A few hours after the horrifying sight of the massacre, Mordred was silently led back to his individual cell. The door closed heavily behind him, leaving the sinister metallic creak of rusty hinges ringing in his ears. He sat slowly on the cold, hard bed, staring into the emptiness, the atrocious images still fresh in his mind.
The hours stretched on slowly, each minute weighing heavily on his shoulders, when suddenly the door to his cell opened once more. Mordred looked up sharply, his dark eyes shining with suspicion and anger that was hard to contain.
The princess's steward, as impeccable as ever, calmly entered. His cold gaze fell on Mordred, and with a precise, authoritative nod, he ordered:
- Stand up. The princess awaits you at the Palace of the Burning Fangs. You must come immediately.
