Chains Of The Heart
Not movement—him.
King Damian Vitale stepped through the drifting mist of the slaughter like a nightmare wearing a crown. His obsidian eyes had gone dim, glossy with the kind of emptiness that wasn’t absence but overload—too much rage, too much blood, too much loss. His entire body was soaked, streaked, spattered, painted in red. His cloak, once emerald, was black now.
And he wasn’t walking like a man anymore.
He stalked.
Predatory. Barely tethered. Each breath was a growl, each blink a threat. His soldiers followed behind him in eerie silence, as if terrified sound itself would provoke him.
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