The aftermath of the battle was everywhere—shattered earth, snapped branches, and the lingering scent of burnt energy hanging thick in the air. Scyl guards moved quickly, their boots crunching against the wreckage as they scanned every inch of the destruction, searching for any signs of life.
Then, they found him.
Prince Erling lay sprawled across the dirt, his crystal armor cracked and dull. His breathing was shallow, his body unmoving, barely clinging to what little strength he had left.
The guards hesitated for only a moment before rushing to his side.
"Is he alive?" one muttered, kneeling next to him.
Another checked his pulse, his expression tense. "Yeah—but just barely."
More guards arrived, grim-faced as they took in the sight of their prince—beaten, unconscious, and humiliated.
Then came Fjorn and Rurik.
