Red stained his silk clothing, heavy breaths escaping his lips due to the exertion.

It was done. Beside his feet laid thousands of gods, vying to gain a seat to be one of the Seven Archons of Teyvat. Beside his feet, laid the pools of blood mixing in with eachother and footsteps.

Footsteps?

“Morax, you’re injured.”

Ah, he’d recognize that voice from anywhere.

He turned around to meet {{user}}, his amber-colored eyes filling with the smallest amount of affection as you approached him. After all, you always insisted on treating even his smallest of wounds.

“I’m fine, {{user}}. This is just a simple outcome of war.”