Elarien frowned slightly as they drew closer to the gates of the elven capital.

"Something's off…" she murmured, more to herself than to Edward, who was still carrying the injured elf over his shoulder.

"How so?" Edward asked as they came to a stop just before the towering gates.

"The guards…" she replied, her voice tense. "They're not here."

"Maybe they had to—" Edward began, but Elarien was quick to cut him off.

"No. They never leave the gates unmanned," she said firmly, her gaze never leaving the entrance for even a second.

Edward's brow furrowed. After a brief hesitation, he stepped forward and placed a hand against the massive wooden gate, pushing lightly.

The gates were not locked.

They creaked open slowly, revealing a sight that made Edward's breath catch in his throat.

Only a few steps past the threshold lay two lifeless elven guards.

Their bodies were sprawled across the stone, armour torn apart as though it had been made of cloth rather than steel. A dark pool of blood had spread beneath them, long since still.

Edward gently lowered the injured elf to the ground and took another step forward, his shock quickly giving way to instinct. His eyes scanned the scene with trained precision.

"Curved tears along the armour… deep, incised wounds following a consistent arc," he murmured, more to himself than to Elarien.

He crouched slightly, his gaze tracing the blood patterns around the bodies. The splatter confirmed what the wounds already suggested.

The attacker had used a long, curved blade.

Something akin to a scythe.

As Edward lifted his gaze, he noticed a longer trail of blood stretching deeper into the capital. Beyond it lay more bodies, followed by more ruined armour, and even more pools of crimson which stained the pale stone streets of the capital.

At that moment, Elarien's legs gave out beneath her.

She dropped to her knees, the colour draining from her face as the full scope of the scene revealed itself.

It was a massacre.

Elven soldiers were scattered across the capital as far as the eye could see, each fallen in much the same way. Their armour had been cleaved open, their bodies cut down with ruthless efficiency, as though they had never stood a chance.

"Dwarves…?" Edward murmured, recalling what they had discovered earlier.

The tunnels. The centuries-long planning. The quiet, methodical preparation for war.

Yet even as he spoke, doubt lingered in his voice.

This did not look like a battle.

There were no signs of prolonged resistance, no defensive formations, no evidence of a clash between armies. Instead, it looked as though something had swept through the capital unchecked, as if a single blade had cut through the capital.

Elven soldiers had been torn apart as if a beast had run rampant through the streets, killing anything that crossed its path.

Elarien forced herself back to her feet, her hands trembling. Together, they moved deeper into the capital.

With every step, the scene only grew worse.

More bodies followed—now not only soldiers, but civilians as well. Merchants lay where they had fallen, homes stood open and silent, and the streets that should have been filled with life were instead drowned in blood.

It wasn't until they reached the outer steps of the royal palace that they finally encountered a living soul.

A lone elven soldier sat on the stone stairs, his posture slumped, his blade resting loosely at his side. His gaze was fixed downward, staring at the carnage below as though trying—and failing—to comprehend it.

"Borr…?" Elarien whispered, her voice breaking as she spoke his name.

The soldier flinched, snapping back to the present.

"What… what happened?" she asked, barely managing to form the words.

Slowly, the soldier lifted his head to meet her gaze.

For a brief moment, recognition flickered across his face.

Then his expression twisted into anger as his eyes shifted toward Edward.

In one swift motion, he seized the bloodied blade at his side and sprang to his feet, charging straight toward him.

Earlier, an hour after Edward and Elarien's departure.

A lone, elderly elf strolled through the streets of the elven capital. A gentle smile rested on his face as he watched the city bustle with life.

He walked at an unhurried pace, despite the quiet urgency weighing on his mind. The warm air, the soft laughter of passersby, and the steady rhythm of the capital all tempted him to linger just a little longer.

Then a familiar voice called out to him.

"Sir Thyrion?"

Thyrion came to a halt and turned, finding Arthur, the human prince, standing beside him.

"Ah, Arthur. Good to see you again, young man," Thyrion said warmly.

Arthur bowed slightly in a respectful manner before straightening.

"Are you heading somewhere?" he asked, glancing at the bag in Thyrion's hand.

"Oh, yes. I was just about to visit Edward's friend," Thyrion replied. "I hear her condition has been worsening by the hour. I've gathered some herbs that might help ease her pain, if nothing else."

"I see…" Arthur nodded, a faint frown crossing his face. He had only just come from Edward's chambers, where Seraphine lay bedridden and unmoving.

"Very well. I won't delay you any further. The king is expecting me," Arthur added, his usual cheerful expression returning as he stepped back.

Thyrion inclined his head and continued on his way.

It wasn't long before he reached the chambers.

He knocked twice, waiting patiently for a response.

None came.

He knocked again, this time more firmly.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

A deep frown settled across his features.

"Hello?" he called as he pushed the door open.

The chamber beyond was eerily silent.

No footsteps. No reply.

"Perhaps Lady Aeris stepped out?" he wondered aloud as he made his way toward the room where Seraphine had been resting.

As he approached the threshold, he stopped abruptly.

The door was already open.

Seraphine was no longer bedridden.

She stood in the center of the room, her back turned toward him.

But what stole Thyrion's breath was not the fact that the frail, dying girl was standing—it was what she held in her hand.

A massive black scythe rested against her arm, its surface rippling as though made of liquid shadow. In place of her usual garments, she wore a long black dress that appeared to be formed from the same unnatural substance.

Stunned, Thyrion let the bag slip from his grasp.

It hit the floor with a dull thud.

At the sound, the girl's head turned, and a pair of crimson eyes met his gaze—eyes that looked utterly foreign upon the girl's face.

Thyrion's instinct screamed at him.

He stepped back, but before he could speak a single word, Seraphine lunged forward.

Her scythe carved through the air.

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