The words were a brand, searing into the quiet corners of his mind where he kept his carefully constructed solitude. "Thank you my lord."
Each time the broken man wheezed the phrase, Cole's grip tightened on the man's tattered shirt. It wasn't a grip of anger, but of a desperate, internal recoil. The title felt like a physical weight, heavier than the limp body he carried. A 'lord' was a protector, a figure of hope, a symbol. Cole was none of those things. He was a mercenary, a ruthless killer of women and children, a dog to the highest bidder. He was a shadow that observed and, when necessary, erased. He was not, and had never been, a savior.
