The palace was silent — not only outside.

  The stones themselves seemed frozen, as if the building had understood that one step too many would be enough to shatter it. The cracked columns held back their fall. The mosaics awaited the impact.

  Within Tharion’s body, the silence was not an absence.

  It was pressure.

  Each breath scraped his chest raw, each beat of his immortal heart echoed like a cruel reminder: he would survive… everything.

  He had delivered justice.

  And that justice was devouring his soul.

  The surviving knights hid behind the pillars, fingers clenched around their swords. None dared to attack. None dared to flee. The light and shadow surrounding Tharion did not merely drift — they watched, tangible, alive, ready to close in.

  “How…” whispered a young guard, his throat tight,

  “how can someone be so powerful… and already so broken?”

  Tharion descended the steps. Slowly.

  With each step, the stone split beneath his weight — not by brute force, but as if the ground itself refused to bear him.

  “Every tyrant I bring down…” he said in a low, hoarse voice,

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  “I feel it in my bones.

  Every life torn back from death leaves a mark.

  Not pride. A scar.”

  The knights raised their blades, more by reflex than courage.

  “Stop him!” one of them shouted, his voice too shrill.

  “You can’t… you can’t let him pass!”

  The king, seated upon his fractured throne, tightened his grip on the armrests.

  Before speaking, his gaze slipped behind him — toward his wife, toward his children huddled together.

  It was brief. But Tharion saw it.

  “Tharion…” the king said, his voice trembling,

  “I will not apologize.

  But I beg you… spare my family.

  They do not deserve this.”

  Tharion’s rage faltered. Not out of pity for the king — never.

  But because he could feel those lives. Fragile. Trembling. Innocent.

  “Step back,” he growled at the knights.

  “I am not doing this for you.

  I am doing this for what you destroyed.

  For what you stole from me.”

  “They’ve done nothing!” the king insisted, almost too quickly.

  “Punish me, if you must… but let them live!”

  An imperfect lie.

  It was not justice he was asking for.

  It was a reprieve.

  Tharion’s muscles tightened. A dull pain throbbed in his chest, deep, ancient. Each beat of his immortal heart felt like a blade being slowly driven in.

  He inhaled. Long and deep.

  “Every life I save…” he murmured,

  “costs me something I will never recover.”

  The shadow around him grew denser — not violent… but heavy. Weary.

  He advanced once more. Measured.

  The knights retreated.

  The king lowered his eyes.

  His family was safe.

  For now.

  Perched on a broken ledge, Thalen watched in silence. He did not see a monster.

  He saw a man surviving each victory.

  Tharion remained at the center of the ruins.

  Invincible. Terrifying.

  And alone.