He was accustomed to blood.

From the base of a tree, Sesshoumaru watched as his brother's companions tended each other, bloodied and fatigued—alive.

He glimpsed the crimson staining his claws.

"Here."

Beside him, knees struck dirt, and he looked up to find the miko—determination lit in her eyes—reaching for his hand.

A small, damp towel was in hers.

"This can't be comfortable," she mumbled, blotting at the blood.

"It is not mine." He pulled back, and when she wouldn't let go, he arched a brow. "Not giving up, Miko?"

"No," she said quietly. "But neither did you."