"Amaras…?"
Queen Vivian's voice trembled, thin and fragile, as she stood before his blade. For the first time since the corruption had consumed her, her eyes were clear again, and the gentle warmth within them had returned.
"What… are you doing?" she whispered, confusion and worry trembling in her tone. "Why is there… so much blood on your face?"
Her words struck him harder than any claw ever could.
Amaras froze, his breath caught in his throat, his fingers tightening around the hilt. He did not know what to say. He did not know what he could say.
But then her gaze lowered.
Slowly.
There, Vivian saw her severed arms lying upon the stone floor, still twitching faintly. She saw the shattered pillars, the scorched walls blackened by magic. The blood… everywhere, soaking into the cracks of the royal dungeon.
And then—
She saw him.
King Alan.
Her husband. Her king. Her beloved.
