The camp fell silent except for the crackle of cooking fires and the groans of the dying. I stood in the center of the carnage, finally understanding why humans found violence addictive. Each death was unique—the resistance of bone, the spray patterns of blood, the specific sound a man made when he realized he was dead.
Movement under the bodies. Rapid breathing. Terrified faces.
I pulled aside two corpses and found a boy, maybe sixteen, curled in a ball. The moment he saw my eyes, he pissed himself. The acrid stink mixed with the blood and shit that already perfumed the air. His hands clutched a cracked prayer bead, knuckles white.
"Please!" he pressed his forehead to the ground, his body shaking so hard his teeth chattered. "Please, great lord! This worthless one begs for mercy!"
Great lord? Interesting. The red eyes had promoted me up the social ladder.
"Look at me."
"This one—"
"Look. At. Me."
