Iridian
It was also the smell, the putrid stench of something long dead, both sour and pungent, but tainted with an unnatural sweetness I’d recognize for the rest of my life.
What hair Callum had left on his head was tangled in between Dain’s fingers. His good eye was open, but the sky that was his iris held no stars, only darkness. Half of his face was still badly burned and misshapen, but the good half—the half that looked so eerily similar to Dain’s it made my chest constrict, was contorted in rage. The base of his neck was mottled with old blood, so crude with its uneven flaps of flesh that I could tell it hadn’t been a blade that had severed his head from his shoulders.
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