Warning: This scene contains a bit of gore.
The surviving man—the last one left from his squadron of now-headless, dismembered, roasted companions—stared at Zyran with the kind of fragile hope that grows in the heart of a man who knows he is one sneeze away from death.
His eyes shone.
His lips trembled.
His soul whispered, I… I might live.
Poor fool.
Because Zyran's smile softened.
The kind of soft that made infants coo and grown warriors cry.
Angelic.
Serene.
Beautiful.
And deeply, horrifyingly wrong.
Zyran took a graceful step forward, wine bottle swinging loosely in his hand like he was on a lazy stroll rather than walking through a crime scene.
"I have news for you," he said gently, crouching to eye level with the shivering man. "Because I want you to pass a message to your king."
The man tried to nod.
He couldn't.
His neck twitched awkwardly.
He was still frozen.
