"Oh god...!"
"Omar...? O-Omar...?"
Who were the voices? Who wept?
Who cared?
Eyes were wide. The stench of fear was thick and impossible to wave away. Hands gripping the edges of chairs. The smell of blood filled the air. Scarlet tainted the floor.
This was not the first blood was spilled here nor would it be the last. But there were rules. There was mercy to children. Children...children were not supposed to be here. Generally. Some bent the rules for their dealings or to drink wine. Even the definition of a child was skewed here.
But there was no denying Omar was a young child. No debate that he was not a man. No question that he did not deserve to die.
Not like this. Not with his blood splattered on his father's face. Not with his father unable to help or react or do anything.
Elias was shell-shocked. Even the men—seasoned criminals, men who had killed before—looked shaken.
