Caera Volkov's POV
The blood still clung to me, a heavy, metallic warmth that didn't quite match the thrill of battle. I paused inside the doorway, brushing off the guards' stunned expressions.
They'd looked ready to kill me, but now their eyes mirrored shock. I nearly scoffed; I had more important things to worry about.
I stormed into the hall, fresh blood still caked on my battle-worn armour, staining the fine silk of my robes. Each heavy step on the pristine marble sent a scornful echo through the silence, as if the stones themselves dared to question my fury.
My gaze swept over the room: my father, Alex, still in his noble garb of dark velvets and gold trims, looked like a frozen portrait, his face locked in disbelief; Irene, draped in her delicate robes, cradled someone to her chest like he was the last flame in a dying hearth—and that someone—him.
