Wyatt backed away as the cannon fired, echoed around him, wiping at his face with his forearm.

He could feel Grey's blood on his cheeks, across his forehead, the bridge of his nose. Warm, so warm, when everything has been so cold.

He cleans his face, his blade. But there's nothing he can do about his clothes.

They stayed with him. A reminder of what he'd done, right or wrong. Wet and warm as he turned from the body, the flying ship purring over him.

Stiff and cold as the arena dragged on. End nowhere in sight.