As Harold flew thousands of feet above the terrain of Dachwald headed east towards Master, he felt relatively good about what he had done. A traitor had been removed, a public example had been made of him, and thus a hard lesson had hopefully been instilled in the ranks of the untrustworthy flying mice.
But a small part of him felt a little bad. Had he somehow done the same thing while still a mere Konulan himself, he was pretty sure he would have felt good through and through about the deed. But he realized treacherous Max had no chance against a flying terror such as himself. But that was okay, he told himself, because after all it wasn’t a fight, and it wasn’t murder. It was an execution, and whether it had been carried out by a small bird or a hulking spectacle such as himself was really beside the point. He was but a mere instrument in Master’s hand.
This assuaged the small amount of guilt he had relatively well, but he still suspected that he would feel better once he delivered Max’s treasonous head to Master and put the whole thing behind him. He didn’t particularly enjoy keeping company with the grisly object in his talons, and he dared not stop to hunt, lest he lose the object of his mission. Upon arrival, perhaps he would get a real mission—something far more worthy of a creature of his potential.
Then, a pang of worry struck him, as he realized he was starting to become far prouder than he had ever been before. How could he possibly consider this to have been an insignificant mission? Though small in size, Max’s deadly skills of persuasion had influenced the entirety of the pholungs to join against Master in one deadly surprise attack, which he had only narrowly survived. Even Master’s cat had been flung from the cave, like some worthless item.
Thus, he realized to his satisfaction that Max’s fate had been not only deserved but probably far too merciful. Furthermore, he realized he had better lose his sensitive conscience fast because Master most likely had far bloodier tasks ahead for him.