The King of Belrath buried his fingers into his palm, the leather of his reins groaning in protest under his crushing grip. He refused to look at Lexel for another second, disgusted by the sheer, insulting apathy radiating from his son's killer.
Instead, the King lifted his chin and addressed the broken, trembling masses hiding in the rubble.
"People of Einjaar!" he declared, his voice infused with dark, echoing authority that rattled the remaining windowpanes. "Kill him, and I shall not raze this place any more than it already is! Bring me his head, and my army will leave you in peace!"
The ultimatum dropped over the ruined city like a guillotine.
It was a masterstroke of cruelty. The King didn't just want Lexel dead; he wanted him torn apart by the very people he happened to be standing amongst. He wanted to turn the city into a desperate, cannibalistic frenzy.
Flinn physically recoiled, his eyes going wide as the weight of the King's words settled in. "Fuck..."
