The sacrifice that Dominus had undertaken, in all his years in isolation after the murder of Persephone, and still he had not let it corrupt him. The cruelty that Asabel had undergone, and still she had not lost her dignity. Who could compare to that? That was nobility; that was honour.
Oliver could bear it, for it was his responsibility to. That was what it meant to be King. To hold the heart of a nation, all its anxieties, troubles, and its sufferings, and to still guide its course away from corruption.
The stormy grey of his eyes twirled, as if the wind itself had infected him. The fear that he'd felt near disappeared from him. The discomfort that he'd felt in walking through that river of blood abated. What pushed him forward now was a purpose towards justice – justice for a grudge that was thousands of years old. He pushed through the next door and allowed the rivers of blood to guide him.
