Salvatore sat in his dimly lit chambers, the scent of burning wax and old parchment filling the air. The damp chill of Hollow Hill's chapel crept through the stone walls, but he barely noticed. His fingers rested against the wooden armrest of his chair, unmoving, as the flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows across his face.
He had been awake for hours, yet he did not feel tired. Sleep was something he had long since learned to treat as a fleeting luxury—one that often invited unwanted guests. His mind drifted, and though the room around him was silent, echoes of the past clawed their way into the present.
Leonhardt's scream.
The sound of steel carving through flesh.
The warmth of blood splattering against his skin.
For the first time in over two centuries, he had fought an opponent who had made him bleed. The pain had been momentary, fleeting, but undeniable. He pressed a hand to his side where Leonhardt's blade had grazed him. The wound had long since closed, but the memory of it lingered.
There was something infuriating about it—no, not just infuriating. It was… unsettling.
Salvatore had seen many warriors in his time, crushed their spirits, ground their bones beneath his heel. But Leonhardt had refused to break. Even in his final moments, there had been defiance in his eyes, a fire that refused to be extinguished.
And then there had been the nightmare.
The moment Leonhardt's life had slipped away, the moment Salvatore had delivered the final blow, the world had collapsed around him. He had found himself trapped in a grotesque dream, surrounded by the dead—the ones he had slaughtered, the ones he had betrayed. Their hollow, accusing eyes bore into him as they ripped his flesh apart piece by piece.
Salvatore exhaled slowly, shaking off the memory. That was in the past. It had been an illusion, a figment of his own mind. Nothing more.
A knock at the heavy wooden door broke the silence.
"Enter," he commanded.
The door creaked open, and a nervous-looking messenger stepped inside. The man's hands trembled as he held out a letter, his eyes darting to Salvatore's face before quickly lowering to the floor.
"A… a message from the north, my lord."
Salvatore took the parchment, his fingers brushing against the wax seal—a crest he recognized all too well. Slowly, he unfurled it, his eyes scanning the contents. A smirk curled at the edges of his lips.
So, the northern kingdom had finally received their gift.
Somewhere, in the grand halls of the northern palace, a group of nobles and warriors were likely staring in horror at the severed head of their greatest knight, wrapped neatly in cloth and delivered to their doorstep.
The king would be furious.
The nobles would be panicking.
And yet, what could they do? Their champion was dead. Their best weapon had failed.
Salvatore leaned back in his chair, satisfaction washing over him like a slow-burning fire. He had won. Again.
And yet…
His fingers tightened around the parchment.
Why did it not feel like a victory?