I gawked. I absolutely gawked. There it was, right in front of me: the headless, kneeling body of a King-Class mage—except it wasn't a body at all.
Not flesh, not sinew, not even the faintest suggestion of breath fogging in the cold. Empty. Hollow. A mannequin with pretensions of grandeur, a scarecrow dressed in death.
My mind staggered under the weight of it, like a donkey forced to carry the world's ugliest wardrobe.
I wanted to scream that this wasn't fair, that my pen should have worked, that reality itself should be apologizing for such a cruel prank. But all that came out was a strangled laugh, something between hysteria and awe.
Behind me, the others stumbled forward in disbelief, tripping over one another to gaze upon the horrifying reality before us.
But the Man in White? Oh no. He did not stumble. He did not gape. He stood there with his hands neatly clasped behind his back, as if this revelation were nothing but a natural conclusion.
