The acrid scent of the burning palace clung to the air, a bitter reminder etched into every breath. The thick, suffocating smoke wrapped around Ingrid like a ghostly shroud.
Sten furrowed his brows, observing Ingrid's silent tears. "Are you really weeping for a Sylvanian?" he asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.
Ingrid's eyes widened, her brows knitting in confusion. "What?" she asked.
Avoiding direct eye contact, Sten sighed and turned away. "Ingrid, they were mere servants," he said, a hint of frustration in his tone. "Don't waste your tears on them."
Ingrid shook her head in disbelief, her voice weak but resolute. "Sten, how could you say that?"
"Sister, you are wasting too much of your tears for these people," Sten said, his brows furrowed. His gaze darted around the scene of destruction, a mix of concern and exasperation etched on his face.
