Meanwhile, in the shattered outskirts of the ruined territory, one lone wolf watched from the shadows of broken stone—a thin, wiry scout named Jalen. His heart pounded, stomach twisted in a knot of horror as he witnessed their leaders fall, saw the chains, the laughter of the monster who wore a king's face.
This wasn't a battle anymore.
It was a massacre.
Jalen slipped backward into the ruins, silent, swift, unseen.
He had to run.
Someone had to warn whoever was left. Anyone.
But hope felt like a fragile, breaking thing now—something made of glass in a storm.
The king hadn't just destroyed their fighters.
He'd crushed the heart of the rebellion in one, calculated move.
And he wasn't finished yet.
—
Back in the ruined temple, Kieran could barely breathe through the chains coiled around his throat. His entire body trembled, not with fear, but with rage.
He'd been played.
