The agonizing strike to my womb was not the end of their malice; it was merely the overture to a calculated, heart-wrenching horror. Through the haze of sapphire mist and splashing blood, the remaining Dark Sorcerers realized their grand coup was turning into a slaughterhouse. With a sickening, coordinated desperation, they pivoted from the warriors toward the shadows beneath the overturned feast tables.
They went for the children.
The high-ranking sorcerer lunged into the wreckage, his rotting, skeletal fingers wrapping violently around the small, trembling shoulder of Willow. The little girl let out a piercing, terrified shriek that echoed off the high stone pillars. Near the shattered throne, Garm was writhing in the muck of his own blood, his bones groaning under the residual weight of Varg's attack, while Violet unleashed a blood-curdling, desperate scream of a mother watching her world dismantle.
Varg did not hesitate.
