The pavilion was a ruin. Silk banners shredded into ribbons. The once-pristine lotus lamps lay overturned, their oil bleeding into the wooden floorboards. And across it all, bodies. Some groaned in pain, some stilled forever, their black-clad uniforms soaking the boards in dark stains.
The Moon Pavilion, once a place of whispers and hidden meetings, now smelled of iron and smoke.
Liora stood amid it all, her chest heaving, hair plastered to her temples. The dagger still trembled faintly in her hand. She had fought, not with skill equal to Lucien or Rowan, but with the desperate ferocity of someone with nothing left to lose. Her knuckles were raw. A thin cut traced her arm where a blade had skimmed her.
Lucien lowered his sword slowly, his breath controlled, though his clothes bore fresh tears and blood that wasn't all the enemy's. His gaze swept the pavilion, sharp and assessing, cataloging every threat, even now, when the last assassin had fallen silent.
