Somewhere in the dark, glass crunched underfoot.

Ronan moved through the corridor, spear held low, muscles coiled tight. The stench hit him first—copper and decay, thick enough to taste. Bodies littered the floor in various states of ruin. Some fresh. Some not. All drained.

And then he heard it.

A sound that didn't belong in a slaughterhouse. Soft. High-pitched. Breaking.

Sobbing.

He followed it to a doorway choked with shadow. Peered inside.

A figure hunched on the grimy floor, knees drawn tight to their chest. Thin arms wrapped around themselves. Shaking.

A body lay beside them—one of his own. Fresh.

The figure's head snapped up. Wide, wet eyes met his.

They scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the wall, breath hitching.

Terrified.

Not this.