The corridors of the royal keep stretched before General Marlon Norse like a tunnel carved from judgment itself—stone walls on either side, lined with flickering braziers and whispering shadows. The clamor of the throne room faded behind him, but the sting of disgrace clung to his skin like sweat after battle.
Each step echoed with the rhythm of defeat.
His boots struck the cold stone floor harder than they needed to, a desperate attempt to drown out the voice in his mind. You were entrusted with Carles. You let it fall without a fight.
It wasn't just the prince's fury that haunted him—it was the truth of it.
Why did it ended like this? Hadn't he planned it so well? The abduction of Lara and Mira being adopted were all his calculations.
When he thought that he was about to reach the top, suddenly he felt that he was spiraling down.
