Miles slowly stepped backward.
The pistol still rested in his hand.
Calm.
Steady.
Blood from Elias' body continued to spread across the stone pavement behind him, dark and thick beneath the fading light.
Artem inhaled deeply.
For a moment he thought he understood the situation.
Miles had stepped away.
The gun was no longer pressed at his head.
The tribal soldiers were busy securing the surrendered men.
Maybe…
Just maybe…
Miles was letting him go.
Artem took a cautious step sideways.
Then another.
He slowly tried to move away from the center of the square.
Then a cold voice stopped him.
"Who said I am letting you go, Artem?"
Artem froze.
Miles had turned back.
The pistol lifted slightly again.
Artem's throat tightened.
"I…"
His voice faltered.
"We don't have any grudge between us."
His eyes searched Miles' face desperately.
"Let me go."
Miles looked at him for a moment.
Then nodded slowly.
"You are right."
His voice was calm.
"We do not have a grudge."
