The inside of Mirabelle's pavilion was dim, lit by the flickering glow of a brazier. Outside, the clatter of armor and nervous whispers seemed far away.
Mirabelle stood in the middle of the rug, trembling. It wasn't fear, but the crash after adrenaline. She kept seeing the soldier's eyes as he died. She had taken a life.
"Breathe," Revas' voice came from the shadows.
He stepped into the light. His blood-soaked coat was gone. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing forearms stained with the General's blood.
He walked to a basin, dipped a cloth in the water, and wrung it out. The water turned pink.
"You are shaking," he noted, walking over to her. "Is it regret?"
Mirabelle looked at her hands. The gloves were tacky with drying blood.
"No," she whispered. "It's... cold."
