The metallic clatter of boots on stone echoed through the palace corridors as Azazel and her nanny hastened toward the exit. Blood still slicked their hands, the weight of their deeds trailing behind them like a suffocating shadow. The once-pristine halls now bore the grim marks of their carnage—walls streaked with crimson and the air heavy with the iron tang of spilled blood. Azazel's heart pounded, a chaotic rhythm born of both triumph and a gnawing sense of unease.
The plan had been flawless—or so she had thought. The royal family was no more, their reign reduced to nothing but lifeless bodies. Yet, as they stepped into the night, the weight of the silence outside struck her like a blow.
The nanny, a frail yet determined woman who had stood by Azazel's side through every twisted moment of their rise, tugged at her arm. "We need to go. Now," she whispered urgently, her voice trembling beneath the facade of composure.
