Borik's severed head rolled across the cracked stone floor, spinning once before coming to rest against a fallen chair. A thick trail of crimson smeared across the ground, stark against the pale dust from the quicklime.
A single heartbeat later, his headless body swayed where it stood—like a puppet with its strings cut—before collapsing in a heavy heap. The sound it made was wet, final.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the shock hit.
It rippled through the room like a cold wind. Men froze mid-breath, their expressions caught between disbelief and horror. Borik had been one of their strongest—the man they thought unshakable, the one who could stand against any knight of the crown. And yet, he had been cut down with a single, effortless strike, as if his years of battle meant nothing at all.
The weight of that reality crushed their will.
