The crest was there, planted in the blackened mud. A piece of banner, charred at the edges, but still legible: the emblem of the royal family, rendered for one of its scions. A reminder that this carnage was not merely a demon's madness, but the domain of a powerful noble, a nephew of the king himself.
Reinardht crouched, his gloved fingers brushing the soiled cloth. His steel eyes lifted to me, cold, heavy.
His voice rang like a verdict.
— "That's the local lord's crest… the king's nephew. Do you understand what that implies?"
He straightened, immense, his cape still flapping in the wind. His tone grew harder:
— "Do you know what you're about to undertake… just for the lives of a few villagers?"
His just hit me like a slap. The word exploded in my skull. My guts clenched, my breath shortened, and the rage rose, black, brutal. I felt my aura vibrate around me, a suffocating heat, ready to burn me as much as those around me.
