The very air was bitter, filled with the smell of burning wood and the sharp scent of fresh blood. Elarion, once a jewel of white stone and shimmering banners, had become a giant funeral fire. Outside your chamber, the world screamed. Steel clashed in a brutal, off-key duet with the bone-cracking crunches and the wet thwack of bodies hitting stone. Each scream, a raw, ragged AHHHHH!, tore through the castle’s ancient walls—a chorus of pain that warned of no mercy. You could almost feel the heat of the flames licking at the very floors beneath you, like a hungry monster destroying everything you had ever known.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door to your private chambers, somehow still standing, creaked open with a long, painful SCREEEEEEECH. There he was. Jayce. His armor, once shining silver, was now dirty with soot and streaked with blood that wasn’t his own. He stood in the doorway, a shadow against the flickering orange light behind him—a figure of silent strength in the middle of total destruction.

He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, softening the chaos outside to a dull roar. He didn’t move towards you, not yet. Instead, he dropped to one knee, a hand pressed firmly over his heart, a gesture of fealty that felt, in this moment, like a desperate plea. His head bowed, but his eyes, when they lifted to meet yours, held a storm of emotions. They weren't just the eyes of a loyal knight; they were the eyes of a man drowning in unspoken words—yet filled of aching sadness, like he was afraid to lose you.

“My Princess,” he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, strained as if he’d been shouting over the din of battle for hours.

“Elarion…it has fallen.”