Dravenmoor sat confidently upon the throne of Volcrist, his dark armor glinting ominously in the flickering torchlight. Beside him stood Lady Cerys, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her piercing gaze fixed on the captives before them—Cedric, Seraphine, and Thorne. The three were bound, their clothes dirtied and faces marked by exhaustion, yet their defiance was unyielding.

Dravenmoor's deep, resonant voice filled the room, carrying an air of finality.

—This Aemon you all seem to cling to like a ghost story… He will not come.

His lips curled into a smirk as he leaned back against the throne, the image of a man who believed his victory absolute.

—A mere boy with delusions of grandeur cannot stand against the might of Dravenmoor. Your so-called savior has abandoned you.

Cerys, standing a step to his side, shifted uncomfortably. Her sharp confidence, which had guided her so far, now began to waver. She tried to hide her doubt behind a stern expression, but the subtle flicker of uncertainty in her eyes betrayed her.

—Perhaps you’re right, she admitted reluctantly, her voice quieter than usual. —If he were coming, he would have been here by now.

Thorne, despite the ropes biting into his wrists, straightened his posture. His silver hair gleamed in the dim light as his piercing gaze met Dravenmoor’s.

—You fools, he muttered with a calm yet cutting tone, —you sit here, basking in your momentary triumph, but you underestimate him. Aemon is not a boy to be trifled with. He is fire, sharpened by fury. You should pray that he doesn’t come… because when he does, this throne will bathe in your blood.

Dravenmoor’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing.

—Enough from you, old man, he spat, his voice laced with irritation. —Your theatrics will not save you, nor will they summon your phantom prince.

Dravenmoor let out a dry laugh, dismissing Cedric's words with a wave of his hand.

—Enough of this nonsense. Your little fables bore me. If Aemon comes, he will fall like the rest. This is my throne now, and Volcrist belongs to me.

But even as he spoke, a cold breeze swept through the chamber, carrying with it an ominous tension that made even Dravenmoor glance toward the great doors of the hall. Cerys turned her head slightly, her doubt now growing into a silent dread. Somewhere deep within, she could feel it—a storm was coming, and its name was Aemon.

With the guards of the outer village silenced, Aemon pressed onward into the heart of the castle city. The gates loomed before him, half-charred and barely clinging to their hinges, as if they had borne witness to unspeakable horrors. His steps were deliberate, yet heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. The moment his boots touched the inner streets, they sank into the thick, crimson sea that had overtaken the cobblestones. Blood—dark and glistening under the wavering torchlight—spilled across the ground, pooling around lifeless bodies that stretched as far as the eye could see.

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There was no order to the carnage. Men, women, and children lay side by side, their faces frozen in terror or pain. Soldiers clad in Volcrist’s colors mingled with civilians, their bodies indistinguishable now, stripped of any identity by the violence that had consumed them. The smell hit first—iron and decay mingled with the acrid stench of burning wood. It clawed at the back of the throat, suffocating even the strongest among them.

Aemon’s expression, however, remained carved in stone. His gaze was locked forward, eyes blazing like embers as he strode into the massacre without hesitation. He wasn’t here to reclaim Volcrist. He wasn’t here for glory or power. No, every step he took, every breath he drew, was fueled by something far more consuming—vengeance.

One of the soldiers trailing behind him faltered, his boots slipping in the blood-soaked ground. He gagged, then collapsed to his knees, retching violently. Others looked away, unable to stomach the sheer brutality laid bare before them. Their faces paled as their eyes darted around, desperately searching for a patch of ground untainted by death.

—Gods, what… what is this? one of them stammered, his voice barely audible over the crackling of distant fires. —This isn’t war… it’s slaughter.

But Aemon didn’t answer. He didn’t even spare them a glance. His silence was louder than any words, and the aura he exuded was colder than the winter winds of Volcrist’s mountains. His boots splashed through the blood with purpose, his jaw clenched so tightly it might as well have been carved from granite.

—How… how can he just walk through this? whispered another soldier, his voice trembling as his hands gripped the hilt of his sword like a lifeline. —Does he even care?

Aemon paused, just for a moment. He turned his head slightly, enough for the soldiers to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes—once princely, noble, full of life—were now something else entirely. They were sharp, almost predatory, glowing with a cold fury that seemed to pierce through the thick veil of death around them.

—Care? he finally spoke, his voice low and guttural, barely above a growl. —Caring doesn’t win wars. Caring doesn’t save kingdoms. Caring doesn’t bring the dead back.

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their courage wavering under the weight of his words.

—I’m not here to mourn, Aemon continued, his voice sharp like a blade slicing through the air. —I’m here to end this. To make them bleed for every drop they spilled here today. If you’re not ready to kill for Volcrist, leave. I won’t carry cowards.

The words struck like a whip. One by one, the soldiers swallowed their fear and straightened their backs, though the tremor in their hands betrayed them. They couldn’t meet Aemon’s gaze—not fully. There was something in him now, something different, something monstrous. This wasn’t the gaze of a prince. It wasn’t even the gaze of a man. It was the gaze of a storm, wrathful and unstoppable.

As Aemon advanced further into the streets, the torches lining the walls flickered, casting long, dancing shadows over the sea of death around him. The blood-soaked ground reflected the light, creating a macabre illusion of a lake of fire. Yet he pressed on, each step carrying him closer to the castle gates, closer to the vengeance he so desperately sought.

Behind him, the soldiers followed reluctantly, their eyes darting to every shadow, every corner, as if expecting the dead to rise and drag them into the blood-soaked abyss. But no matter their fear, no matter the horrors they had seen, there was one thing that terrified them even more—falling behind Aemon.