Velrosa's vision swam again.
Her mind screamed. Please, Ian. Don't.
If she was bleeding—
If they all were—
The Void was demanding. And Ian was answering.
"Fuck," she whispered.
———
The scent of iron saturated the air, subtle yet overwhelming.
It was the kind of scent that didn't just cling to the nostrils—it coiled around the soul aswell. In the Spiral Chamber, nobles clutched handkerchiefs and pressed trembling hands to their faces, eyes wide with mounting dread.
Blood dripped down cheeks like crimson tears, silent and damning.
And In the center of the room, the God-Chosen tilted his head.
His pale eyes surveyed the spectacle of bleeding aristocracy with the idle curiosity of a man watching ink spread on parchment.
And then, he spoke.
"What could this be?"
His voice was soft. Almost amused. As though divinity itself were playing a game, and he merely observed the rules unfolding.
Velrosa didn't answer. She couldn't. Her lips were cold and slick with blood.
