Ophelia prepared herself for the worst, but it wasn't enough. The attack devastated the dukedom. On the ground floor of her castle were injured men, moaning in agony from deep injuries that their werewolf blood couldn't heal fast enough. In front of her was a haunting landscape of despair mixed with the coppery tang of blood.
Ophelia, burdened with the weight of her duties as Duchess, could barely move past each person without being sick to her stomach. In the corner, she saw Layla making quick work with paste, sweat dripping down her forehead, as Reagan attended to another wounded. Their magic must've been drained by now.
Ophelia scanned the entire room, searching for her proud and powerful husband. Her eyes, filled with both grief and determination, couldn't help but take in the heartbreaking displaced that echoed pained cries and anguished pleas. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, and she swore she saw someone carrying out the deceased.
"L-Luna…"
