Playing The Victims [BL]

Chapter One Hundred & Thirty-Three | Fourth World

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There was a distant wailing, belonging to a woman who begged for her life. It only grew more frantic, until a sharp cry resonated and the surroundings immediately fell silent. From then on, it was peaceful. The only detectable sound remaining was that of the group of men who were pulverising anything left behind.

There was only one figure who wasn't currently desecrating his environment, as he had fallen to one knee with his head tucked. Under his breath, he murmured a few sentences which were all in the name of the same deity. In his grasp, under his nails, was the dirt he had grabbed from beneath him and allowed to trickle down to the ground like an hourglass.

His actions were necessary, his actions were all for their deity who had continued to guide their way. Hawk lifted his head and as he did, a droplet landed on his cheek. For a moment, he waited for more rain to fall, but it never did. So he wiped the substance off his cheek and found a deep red stain on his fingertips.

His cold gaze shifted to the corpse that stood not far from where he knelt. Strung up and bleeding out, was an elderly man who refused to give up the location of his brother. A weakness Hawk wasn't prepared to accept, and he still felt no remorse as the warm blood on his cheek steadily began to dry.

Dropping the remainder of the dirt, Hawk stood up. Blankly, he looked around at the skeleton of the clan which stood only a short while ago. Bodies scattered carelessly with red puddles surrounding them. In the chilling temperatures that followed the heart of the winter season, the blood was freezing shortly after coming into contact with the cool air.

His men were kicking down structures and stealing any necessities that the pitiful clan had stored away. They hadn't been travelling for long, but it was rare for the men to have to ration themselves to the extent that they had been. So they took the opportunity to ransack where they could, caring very little about whom they had to chop down in order to obtain the riches.

"Chief, I have news." One of his men from another scouting group approached with a parchment in his grasp. Hawk grunted and gestured towards a barely-standing shelter. He grabbed the pelt that draped around his shoulders and propped it up from where it slipped whilst giving thanks to the benevolent god.

He stepped over bodies in fluid movements, uncaring of any blood which may have stained the furs that wrapped around his calves and around the straps that formed his shoes.

The brisk wind was making it difficult to travel, with the horses reluctant to journey across exposed land. So on this occasion, Hawk didn't mind about everyone wasting time.

He took a seat and propped one leg over the other, a striking scar the only reminder of his injury on his toned leg. But he wore it the same way he wore the rest of his scars. This particular injury was one everyone would continue to recollect, as no one had previously survived such a life-threatening ordeal. It was yet another reason the people of Viper believed Hawk was the true heir.

Once again, they thanked Zephyr for Hawk's recovery. Reluctant to acknowledge the young boy who had actually done the hard work. The boy was a traitor and deserved death, as they would whisper when out of range of their new Chief. But even if the man did overhear Finch's name, there would be no determined expression on his face.

The man opposite Hawk knew better than to keep the Chief waiting. He grabbed something he could use as a table and dragged it over before laying the parchment on top. He unfurled it with two hands and found the necessary weights to keep it flat. Scrawled on it was a map, one which had been years in the making and something Hawk had ensured was kept under wraps.