Inside, the room was lavish: dark mahogany bookshelves lined the walls while a massive oak desk sat in the center, and behind it…
A young elf was chained to the wall.
Seraphiel let a sharp, distraught cry escape her lips, and her sword instantly vanished, replaced by the staff she manifested. She rushed forward and began casting golden magic, trying to mend the girl’s wounds.
But it was too late.
Blood stained the floor beneath her. The chunks of flesh missing from her thighs made it clear she had been eaten alive, piece by piece, while still conscious. But thanks to our arrival to Emberfang, the lionkin lord was forced to leave his meal unfinished… Which meant he let this poor girl bleed out.
Her lifeless eyes stared at us, empty of the soul that had once occupied them.
Seraphiel’s healing spells flickered and failed as her hands began to shake around her staff’s handle.
“No…”
Her voice broke.
“No, no, no, no! Please!”
She pressed her hands to the elf’s body as if willing her magic to work. But no matter how much golden light materialized, there was nothing left to save. Not even her soul was left behind for me to collect. Unless someone who could cast resurrection magic showed up on our doorstep, there was no saving this poor, nameless elf.
Then…
Seraphiel burst into tears.
A choked sob tore from her throat as she fell to her knees, hands trembling over the girl’s broken form.
I had seen her in battle. I had seen her mend wounds, endure hardships, and steel herself against war. She had witnessed death before—on battlefields, in sickness, from natural causes.
But this?
This wasn’t war.
This was cruelty beyond comprehension.
Humans, dwarves, and elves were herded like cattle. Forced to breed just to produce fresh meat.
And when they were no longer useful or it was time to have a feast, they were devoured alive.
I stepped behind Seraphiel. Then, without a word, I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a silent embrace.
She collapsed against me, sobbing into my chest, her fingers clutching my armor like a drowning woman holding on for dear life.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t speak.
Instead, a quiet, burning fury settled inside me.
The lionkin had ruined Vex’s family.
They had taken Blossom’s mother and sister.
And now, they had traumatized Seraphiel.
I didn’t care about history. I didn’t care about any justification they might have had, such as how humans and elves had once enslaved them.
I must be a hypocrite, for I no longer gave a damn about any of that.
They had made my beloved elven woman shed tears.
And for that alone,
They would die.
“Mom!”
My acute senses picked up on a hushed whisper coming from close behind me.
I twirled around instantly.
Two lionkin women stood before me, draped in noble dresses. One was visibly older than the other. Based on their earlier words, it must’ve been a mother-daughter pair.
The mother’s face contorted as she lunged at me with her claws bared and a snarl ripping from her throat.
She was fast. But after the warriors I’d just finished fighting, she wasn’t fast enough.
With an effortless kick, I slammed my foot into her stomach.
The impact folded her in half. A strangled, wet gasp tore from her throat as saliva sprayed from her mouth. She crumpled to the floor like a broken doll, writhing, gasping, squirming like a worm in the dirt.
Pathetic.
The daughter immediately turned around and ran, leaving her mother to fend for herself.
But Seraphiel was faster.
Hatred burned in her usually gentle gaze as she sprinted after the fleeing girl. The lionkin barely made it three steps before Seraphiel was upon her, fueled by the Agility she derived from her Dawnbringer class.
A flash of golden light marked the casting of [Divine Arsenal], transforming Seraphiel’s healing staff into a dagger.
She lunged and drove the blade deep into the lionkin’s back.
With a sharp cry, the girl collapsed to the ground.
Seraphiel did not stop.
Her fingers clenched the dagger’s hilt with a death grip. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her entire body was trembling with something far darker than mere battle fervor. She ripped the blade free in a spray of crimson, then plunged it back down.
A wet gurgle. A shudder of limbs.
Seraphiel snarled.
Her golden eyes, always so full of warmth and mischief, now burned with unfiltered wrath.
Again.
She tore the dagger free and drove it in once more, each strike punctuated by a sharp, choked cry.
Again.
And again.
The lionkin girl’s struggles weakened. Her fingers twitched, then stilled. Blood soaked through the fine fabric of her dress, pooling beneath her in a dark, growing stain.
Seraphiel let out a raw, ragged scream and buried the dagger down to the hilt.
It wasn’t necessary. The girl was already gone.
But Seraphiel wanted more. And far be it from me to stop my beloved woman from venting her overwhelming frustrations. If that lionkin corpse would help her achieve any semblance of internal peace, then I was happy, just how I was happy to let Ayame use the bodies of disgusting slavers to reclaim her inner peace.
She twisted the blade.
Only then did she let go, chest heaving, shoulders shaking.
She did not look at me.
She did not look at her hands, covered in blood.
She only stared down at the ruined corpse with her fingers twitching, visibly wanting to keep going. And that’s precisely what she did.
Seeing she was having her fun, I turned toward the other lionkin woman. She was still gasping for breath, curled up on the floor.
I stepped forward and pressed my foot onto her chest.
Her body jerked. A choked whimper escaped her throat as my weight pinned her down, stopping any attempt to move.
Slowly, I lifted my gaze to the maid standing off to the side, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.
“Who is she?” I asked.
The maid swallowed hard, barely able to form the words.
“V-Var’Zhul’s wife. The lady of Emberfang.”
Ah.
An ominous glint flickered in my eyes.
The maid cried out in fear and stumbled back upon their sight with her hands clamping over her mouth as if she could physically stop her own scream.
My lips curled into a slow, cruel grin.
“Is that so? Then you should just…”
I raised both hands.
The lionkin beneath my foot managed one last, desperate inhale in an effort to begin a torrent of pleading. But I wasn’t keen on listening.
“… Burn.”
Flames erupted from my palms, washing over her body in a searing inferno.
She screamed from the top of her lungs.
The fire consumed her flesh, but I was careful, very careful. I did not unleash heat strong enough to kill her instantly. That would have been far too merciful.
I made sure she felt it.
Her body arched. Her claws raked at the ground. Her tail thrashed wildly, even as the fur crisped and blackened.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
The maid sobbed into her hands.
Seraphiel did not react, busy with her dagger.
The lionkin woman’s screams turned to hoarse, broken wails. Then to garbled, inhuman sounds. Then…
Nothing.
I let the flames die.
A charred husk remained in her wake.
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