Aliya's mind unraveled as the mad priest's laughter echoed across the battlefield. His taunts, like venomous fangs, sank deep into her psyche, twisting her thoughts into tangled knots of grief and fury.
The world around her blurred; the chaos of war—clashing steel, roaring flames, and the cries of dying men—faded into background noise. Her focus honed to a singular point, a twisted vortex of rage. The mad priest, standing not far from her, was the eye of that storm.
His azure sword, still slick with blood, hung loosely in his hand as if mocking her. His black robes fluttered in the wind, and his soulless, predatory eyes gleamed with a twisted delight. His grin stretched wide, manic, as if everything happening around them was just a joke—one he was thoroughly enjoying.
