The moon was high over Berkimhum when Lara crashed into the throne hall.
She did not walk.
She did not slow.
She stormed in, shattering the cracked doors with her shoulder, blood streaking her armor, her blade hot with mana and trembling rage.
And then—
She saw it.
The body.
Slumped sideways on the throne like a wilted statue. Robes soaked through. A jagged wound in his chest where blood had pooled like an ink stain across velvet.
"...No," Lara whispered.
Her blade lowered an inch.
The silence screamed louder than any bell.
"...Father?"
She stepped forward, one slow bootfall at a time.
No movement.
No breath.
No deception.
Her knees hit the stairs of the dais with a hollow thud as she reached the throne, trembling fingers reaching for his hand—the same hand that had once taught her how to hold a sword. How to drink wine. How to lie to the nobles with a smile.
It was cold.
