Hadrius’ sigh of deflation is drowned out by the wails and shrieks of female slaves as they are cut down all around him.

He moves in a manner of languid indifference, shifting from one side of his room to the next, picking his large silver sword and sheathing it against his waist.

The room contains all materials he had gathered during their annual raid, from exotic cities to temples and churches. Each item of decor must have cost an insurmountable amount, yet it was all to be burned.

He would return with nothing to the kingdom for no item held sentimental value.

Such as the slaves.

Beyond the walls he hears the dogged earnest steps of a woman trying to escape the vicious wolves. Her scream is cut off by the sudden lunge of one animal, canines sinking into her neck, ripping out her trachea with practiced ease.

It was all too noisy.

Had he had his own way, Hadrius would have commanded his men to kill them whilst they slept. The swift vertical slash of a double edged dagger from ear to ear. Their deaths would be as silent as their lives. Hidden and with no meaning.

But he respects his men and knows that, despite being human, they all had inherent animal instincts. Specifically, playing with their meals. Mortal cries are what fuels their bloods with calloused glory, it reidentified them as gods that walked among piteous creatures.

It is all amusement. Entertainment. For they would not experience another bloody, adrenaline rushed adventure such as this until the next year.

His liquid, steady gaze does one listless sweep of the room before exiting, following that narrow hall that opens up to the field.

The air is close with the iron-salt of their deaths, and so silent he can almost hear the vapors moving.

It pervades the entirety, a dark billowing cloud of smoke rising heavenwards and drifting west as the wind wills.

The first and second group of men had left for their final checkpoint. All that remains is him and fifteen other men - they begin to burn all items, including buildings.

Orange flames lick at the wooden walls and doors, it snakes further upwards as the structure groans and creaks, shuddering in finality as it crumbles to the earth like a penitent on his knees.

His head angles in the direction of the large bonfire, watching as they toss limbs and bodies that stack above each other in uneven piles. Hands and mud-stained feet peek from the edge of bright flames - the heavy smell of charring skin, hairs signed to thin gossamer threads, and melting fat is thick in the air.

Some unrecognizable bodies had tried to crawl out from the raging fire, agonized moans drifting past their mouths with no skin. All jaws and bones and exposed teeth.

One body in particular catches his sight- her bare fingers dig into the dirt as she drags her upper body from the fiery orange flames.

His attention drifts from the fire to her, watching in dry amusement with the slightest tilt of his head. Then he is moving towards her, falling in step by her side, listening to the lumbering drag of dirt beneath her burned body that resembles the rugged bark of a tree. She looks familiar, but Hadrius cannot quite place his finger on who the human is.

Not until he crouches low and grabs her chin lightly, for the skin along it had grown loose and roped to the earth in gilded strings. He tilts her head to the side.

Faded forest green eyes stared up at him with a lack of focus. His gaze briefly sweeps over her incinerated features, lips pressing into a thin line of mild concentration.

Anita.

Odin’s slave.

His human’s friend.

They stare at each other for a drawn moment, surly silence broken by the crackling, spitting fire and the billowing wind that sends dark clouds of smoke in the opposite direction. Hadrius feels her chin move and her mouth parts.

She talks - or at least tries to - but each syllable is drawn out by pronounced wheezing sounds.

He observes her with a detached air of speculation, and waits impatiently, studying her mouth as though words would suddenly form, and when he realizes he would not understand her, Hadrius scows and releases her chin.

The killing is quick and effective: a simple grabbing of her jaw, and with his brute strength, twists her head a full circle, severing it from the base of her neck.

He rises and casts the mortal one last impassive glance. Though she lies on her belly, her face is pivoted to the sky.

A soft and cool murmur of wind drifts past his face and his jaw unclenches, muscles loosening.

It was over.

Hadrius clips his boots against the stallion’s side.

They had been riding through the barren lands with no breaks in between. Stopping was at a bare minimum to none at all, only for emergency reasons. He did not wish to halt during the final journey back to the kingdom, especially now as they threaded across unmarked territories.

With the previous village attacked by hellhounds, he and his men remain vigilant.

His gaze fleets across the flattened horizon, studying blades of grass that bend to the evening saline wind. His nostrils flare in search of unfamiliar dangerous scents, but there is none.

Hadrius grips the reins tighter and considers glancing over his shoulder at the stallion that is laced to his own: at the human that is roped across the saddle like a sack of goods.

He does not, for if he does, it might only solidify the vexing feeling that gnaws at his insides - that he had made a blind mistake and could not, for the life of himself, give reason as to why he spared the mortal.

Perhaps it had been the play of courage, though amusing and in, as she squared up to him. Or maybe the defeating slump of her shoulders as she finally gave in to him.

Or maybe it was-

The shrill whinnying of horses ahead momentarily casts him from his nebulous thoughts. Hadrius glances up as his men begin to slow before the start of woodland territory. It is neither their land nor is it claimed by others.

The woodlands happen to act as a boundary that stretches from the mountains down East to the ocean, two hundred thousand kilometres of uncharted land.

