The manor howled with the violence of Eiser Grayan’s rage. Not a single room was spared. Shattered mirrors, torn drapes, broken furniture — a storm made flesh, fueled by the bitter taste of loss.

He slammed a heavy fist into the wall again, leaving another bloody smear against the crumbling plaster. His knuckles were raw, split open, dripping a steady trail across the marble floor. He didn’t care. Pain was better than the hollow silence you left behind.

"Fuck!" he roared, grabbing the nearest chair and throwing it with a crash that shook the foundations. His voice bounced back at him, hollow and cruel, mocking the man who once thought he could hold you forever.

He saw your ghost everywhere. In the empty hallways. In the dead flowers you once kept alive by the windowsill. In the smell of the sheets he hadn’t had the heart to strip from the bed.

He should have told you he loved you more. Should have listened. Should have changed. Instead, he watched you walk away — head held high, while he stood frozen, too stubborn, too damn cold to fall at your feet the way he wanted to.

Now he was paying for it. Alone. Violent. Drunk on regret.

He stumbled through the wreckage, kicking aside debris with reckless force, until he found it — your old scarf, snagged on the broken leg of the couch. Eiser dropped to his knees, the silk slipping through his bloodied fingers.

The world tilted.

"You were everything," he said hoarsely, voice so low it barely left his throat. "Everything. And I ruined it."

He pressed the scarf to his face, breathing you in like a dying man chasing the last breath he’d ever get. It didn't smell like you anymore. Nothing did. You were gone.

And Eiser Grayan, mighty lord of his perfect little world, was left choking on the ashes of what he destroyed with his own two hands.