"Your Majesty, should we really do this? He isn't going to die, is he?" Trisa asked, her voice a hushed tremor amid the clamour of steel and grunts.
"Yes, we should, Trisa. Also, I don't think this bastard will die because of this," I replied firmly, my gaze locked on Franklin.
She stood beside me on the rain-slicked field, her hand brushing my sleeve as if seeking reassurance—though her eyes gleamed with a flicker of ruthless approval, making me smile at her. It seemed that Franklin has tried to use his charms on Trisa, but failed miserably.
Franklin—the would-be protagonist or the protagonist, who was destined to rule this empire, the collector of women like some petty Pokémon master—now knelt broken in the mud. His once-vibrant hair hung limp and grey-streaked, matted with filth and blood from my knights' relentless blows.
