The castle of Arcane had never been this quiet. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the lingering heat of battle. The once-proud throne room was now a graveyard of shattered marble and fallen warriors. The torches lining the walls flickered weakly, their light barely reaching the towering ceilings.
Zereth lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, his armor dented, his body trembling from the wounds he had sustained. His sword was nowhere in reach, his power spent. Above him, Vesarius Rage stood firm, his grip unwavering on the sword pressed against Zereth's throat.
"Yield, Zereth," Rage commanded, his voice low but filled with finality. "Leave my people and the girl to my hands, and no more harm will be done to yours."
