The silence in Sector 28 was a physical thing.
It was heavy, pressing, broken only by the drip of viscous fluid from a ruptured pipe and the ragged, panting breaths of my victorious monsters.
Alyssa's army, the proud crystal soldiers and the elite silver-arrow archers, were a glittering carpet of shattered fragments and still forms.
My trap had not just worked: it had been a masterpiece of overwhelming, brutal overkill.
I stood up from my makeshift throne of rusted crates. The feigned panic was gone, replaced by the cold, predatory calm of a player who has just cornered the enemy king.
In the center of the cavern, surrounded by the wreckage of her Royal Guard, Queen Alyssa stood alone.
Her simple white dress was immaculate, untouched by the grime and violence around her. A shimmering, barely visible barrier of pure mana protected her, but her face was a mask of cold, furious disbelief. She, who had been the hunter, was now the prey.
