Florian couldn't look away.
Lucius's body lay still on the marble floor, blood seeping outward in slow, expanding ripples. It was reaching him now—warm, thick—pooling around his boots like a quiet accusation.
Cashew clung to him tightly, his small frame trembling, face buried in Florian's chest as if hiding would make the scene disappear. Florian didn't move, didn't speak. His throat was tight, his chest hollow.
The man who led the rogues stepped forward, his boots splashing into the blood as if it were nothing.
"You see," he began, voice casual, conversational, as though he weren't standing among corpses, "the king you all worship has made a lot of us suffer. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
Scarlett's voice cracked, shaky but defiant. "W-We do… That's why the king already made plans to—"
