Tears streamed down King Falem’s swollen eyes, his screams echoing through the frosty morning air, plunging the gathered crowd into a stunned silence. The sight was unbearable. The guard holding Brendor’s reins struggled as the steed became increasingly agitated, snorting and stamping in distress. Grageon Silverbeck came racing from the castle, his face pale with fear. "My lord!" he shouted, his voice trembling. "What has happened? Who has done this?"

King Falem stared down at his trembling, blood-stained hands, feeling nothing but numbness. The bitter night air kissed his tear-streaked face, tangling his black hair into damp, matted strands. The day’s brightness had faded, leaving only the cold darkness of the night, but he could still see the grass, stained a merciless crimson. Blood was everywhere. His eyes traced the trail as it intertwined with her black curls, which cascaded lifelessly over the earth. The scent of jasmine oil, which she had applied that morning, lingered faintly, mixing with the iron tang of blood. The sweet fragrance of his beloved Lamora would be no more.

The look on the King’s face was unspeakable. Torn between mourning his lost love and seeking the truth, he found himself trapped in a storm of conflicting emotions. The details of her death burned into his mind—each word about the rape stoking a fire in his heart. Hatred swelled within him, an unrelenting desire for vengeance. He wanted nothing more than to see their blood on his sword.

Silence filled the chamber halls as Gragion made his way up the winding staircase that led to the King’s chambers. Absentmindedly, he straightened his robes, running his fingers over the fabric before knocking on the door. The sound echoed through the quiet corridor. He waited... knocked again... nothing. Finally, Gragion pushed open the door to find King Falem lying on the bed, right where they had left him, sedated with sleeping pills.

The night’s air felt heavier than usual, weighed down with the kind of uneasiness that only death could bring. The castle walls seemed thicker and more distant as the villagers crowded into the Stag Stone Inn, their chatter low and anxious. The familiar scent of rosemary bread and aged wood hung in the air, offering little comfort against the tension that gripped the room. Outside, the streets of Odelin lay silent, the once lively bustle of villagers reduced to a mere echo.