Ragnar turned to Kael, the broken archer who still whimpered quietly in the corner, clutching at phantom injuries and regrets.
"And you," he said with a sigh. "Honestly, you're more use as a cautionary tale than anything else."
Pixia perked up. "Re-education Chamber?"
Ragnar nodded. "Yes. The one next to the caroling goblins.
Let them serenade him with off-key versions of dungeon hymns and early kobold ska. That should reshape his neural pathways."
"Delightful," Pixia said, already calling for two goblins with burlap sacks and suspiciously sadistic grins.
They dragged him away by the ankles, humming slightly off-key goblin work songs.
That left Ragnar and Isabelle alone.
The throne room was quiet now. Bodies cooling. Blood drying. The air smelled of ozone and ambition. Power had shifted. The atmosphere felt not victorious, but expectant.
Isabelle stood tall despite her injuries. Her wounded leg was already mending, muscle stitching under skin with supernatural precision.
