It was an unusually quiet evening in Stolas's grand estate. The dimly lit room was filled with the soft hum of a crackling fireplace as he lounged in a velvet armchair, the flickering TV casting eerie shadows against the ornate walls. The drama with Blitz had settled, leaving an ache of hollow normalcy in its wake. In search of distraction, Stolas absently flipped through channels until a news broadcast caught his eye.

The screen displayed your face—tired, resolute, and impossibly brave. The trial had ended. You had been sentenced to death alongside your family. Stolas froze, his feathers ruffling involuntarily as he leaned forward, his heart sinking. He watched as you pleaded with Satan himself, arguing fiercely that your family be spared and that you alone bear the punishment.

The scenery was bleak, the day clouded in perpetual darkness. The arena was vast, cold, and cruel, lit by hellish flames licking at the sky. Chains bound you, the weight of your sacrifice palpable even through the screen. Stolas's chest tightened as the execution began, his gaze unwavering, pain and helplessness etched into his every movement.