Beyond it lies their kingdom.

For such reasons, it was the most secure part of the land. If anything, this happened to be their most dangerous part of their annual participation. Everything else narrowed to a speck of dust before the woods. It was dangerous, the ragged terrain making it nearly impossible to spot the enemy should they ever arrive.

Hadrius raises his head moonward as their horses step into the forest with steady gaits, somehow also sensing the sudden cooling shift in the atmosphere. He studies the towering trees that climb upwards, trunks as thick as ten humans standing side by side.

Gnarly branches web above their heads as leaves overlap each other in mosaic forms that steadily prevent the penetration of light.

They trek further onwards in silence, hawk-like eyes sweeping over the environment, ears tilting to the air and listening for the slightest of abnormal movements.

Dusk begins its descent, like an elderberry encompassing its young ones, by the time they had arrived at their sojourn camp. The trees fade to thick, black structures that stand in unmoving rows.

Hadrius unmounts, large boots smacking the earth as he straightens. Handing both reins to one of his men, he begins walking towards the edge of the camp, bypassing gazes that subtly wander towards their war leader.

He does not miss the scepticism that flickers across their rugged features, and the question is clear as day for him to interpret.

As he steps further away, his calm countenance begins to crack and he exhales, long and loud - a sound that eventually morphs into a growl of vexation. Hadrius scrubs a hand over his face, then cards it through his short hair, longing dully for the extra length.

“We should be close,” a low voice speaks from behind, footsteps noiselessly approaching.

Hadrius does not need to turn to know who it is for he would know him in light as he does in darkness.

He remains silent as Dante moves to halt by his side, staring into the stretch of darkness that drifts before them.

Above them, the sky slowly shifts in its axis.

Dante shifts. “You did not kill her.”

“I did not,” Hadrius echoes with an arid, detached professional voice.

“The men will want to know why.”

His face grows incandescent.

He would also like to know why.

The warlord begins to scowl but catches himself, firm lips hardening at the corners. “For pleasure.”

An amiable silence settles, and in it, Dante casts his superior a sidelong glance before turning and clasping his shoulder. ”Temporary pleasure.” He fixes while giving him a squeeze.

Hadrius loathes being corrected or advised for it only came as a form of criticism towards his actions. And criticism signified that he was failing at something, and his shortcomings had not gone unnoticed.

His pride and ego takes an inevitable hit and the warlord chafes at Dante's words, his anger growing rising slow and dully within.

Wordlessly, he turns and beelines for the tethered horses.

There is a wildness in him that grows as his bright gaze settles on the saddle where the human lies horizontally and unmoving. Surety rises in him, sharp and promising.

He was going to use and dispose of her.

She would not see the next day’s light.

Reaching into his sheath, his strong slender fingers curl around the hilt and he whips it out just as he stops before the horse. Silver flashes over the rope that ties her down; it comes undone and he grabs the back of her shirt, hauling her off the saddle with ease. He releases a moment later and allows her to fall with a surprised shriek.

The human lands on her back, startled eyes blinking up at him.

His callous gaze falters as it sweeps over her sullen features now void of any colours.

There is something off about her, and he cannot quite place a finger on it: perhaps it is the slight puffiness to her red eyes; or the dried saline path on either cheek; or the smear of crusty mucus beneath her flushed upturned nose.

Her gaze slips from his, head turning away in some sort of rejecting manner, and the action snaps something hot in him.

His lips curl in divine distaste. “Get up.”

His words are as sharp as an axe.

“Wash and wait for me in my tent, naked and on your knees.”

He does not wait for her reply and turns, heading straight for the woods.

He would have preferred to relieve himself first before taking her maidenhead. The plans of ruining her throughout the night flashes hotly beneath his eyelids and sends a thrill of sadistic excitement down his spine.

Yes, Hadrius thinks as the familiar feeling of control returns to him, that is exactly what she needs.

A reminder of where she stands, a reminder of who he was. And all his men would hear her own wounded cries throughout the night whilst he used her like a ragdoll, and maybe - if he was feeling kind enough, he would share her with them until departure time.

Only then would he offer her relief. Death.

Because the warlord considered himself a reasonable man, despite his occasional madness.

Hadrius’ gaze drops to the slight hardon that begins to cave just beneath the material of his pants, and he chuckles mirthlessly. Unzipping the front, he begins to relieve himself with a sigh of relief only to grow still at the vague snap of a twig.

The barest sound, just at the limit of hearing. But he catches it, and his skin, in the cold night air, begins to grow hot as the wolf beneath rises on its haunches.

He knows that sound.

It is the sound of stealth, of a beast attempting silence.

It had been the slightest misstep to his left, but it had been enough.

The sharp and strange smell of decaying matter drifts past his face and Hadrius finishes off before zipping up his pants and turning.

His eyes flash golden as three hellhounds step out from behind trees, a dozen more drifting in slow dark circles around him.

They reel back on hind legs, upper lips pulling back in feral snarls that reveal venomous canines.

And then they lunge all at once.