The silence that followed the execution of the high elf leader seemed denser than the fog itself. None of the remaining warriors dared to move. The massacre had broken more than bodies—it had destroyed convictions, pride, and the illusion of superiority that the high elves had cultivated for centuries.
Kael stood motionless for a long moment, observing the hesitant glances of the few enemies still alive. His eyes scanned the scene with calculated precision. He was no longer the man who wavered between diplomacy and violence—he was the executor of a new destiny, forged by betrayal, pain, and the brutal need to survive.
One of the high elves, a young woman with a silver symbol on her chest, slowly dropped her sword. Her eyes were wide, her breathing uneven. She fell to her knees, raising her hands in surrender, not daring to raise her voice.
Liora stepped forward and placed her hand on Kael's shoulder, in a gesture that was both pleading and commanding.
