"Isn't it fun?" Xelrath asked, leaning lazily on the throne that once belonged to the Queen. His voice dripped with mockery. "Not a single soldier has been killed, and yet I sit here, crowned as the new king."
Beatrice, held down by two men, glared at him with hatred burning in her eyes. "Oh, really? That might've sounded grand," she hissed, "if you hadn't relied on your army's strength to do it."
Outside, Xelrath's forces filled the streets. His soldiers—Cravanvor's men—had taken control of the capital. They weren't killing, only suppressing. Not a single corpse littered the ground. It was a war won without blood, and that made it even more suffocating.
The elves had no chance. Outnumbered, surrounded by fire-breathing conquerors, their resistance had crumbled under sheer force.
