like a cold blade to the chest. He stood frozen, unmoving, as if his entire body had turned to stone. His eyes dropped to his hands.

Those hands… were soaked in blood. Not just his fingers and palms, but his tattered sleeves, the worn-out cloak he wore, even his boots. Everything reeked of iron and the stench of death. A mixture of fresh and dried blood, mud, and battlefield ash clung to him like a second skin.

Slowly, Riven raised his hand, staring at the dried blood between his fingers. Whose blood? He didn't even know anymore. How many corpses had he touched, looted, dragged through the dirt for a broken dagger or a shattered piece of armor?

He felt disgusted.

Not by the blood. Not by the stench that followed him. But by himself.

Monster.

That was the only word echoing in his head as he saw himself reflected in his sister's eyes.

"Every time you come back from scavenging weapons off the dead… you change," Mira continued, her voice catching in her throat. "You used to smile. You used to laugh. But now, you're getting colder…"

Riven didn't reply.

He wanted to say something. To explain. To defend himself. But nothing came out. Every word tasted false in the face of her truth.

"I don't even know who you are anymore," Mira said, her tears finally spilling over.

Her fists clenched, her small body shaking. "I don't care about gold! I don't care about meat! I'd rather eat stale bread every day and work at the market than wait here wondering if you'll come back alive."

Riven lowered his head. He stared at her tear-stained face, the one he had sworn to protect at all costs, now stained with fear that he had caused.

He slowly raised a hand, wanting to pat her head like he always did. But when he saw the dried blood and grime still clinging to his skin…

He stopped.

He didn't want to stain her. Not with blood. Not with the rot of war.

"I'm scared every night," Mira whispered, her voice trembling but determined, as if she had held it in for far too long. "Scared you won't come back. Scared the door will never open again. Scared that every sound I hear isn't you."

Riven swallowed hard. Bitterness filled his throat. His hands shook, his breathing heavy, but still he said nothing.

Mira sobbed, no longer caring if the neighbors or enemies heard. "Stop scavenging weapons. Please… I'm begging you…"

Riven felt his chest shatter. Mira's words hit him harder than any physical blow ever could. He asked himself silently, What have I become?

For the sake of a dream—just a house, a meal—he had turned into this.

And just as he was about to crumble under the weight of that guilt, Mira's small arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace.

Riven's eyes widened.

The hug was warm.

His hands remained raised, too afraid to return the gesture for fear of dirtying her. But Mira didn't care. She held onto her brother as if refusing to let go.

"Promise me…" she whispered through choked sobs. "Promise me…"

Riven closed his eyes. Tears escaped silently.

"I promise…" he murmured, voice hoarse and shaking. "Today… today's the last time I scavenge. I promise."

And that night, beneath a wounded sky and with blood still on their clothes, a brother and sister held each other tightly, finding strength in their embrace.

.

.

.

Riven glanced once more at the woman's body, then at his little sister standing there with red eyes and a runny nose. Deep down, he knew what he was about to do was foolish. Insane, even. But something inside him whispered that he couldn't leave this woman behind. A strange, persistent feeling.

"Mira," he said, his voice low but steady. "Help me. We're going to save her."

Mira's eyes widened but a faint smile suddenly appeared. "What…? Are you serious? But if—"

"I know the risks." Riven looked toward their front door. The padlock and chain were still in place. His illusion of safety, a thin defense to make the house appear abandoned. He reached for the small axe leaning against the wall, probably once used by the previous owner for firewood, and without hesitation, CRANG! smashed the lock and broke the chain.

The door creaked open. Riven looked back, then carefully lifted the woman in his arms. Her body was light, but he could feel how fragile she was, like a glass sculpture that might shatter if held too tightly. And yet, something strange hit him again.

The smell.

Not of rot or decay. No, it was the scent of death but pleasant. Like flowers blooming on a grave. Sweet. Haunting. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Riven shook his head, trying to clear the eerie thought.

Focus, he told himself.

He carried the woman inside, into the only bedroom they had. The old mattress where he and Mira usually slept now served as an emergency bed. Carefully, he laid her down.

"Mira, get clean cloth. And warm water. Hurry."

Mira ran toward the kitchen, her legs still shaky. Meanwhile, Riven pulled off his tattered cloak and headed to the washroom. He rolled up his sleeves and began scrubbing his hands and face. The water was cold, but enough to wash away the blood and stench.

Once clean enough, he wiped his face with a rag and looked around. No alcohol. No medicine. If this were a modern world, there'd be a first-aid kit. But this world was different, a place where pain had to be endured with gritted teeth and wounds sewn with metal needles.

Or with magic.

"I'll have to improvise…"

Then he remembered.

"Salt."

He hurried to the kitchen, opened a small container, and found a handful of coarse salt. Mira returned just then, holding a bowl of warm water and several cloths.

"Set it here. Quick."

Riven added a spoonful of salt to the bowl, stirring it with his fingers until it dissolved.

Then he looked back at the woman.

Her black dress was torn and stained with blood. The cut and color oddly reminded him of a skirt Mira once owned. But the wound on her stomach was the priority. He couldn't treat it without seeing it clearly.

He swallowed hard. "No choice."

With careful, trembling fingers, he began to open the front of her dress. His hands weren't shaking from desire—no. It was guilt. And caution.

When the fabric fell away, Riven froze.

His breath caught in his throat.