The chamber was heavy with tension, the weight of Daemon's presence pressing against the walls like an unseen force.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
They simply waited.
Because Daemon had not yet decided if they were worth keeping alive.
He exhaled softly, his gaze sweeping the room.
The bodies littered the floor—broken warriors, shattered egos.
Titus still clutched his ruined arm.
Alaric was buried beneath rubble.
Korrin lay motionless, barely breathing.
And Baxter—for the first time in his life—stood still, watching.
Daemon clicked his tongue. "Disappointing."
His voice was calm, measured. Effortless.
Like he was commenting on the weather.
His gaze flicked toward Liam—weak, kneeling, bloodied.
He tilted his head slightly.
"This is the Alpha?"
Liam's fists clenched, his jaw tight.
Daemon smiled faintly.
"Pitiful."
Then—his eyes shifted toward Elena.
