The king's gaze flicked back to her, but this time, it seemed colder, more deliberate. His eyes swept over her torn camisole. "Who did this to her?" His voice was eerily calm, yet the weight of the question hung in the air like a storm cloud.
She froze, not daring to speak, her heart thudding loudly in her chest.
"I did, Your Majesty," Count Greyfang answered, his tone almost smug, as if he expected approval. Her blood boiled at the casual cruelty in his voice.
"Why?" the king asked, uninterested, his gaze fixed on Greyfang with a dangerous indifference.
"I... I thought you would like it if she appeared... tattered," Greyfang stammered, his earlier arrogance faltering under the king's scrutiny.
The king's eyes narrowed, a cold menace creeping into his voice. "And what made you think I'd like that?"
Before Greyfang could answer, there was a sudden, swift movement—a breeze cutting through the stillness of the room. Without warning, Greyfang's head plopped to the ground, rolling a few feet away from his body before the lifeless form crumpled to the floor. She gasped, her eyes snapping shut in terror as the room plunged into silence. She could hear the sickening thud of Greyfang's body, but she didn't dare open her eyes.
The rest of the room remained eerily quiet, as if the sudden execution had been expected. The king, sitting loosely on his throne, and unbothered, simply muttered, "Insolent bastard. Dare to compare me to a lustful animal."
He waved a hand dismissively. "Get this filthy thing out of my sight."
She flinched, fearing for a moment that he had referred to her, but the sound of heavy boots dragging Greyfang's lifeless body confirmed otherwise. She kept her eyes tightly shut, too afraid to witness any more horror. The coldness in the king's tone, the casual cruelty of his actions—it left her trembling.