And there stood the prince—expression a mask, his hand still gripped around a pulsing mass of crimson meat—as he looked back at the court.
"How about now?" he asked.
No one spoke.
Not even the King.
———
A heavy and cold silence swallowed the throne room whole.
It was more than just the stunned quiet of disbelief—no, this was different. This was the stillness that came when the body forgot how to move, when lungs forgot to breathe. When fear itself paused to make room for something greater.
Duke Veyl lay on the polished stone floor, his chest torn open, heart gone. The crimson trail of his last moments glistened beneath the golden sconces. And above him stood Lanard Solaris, hand soaked in red, eyes giving nothing.
He had done it.
He had really killed him.
Right there—in front of nobles, advisors, Captains, and the king himself—Lanard had brutally executed one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
