Blood still clung to his hands.
Zayn curled his fingers into fists as he walked down the corridor, slow and deliberate, boots echoing off the stone walls. The scent of blood, a strong scent that was thick, metallic, sharp, lingered in his nose, a reminder of what he had done. Of what he hadn't finished.
He had broken the last heir of Thunder Paw. Reduced him to a sobbing, begging wreck. The bastard had pleaded for death, cursed him, offered him secrets and names, promises of surrender.
But Zayn hadn't given him death. Not yet. He needed him to suffer. To feel every second of loss and degradation his own people had endured.
And yet… Zayn felt nothing.
Not triumph. Not peace. Only the same dull ache in his chest that never seemed to fade. No matter how much blood he spilled, no matter how many screams he wrung from their throats—it wasn’t enough.
