Mourning Manor still carried the stench of iron and death. The blood spilled in the main hall had dried, leaving dark, crusted stains between the cracks of the shattered stone floor. Gillian walked past the ruins with the very last of his dwindling stamina. Every step he took felt like he was dragging the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders. His silver sword, which had always served as the symbol of his authority and terror, now felt incredibly heavy, almost impossible to grip. He passed his guards, who bowed deeply as he walked by, but Gillian ignored them. His focus was singular: reaching his private bedroom on the upper floor before his body finally surrendered to the crushing exhaustion.
Ghea followed from a safe distance. She could see how chaotic the man's condition was.
