The crimson sun hung low in the sky, bathing the harsh earth in hues of blood and rust.
Amidst the desolation, Drakar crawled feebly, his once-mighty form reduced to a grotesque shadow of its former self. Blood and grime smeared across his mutilated body, staining the ground with each pathetic movement he made.
Pain was his only companion—every inch gained an excruciating torment, every breath a burning agony. He had lost even the strength to hate; curses died silently on the remnants of his tongue. All he sought now was a swift death, but cruel fate denied him even that mercy.
Yet, as despair clawed deeply into his heart, a shadow loomed before him. The elegance and quiet menace of the figure caused his trembling to cease momentarily.
Drakar's breath stilled in his chest, his blurry vision barely able to register the silky, dark-red gown draped around the statuesque woman standing before him.
Slowly, painfully, he lifted his weary eyes upward.
