Clara’s POV
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t even breathe.
There it was, the head. The man’s severed head lying right there in front of me. His lifeless eyes wide open, his mouth still twisted in agony, and worse—he was staring at me.
Right. At. Me.
Like I was the one who tore his head off. Like I had blood on my own hands.
And hell, maybe I did because my entire body was splattered in blood. My dress? Ruined. My face? Coated. My appetite? Completely dead.
The King stood slowly, picked up a white cloth, and calmly wiped his hands like he just spilled wine instead of slaughtering a man. Then he turned and walked out of the dining hall in silence composed, unbothered, dripping in crimson like some damn demon in a crown.
I just sat there, frozen, praying the ground would d
