Auren's trembling hand lifted, pointing toward the wide-open door of the main house. His breath hitched in his chest, almost as if his lungs refused to move. Sukamu didn't wait for another word—he bolted, his feet striking hard against the snow and wood, racing toward the doorway.
The entrance was littered with corpses, blood soaking the earth in thick, dark pools. Each step Sukamu took splashed crimson, but he didn't flinch—he carried Auren across the grotesque path and pushed inside.
What they saw beyond that threshold was not a house anymore. It was hell carved into a hall. The ground had become a river of blood, its color so deep it seemed to stain the air itself. Walls, pillars, and floorboards were painted with death; bodies lay torn, scattered without shape, as if war had chewed and spat them out.
