Dreyfus Desgarron fell to his knees, his pride crumbling along with his strength.
The infection had ravaged his body to the point where even standing required more willpower than he could muster.
Around him, the bodies of his loyal staff lay scattered across the courtyard—some still breathing their final breaths, others already gone. The Sunlit Order formed a tightening circle, their silhouettes casting long shadows in the darkness.
"Wait," Dreyfus gasped, raising one trembling hand. "Wait. Let's... let's talk about this rationally."
Logan tilted his head, that same cold satisfaction playing across his features. "You still want to talk? How interesting."
"There's no need for more bloodshed." Dreyfus's voice cracked, desperation bleeding through despite his attempts to maintain dignity. "You've won. The manor is yours. Our defenses are broken. But surely we can come to some arrangement."
