After speaking those words, Alex let his gaze drift across the gathered nobles one last time. Among them, some wore the hollow expressions of those who had already accepted death, their wills broken cleanly. Others trembled, unable to look at anything except the severed head in Alex's hand—the head of Khepri, the man they once called sovereign. Not a single word came from them. No weeping. No shouting. Just stunned silence.
He expected to feel satisfaction. Triumph, even. But all he felt was disgust.
"These are the ones who ruled millions," Alex muttered under his breath, his voice nearly drowned by the wind. "Pathetic."
The bile in his chest churned, not from the wounds that still pulsed with pain beneath his skin, but from the void left inside him. The inner demon stirred, restless, unsatisfied. Too easy, it whispered. They didn't even fight back.
His eyes narrowed—then landed on Thutmose.
