Denish could not hold it any longer. His breath was ragged, blood drying at the edges of his mouth, but his rage burned hotter than any wound. He stared across the clearing at the monster wearing the armor of a knight—this "Prime" whose every action betrayed the very codes he claimed to serve.
Kury's body hung limply from the bastard's hand, her blood painting the leaves like broken petals, her chest rising faintly—barely. She wasn't dead. Not yet.
Not while he still breathed.
He gritted his teeth. His wrists trembled beneath the grip of the knights holding him down. This wasn't war. This wasn't battle.
This was theatre. Cruel, twisted theatre.
And he had seen enough.
"Heyyy!!! Dumb shit!" Denish shouted, his voice like gravel scraped against stone.
The baron beside him jerked in panic, eyes wild. "Yo—you fucker! Shut the fuck up! What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth, panic rolling off him in waves. "You're going to get us all killed!"
