Leinicia

The smell of imminent death hung in the air. Not that he had ever killed anyone, of course he hadn’t. No human blood had yet stained his hands but his own. Still he had always been able to sense this smell of premonition, and his nose had never once been wrong. The smell was an omen, coming to tell him that Death, the final defeater of himself and of every other mortal being, was close by. He shuddered, not from the thought of death, but from the realisation that no one else was in the house but Molly. His own, sweet Molly. And yet the smell was there, he couldn’t attempt to deny it if he tried. It was not like sulphur, or mould,