The cavern stretched before them like the mouth of a beast—vast, dark, and waiting. Torches lined the stone walls, their flickering flames casting restless shadows on jagged rock. The air was thick with the metallic scent of damp earth and smoke. At the far end of the cavern, near a crumbling precipice that dropped into unseen depths, Armand stood.
He looked like a man trapped—cornered and desperate. His sharp features were twisted with a mixture of defiance and resignation, the sweat on his brow glistening in the firelight. He held his sword tightly, though its tip trembled as though even he could feel the inevitability of this moment.
"You should have walked away, Damien," Armand said, his voice hollow as it echoed through the cavern. "You think killing me will bring you peace? That the kingdom will suddenly see you as its savior?"
