Damon slowly opened his right hand. He relaxed his strong fingers.
The heavy steel sword slipped from his grip. It fell through the air and hit the hard wooden floor.
Clank.
The loud, harsh sound of the metal hitting the floor echoed in the small room. The sword came to a complete rest next to Ida's rolling head. Damon did not look down at the weapon. He did not look at the blood.
He slowly turned his body around. He began to walk toward the open doorway. He limped heavily on his injured left leg, dragging his foot slightly across the floor. His broad shoulders drooped forward. He looked incredibly tired. He looked like an old man who had fought too many wars.
When he reached the wooden doorframe, he stopped walking. He did not turn around to look at his m aide. He just looked out into the dark, empty hallway.
"Clean this mess," Damon ordered. His deep voice was no longer filled with screaming anger. His voice was incredibly sad, quiet, and completely drained of all energy.
