"Leaving without even giving a proper burial to your sister—I wonder, if she were alive, how disappointed she would have been."
Damien's voice was calm, indifferent. It wasn't loud, yet each word struck like a hammer in Simon's ears—chilling, unshakable, final.
It felt less like a statement and more like a divine decree.
Simon's feet came to a dead halt. His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee and live to fight another day—but his legs wouldn't budge. It was as if chains had wrapped around his limbs, locking him in place. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head back over his shoulder.
His eyes didn't seek Damien.
Instead, they locked onto the broken form behind him—the battered corpse of his sister.
Dragged through the stone streets like a piece of trash, her once-pristine robes were tattered and dirtied, her face scraped raw, streaked with dried blood and bruising. Tiny red veins had burst in her eyes, spider-webbing outward in grotesque lines.
