The Pentagrid Net

[Selwythe]

Alfwine sat in a corner, idly sharpening his sword with a blunt stone. He had kept himself silent, and followed where he should. He had not spoken a word since, and nobody had noticed him, but he saw and heard. He sensed the coming of battle, the mobilisation of the guard party.

The sun sank deeper in the sky and flared a garish red, illuminating him in stark contrasts. Grief clung to him renewed and revived. Too many times, he had watched helplessly as the creature killed his comrades. Too many times he had heard his friends scream. And now he had lost his mount to his enemy. He threw the stone away in humiliation. The creature would kill him slowly, until the blade drove home, and he had only watched hitherto.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the hilt. His finger pricked and bled as he gingerly touched the blade. Blood would spill, and vengeance would avenge. Blood would be his revenge. Blood clouded the future.