The sudden loss of Elina was too much for Marcus to bear. It struck with the force of divine retribution—swift, merciless, and absolute.
How ironic, really.
Just moments ago, he had watched others die with cold indifference, treating their ends like theater—mere entertainment beneath his gaze.
But now, with his daughter's flesh scattered like ash in the wind, grief gripped his soul like a vice. His legs quivered. His breath caught in his throat. Reality shattered.
Even the sun above seemed to mourn.
For a fleeting instant, it dimmed—as though turning its celestial gaze away, unwilling to witness the carnage unfurling below. Shadows stretched long across the square, casting a muted hum over the once-vibrant city.
Seraphina stood frozen.
Her eyes remained locked on the spot where Elina had stood only moments before—now a splatter of gore and tattered fabric. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Then something in the air shifted.
