The stench of blood hung thick in the air. His small body trembled—not from the cold, which didn't bother him at all—but from pure terror. He tried to hide, but they always found him. His little feet ran, but never fast enough to get away.
When the masked men dragged him out from the bushes, Glen screamed. He begged them to let him go, but they didn't listen. They laughed like they were celebrating a win.
"No! Please—let me go… Mother, help… Mother…"
"Calling for your mother, huh? That's cute," one of them jeered, laughing as he yanked Glen's body across the snow-packed ground. Rocks and buried branches tore into his skin, painting white snow red as they scraped deep enough to bleed.
They flung Glen's tiny body into a clearing, and he groaned, unable to run. The men circled around him, grinning like devils, flashing steel in their hands.
"Let me go… My father—he's the Emperor of Aetharion! He'll reward you if you let me live—I sweater, I—"
