Smoke curled in the cold air, thinning into the sky as Lancelot stood amidst the aftermath of chaos. The stench of blood, burnt cloth, and something acrid clung to the dead trees lining the desolate road. His sword was still warm in his grip, slick with blood that wasn't his own. His breathing was steady, but his mind was anything but.
The distant crackling of flames was punctuated by the trembling gasps of the maids as they rushed to their princesses, their sobs raw and broken. His knights—his men—were either unconscious or lifeless, their bodies strewn across the dirt like discarded dolls. And in the center of it all, Cashew knelt on the ground, his frail shoulders shaking, face buried in his hands as muffled sobs escaped him.
'Fuck.'
