Chapter 227

The pristine surface was now painted a deep, shocking red, and the smell of fresh blood drenched the air, sharp and metallic, clinging to his nostrils with every breath. The moans of the dying had long since stopped, leaving only silence that was heavier and louder than any noise could have been.

He walked through the piles of bodies, his boots slipping slightly on the blood, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. Each step was a negotiation with the horror surrounding him. His steps were hurried, desperate, driven by a mixture of horror, grief, and anger. Many of them were his men, loyal men who had laid down their lives protecting him and his family, their faces frozen in pain and determination. Moosa felt a pang of guilt for surviving while they had not. Guilt was a splinter he could not remove, buried deep where it continued to fester. He had been locked in the attic by his father, who had not wanted him to be killed in the chaos that was coming their way. The fa