Aether's gaze had shifted to something on the ground—Xara's creation, the one that had died.
It was like a child... that had just been born... and died.
To be honest, Aether didn't really care much about the creature itself—it was just another piece of the madness... but it wasn't just any creature.
It was Xara's creation. She had crafted it with her own hands. Her very breath, her very essence, had gone into shaping it.
And now, it lay there, severed and broken, dead by her own doing.
Aether sighed deeply, feeling a strange weight pressing down on him like a thousand silent voices whispering inside his chest. 'I hate myself sometimes,' he thought.
Though he had played a wicked part in all of this, he couldn't help but feel something stir in his chest. Somewhere deep within him, there was a soft spot—a place for everything and everyone.
A hidden warmth even the worst sins couldn't quite kill.
