"Pathetic," he sneered. "A general who hesitates at the sight of death. You think loyalty and oaths make you righteous? You're nothing but a pawn—just like her."
Zamree's head snapped up. His vision blurred red.
"A pawn?" His voice trembled—not with fear, but with fury. "You fooled us, General Turik!"
Turik's eyes glinted, cold and calculating even in his chains. "Thank you for your compliment."
That was the last thread. Something inside Zamree—something young, idealistic, and noble snapped.
He roared, the sound was raw, primal, and charged. His boots slammed against the marble floor, echoing through the chamber like thunder.
Turik tried to twist away, but it was too late.
The blade struck.
It plunged through the layers of his exquisite clothes and flesh with a wet, tearing sound. Turik gasped, disbelief flickering in his gaze. Blood spilled from his lips as he looked down at the sword buried in his chest.
