The throne room erupted into a chorus of gasps and screams as Xorax's sword sliced through the air, its blade biting deep into Azazel's disguise as King Sylvester. The fake king's eyes widened in shock as he stumbled backward, his hands clutching at the hilt of the sword now lodged in his chest.
Blood gushed forth in a crimson torrent, splattering the marble floor. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the sound of Azazel's labored breathing.
Xorax twisted the sword, his face a mask of cold calculation. "It is done, Your Highness," he declared, his voice devoid of emotion.
I nodded, my gaze never leaving the Empress's face. "Good," I said, my voice dripping with malevolence. "Now, let's proceed to the next step. Will you willingly relinquish your throne and authority, or would you prefer a massacre?"
The Empress's face contorted with fury, her eyes blazing with a fierce determination. "Never!" she spat, her voice echoing off the stone walls.
