Clip. Clop.
The sound echoed across the blood-soaked square, each hoofbeat from the majestic beast like a countdown. The commander of the Wyvern forces stood dazed, his knees buckling as he stared up at the rider.
Atop the onyx-black unicorn—an ancient beast thought to be extinct—sat Asher, Duke of Ashbourne. Rain slid down his body like tears over steel, his cloak clinging to him in the downpour. His golden eyes blazed, not with mercy, but with an unbearable cold.
Behind him, the paladins stood in formation, their crimson-stained spears glinting under the silver rain. The walls of Velmyra dripped not with water, but with blood. Behind them lay hundreds of fallen Wyvern soldiers, their lifeless bodies contorted, strewn like discarded dolls.
They had surrendered, but mercy had not come.
The commander collapsed onto his knees, his soaked hair plastered to his brow, his lips quivering. "Have mercy on me, Duke. I—I did not—"
Asher's gaze swept the ruins of the citadel.
