In the vast ocean of the night sky, countless stars shimmered like fragments of forgotten souls. The pale moon hung high, watching silently witness to every sin, every grief, every birth and ending beneath its indifferent gaze.
Under that cold light, he mourned—not for others, but for the death that had long since taken root within himself.
Will I actually gain anything from the world's destruction?
He often wondered that. His heart would whisper that question to him in the moments between thought and silence, yet no answer ever came.
Dasha's sword sliced through the night air, the silver arc gleaming with fatal intent. It drew closer, closer still—aimed for his neck, to end everything.
"Wait."
Veythor's voice cut through her rage. The single word struck like thunder in her ears. Her body froze mid-swing. Breath shallow, chest heaving, she trembled and lowered the blade by instinct.
