A crimson tide rose in the grand hall, each swing of Alexander's sword adding another life to the bloody tapestry. Screams echoed through the chamber, pleas for mercy lost in the cacophony of death. The Duke, his face a mask of terrifying rage, moved with a horrifying efficiency, his blade a reaper's scythe.
Even his own mother, the Duchess, fell victim to his blind fury. Her desperate pleas were silenced with a single, brutal swing. Princess Vixara, her face twisted in a macabre parody of shock, met the same fate.
But amidst the carnage, there was one curious exception. The Crown Prince, kneeling on the ground, eyes wide with terror, was left untouched. Alexander passed him by, his gaze locked on a singular purpose – reaching Bernice.
He stumbled to her lifeless body, cradling her in his arms. His manic rage subsided, replaced by a soul-crushing grief. Tears streamed down his face, each drop a searing brand of regret.
