The air in the secondary observation terrace didn't just feel cold; it felt hollow, as if the very oxygen had been sucked out of the room by the sheer vacuum of death occurring below. The sound of the genocide, the wet, rhythmic thwack of meat being pulverized, the shrieks that were cut short by the crunch of bone, and that god-awful, manic laughter drifted up the stone walls like a toxic mist.
Mordecai, who was watching everything, felt his knees trembling. It was a sensation he hadn't felt since he was a fledgling imp, a primal, shivering dread that bypassed his intellect and spoke directly to his soul.
His hands were buried deep in his hair, his fingers twitching, pulling at the strands as if he were trying to physically tear the thoughts from his skull.
'How had this happened?'
The question wasn't a thought; it was a heartbeat. A rhythmic, agonizing pulse in his mind. He had watched the first wave of Orcs vanish in a red mist.
