What? Wait—what madness is this?" he roared, the sound tearing from a throat constricted by rising bile. His voice, once a clarion call that led armies, cracked like a splintering wooden shield under the blow of a traitor's axe. "Have you lost your mind, Serene? What are you raving about? You are speaking in riddles... stop this sick jest at once!"
He spun around, his frantic gaze searching for a sanctuary—for a single lie to cling to—in the faces of the palace staff. But he found none. The downcast eyes of the servants, who stared at the floor as if the marble were a mirror of their own shame; the heavy, funeral silence of the guards; and the pitying, poison-laced looks of the courtiers were the only proof he needed.
Their collective silence was more than just a lack of words; it was a thousand rusted needles, stitching a shroud for his heart while it was still beating. In that silence, he realized the home he had bled for was gone, replaced by a mausoleum of broken promises.
