The castle of Volcrist seemed to suffocate under the weight of tension. The hallways, once vibrant with the sounds of servants and soldiers, were now cloaked in an eerie silence, broken only by the distant echoes of the massacre outside. Thorne climbed the stairs hurriedly, his heart pounding like a drum inside his chest. His hands trembled as he clutched at the folds of his tunic to avoid tripping, his mind racing with dreadful assumptions.

— Majesty... please be safe,— he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible.

Reaching the door to the king’s chambers, he hesitated. Something felt wrong. The corridor was too quiet, and a cold sensation crept down his spine. He opened the door slowly, the creak of the wood sounding like thunder in the silence.

The sight that awaited him on the other side made his blood run cold.

Thorne froze for a moment. The king lay collapsed beside the bed, his royal tunic soaked in blood, which trickled slowly across the stone floor like a crimson river. Alaric’s face was pale, his eyes wide and staring into nothingness, his lips trembling in an effort to form words.

— Majesty! — Thorne rushed to his side, dropping to his knees beside the body.

Alaric’s eyes shifted to the counselor, his breathing ragged and uneven. His bloodied hand clutched Thorne’s wrist with surprising strength for someone on the brink of death.

— Aemon... — the king whispered, his voice barely audible. My grandson... I failed... I don’t know where he is. Volcrist... is lost... Thorne, if he lives, please... guide him.

— Don’t speak like this, Majesty. We will save you. I swear it! — Thorne gripped the king’s hand tightly, though he knew he was lying. There was no saving him.

The king’s eyes slowly closed, and a final breath escaped his lips. His hand went limp, falling lifeless to the floor.

Thorne had no time to grieve. A sound behind him caught his attention. He turned abruptly and saw, in the dim light of the room, a tall man clad in black armor bearing the symbol of House Dravenmoor. The bloodied blade in his hand dripped ominously, and the cold smile on his lips marked him as anything but an amateur.

— You’re too late, counselor, — the assassin said, his voice low and taunting. He’s taken his last breath. Now, step aside, and perhaps I won’t have to do the same to you.

Thorne felt his throat dry, but he forced himself to think quickly. He knew the castle was nearly empty, and his chances of survival were slim if the man escaped. His eyes darted around the room until they landed on the key near the door.

— You won’t leave here, you bastard, — Thorne responded, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

The assassin took a step forward, his blade swinging casually at his side. — And what exactly are you going to do? Stop me with words? An old man like you doesn’t even know how to hold a sword. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.

But Thorne didn’t answer. In one swift motion, he dashed toward the door, grabbed the key, and turned it in the lock before the assassin could react. The click of the latch echoed through the room.

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— Coward! — the assassin roared, charging at the door, but Thorne was already on the other side, pressing his body against the wood to reinforce the lock.

— Guards! Guards, come quickly! There’s an assassin in the king’s chambers! — Thorne shouted with all his might, his voice reverberating through the empty corridors.

On the other side of the door, the assassin pounded his blade against the wood, trying to break through. Each strike made the door tremble, and Thorne could feel the vibrations against his back.

— You think this will stop me? — the man bellowed. When I get out of here, I’ll slit your throat and drag the king’s body to the gates! Open the door, old man, and I’ll make your death quicker!

Thorne ignored the threats and continued calling for help. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, and soon two guards appeared, their expressions shocked to see the counselor sweating and panting as he braced himself against the door.

— Quickly! Hold the door! There’s a Dravenmoor assassin inside. He killed the king!

The guards exchanged alarmed glances but didn’t hesitate. One drew his sword while the other positioned himself beside Thorne, helping reinforce the door.

— We’ll hold him here until reinforcements arrive, — one of the guards said.

Thorne stepped back, his face pale and his hands trembling, but his eyes remained fixed on the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment. He felt the crushing weight of guilt and despair. Alaric was dead, and now the fate of Volcrist was even more uncertain.

— Volcrist needs a miracle, — he murmured to himself as the assassin’s blows continued to shake the door.

The city was a battlefield. Screams of pain and agony mingled with the clash of steel against steel. The stench of blood filled the air, burning the survivors’ nostrils. The ground, once paved with clean stones, was now soaked red, and bodies were piled in every corner.

In the midst of this carnage, Dravenmoor advanced like a storm. His black armor glistened with the blood of his victims, and his attacks were as brutal as they were calculated. A Volcrist soldier attempted to strike him from the side, but Dravenmoor turned swiftly, grabbing the man by the neck and lifting him as if he weighed nothing.

— Cedric! — Dravenmoor’s roar echoed as he crushed the soldier’s neck with a single hand, tossing the lifeless body to the ground.

Another group of soldiers attacked, attempting to surround him. They were desperate but well-trained. Their swords danced through the air, seeking an opening.

— Take him down! Don’t let him advance any further! — shouted the captain of the guard.

Dravenmoor grinned, spinning his massive two-handed blade with terrifying agility.

— You are nothing but broken toys! Cedric! Come out and fight like a man, or watch all your dogs die in your name!

One of the soldiers managed to strike his armor, but the blow glanced off harmlessly. Dravenmoor seized the moment, swinging his sword in a devastating arc that cleaved two men in half.

From a nearby balcony, Cerys watched the scene, her expression cold and impassive. She raised her hands, murmuring arcane words. A blue glow began to emanate from her fingers, and moments later, a torrent of ice shot toward the captain of the Volcrist guard, freezing him in place. The captain tried to scream, but his lungs were already frozen.

— So fragile... — Cerys said in a cutting tone. Cedric has abandoned you. Stop fighting and accept your fate.

But the remaining soldiers did not retreat. They continued to press forward, even knowing they were fighting a losing battle.

Dravenmoor roared again, delivering a blow that created a crater in the ground, toppling three more soldiers. He approached a survivor crawling across the blood-soaked cobblestones and grabbed him by the hair.

— Tell me, where is your king? — Dravenmoor demanded, his eyes blazing with an almost feral rage.

The soldier spat blood into Dravenmoor’s face and weakly replied:

— We... do not fight for that king...

Dravenmoor said nothing. He simply decapitated the man with a single stroke, turning his gaze toward the castle, where the gates remained closed.

— Cedric! The longer you hide, the more blood I will spill in your name! Come out, coward!