"Ah…"
Azriel let out a weak, broken sound before clamping a hand over his mouth.
'No…'
He bit down hard on his lip, his body shuddering, trembling.
'Pol… Pollux…!'
Something dark churned inside his chest, swirling like tar around his heart.
'…Bastard! That bastard..! That rotten bastard! How could he do such a thing!?'
He bit down harder until blood welled and ran over his lips, but he didn't care.
The Marquis's voice broke the silence.
"…What was I supposed to do after knowing the truth?"
His words came out hollow—like a man already dead, a man who had long since surrendered.
Empty, defeated, drained of everything.
Azriel coughed, wet with blood, and grimaced.
'…The air… it's strange.'
But he had no time to dwell on it. The Grandmaster's voice came again:
"I gave up…"
Azriel's gaze rose to meet his eyes, and what he saw there made his chest tighten—despair, loathing, like nothing left but the ashes of bones.
