He woke with a gasp, the void vanishing in an instant. The acrid smell of blood and smoke assaulted his senses, and his heart pounded against his ribs. His breaths came in ragged heaves as he blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of where he was.

Leson instinctively clutched at his side, where the beam had pierced him. His clothes were torn, soaked in blood, but the wound was gone. His hand searched frantically, finding nothing but unbroken skin beneath the shredded fabric.

His wide eyes darted around the wrecked cart, and then he saw her.

Queen Elara lay motionless on the floor, her once-vibrant features now pale and lifeless. Black smoke curled from her slightly parted lips, rising in tendrils that vanished into the air.

Leson froze, his breath hitching. His gaze fell to the shattered remains of the beam that had pierced his side, now lying discarded nearby. Splinters clung to her hands, stained with blood—his blood. She must have pulled it out while he was unconscious, her hands shaking with the effort.

The realization struck him like a blow.

Demonic magic. He had read about it once in the forbidden tomes of Elarith Keep, accounts of how such magic drained the caster’s soul completely, leaving behind only death and the telltale black smoke.

“No...” The word escaped his lips, trembling and weak.

His body refused to move. Fear rooted him in place, his mind racing yet paralyzed by the horror before him.

Queen Elara’s sacrifice had saved him, but at the ultimate cost.

He sat there, unmoving, unable to speak or cry. His hands shook, his heart pounding in his chest, but no sound came. The black smoke continued to rise from her lips, curling like a serpent, a grim testament to the price she had paid.

Leson’s breathing grew shallow as the crushing weight of her sacrifice settled on him. The boy who had once lived under the protective warmth of her love now sat alone, a hollow ache consuming him.

And the cart rattled again, the sound of the battle outside growing louder, as if to remind him that the world would not wait for his grief.

Leson's world had fractured completely. His body remained frozen in place, his wide eyes still locked onto the lifeless form of his mother, her bloodied hands now still. The black smoke that rose from her lips twisted like a malevolent specter, a final testament to her sacrifice. Every heartbeat echoed with the weight of her loss.

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But the world outside would not stop. The relentless war, the chaos, and the carnage continued to rage.

The cart, already hanging on the edge of ruin, groaned as a deafening crash reverberated through the air. The sound of splintering wood was followed by a terrifyingly sharp screech. Another blow struck the already battered cart, this time not from the impact of the previous crash, but from an axe.

The wooden frame buckled under the force, its sides splintering even further as the cart lurched violently to the side. Leson was thrown once again, his body slamming against the cold, jagged floor. The cart shuddered, its structure now reduced to barely a semblance of what it had once been.

Through the new opening, Leson saw what had caused the destruction—a towering soldier, a brute clad in iron armor, wielding a massive axe. The assassin's strike had broken the cart open completely. The remaining wooden walls fell away, leaving Leson and his mother's bodies exposed to the chaos outside.

In that fleeting moment, the world outside seemed to pause. The assassins, their eyes glinting with dark amusement, turned toward the wreckage, their gazes falling upon the two figures trapped in the ruin.

Leson’s breath hitched in his throat, his heart pounding in his ears as he struggled to move, unable to take his eyes off the approaching assassins. His mother’s blood stained the earth, her body draped in shadows. The realization of their vulnerability hit him like a physical blow.

The assassins closed in, their eyes flashing with cold determination. The same malevolent gleam that had driven them to slaughter without mercy now locked onto the two remaining survivors in their midst.

The female assassin, her lips curled in a cruel smile, stepped forward. The others followed her lead, circling like wolves closing in on their prey.

Leson’s hand moved weakly, reaching out to his mother’s still form, but his strength had left him. He could barely form words as the assassins loomed closer, their axes gleaming in the dim firelight.

One of them knelt by his side, the shadow of their blade falling across his face. The assassin’s breath was ragged, his voice a low murmur.

“You’re next, O’Connor.”

As the others circled closer, one of the assassins—a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes—walked toward Leson’s mother. His lips curled into an almost mocking smile as he observed her lifeless form, the faint, swirling remnants of dark magic still hanging in the air.

He knelt down, brushing aside her long, dark hair with a gloved hand, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Ah, so this is the mighty Queen O’Connor," he mused aloud, his eyes scanning her body. "She weaves dark magic, conjures spells that can shake the very earth… but in the end, she couldn’t save herself. How ironic," he chuckled darkly. "She could protect a boy like Leson, but not herself. Tell me, Queen, was it worth it? Giving your life to save the son of a king who might be too weak to live another day?”

The female assassin, her cold eyes still locked on Leson, let out a quiet scoff at the man's words. The others, standing nearby, didn't react—they had seen such mockery before. But for Leson, each word felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

His mother, so powerful, so revered, had sacrificed herself for him—someone they considered weak. The irony stung more than any wound. He could do nothing but watch, powerless, as the assassin stood over her body, making cruel jests at her expense.