★ Nuel's POV ★
Laila turned away quietly, her breathing still uneven from the fight, and went to help the old woman drag the man's body toward the door. The metallic scent of blood filled the air—thick, sharp, and heavy—mixing with the damp, earthy smell of the hut. I watched, half in disbelief, as they moved the body together, the old woman's frail hands steady despite her age, and Laila's grip firm and sure.
The man's blood still flowed from the wound her grandmother had inflicted, a dark, glistening stream that pooled on the cracked floor. It caught the faint light of the small lamp and shimmered faintly like oil. I couldn't take my eyes off it. It didn't seem real—none of it did.
Laila shouldn't have been able to do this.
