Capítulo 34: Chapter 34: The Price of Ambition
The noon sun hung high, casting its relentless glare over the capital of Carlan. What was once a city of splendor and majesty now drowned in chaos. The skies were blackened by the wings of demons, their grotesque forms descending like vultures on a dying prey. Streets that echoed with the lively chatter of markets were now filled with screams, the clatter of hooves, and the unmistakable sound of metal against metal.
Amira Carlan stood amidst the pandemonium, her heart pounding in her chest as she fought to maintain composure. Her blue eyes, usually so full of warmth, now brimmed with determination. She had one goal: protect the people. Civilians rushed past her, terror etched on their faces, while knights fought valiantly to hold the demonic tide at bay. With every step, Amira whispered incantations, her hands glowing with a soft, golden light. Her healing magic worked tirelessly, mending broken bones, sealing gaping wounds, and breathing life back into those who had almost crossed the threshold into death. But for every man she saved, three more fell.
Froi Crownbane's voice thundered above the chaos, rallying the knights with a resolve as unyielding as steel. His presence was a beacon of hope amid despair, a living legend among the soldiers who fought beside him. His sword, gleaming with holy light, cut through the ranks of demons with divine fury, each swing a testament to his unparalleled skill. The demons shrieked as they were torn asunder, their monstrous forms disintegrating under the purity of his magic. Froi's movements were precise, calculated—a dance of death in which every step brought another demon to its knees.
The battle raged on, but Froi was unfazed, his gaze locked on the horde before him. He would not allow Carlan to fall.
A shadow loomed in the periphery of Froi's vision. Amidst the swirling chaos, a figure calmly walked toward him, untouched by the carnage. The demons paid no heed to the man who approached, as if he were one of their own. The figure was Solomon Crownbane.
Froi's breath hitched as he realized who it was. "Father?" His voice carried a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "What are you doing here? You should be with the others, evacuating to safety."
Solomon's cold eyes met his son's, devoid of the warmth that once resided there. "I'm exactly where I need to be, Froi."
Froi's heart sank as a sickening realization took root. Before he could react, a presence appeared behind Solomon—tall, lithe, and exuding an aura of malevolent grace. It was Sinatra, one of the twenty demon generals, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Surprised?" Solomon's voice dripped with condescension. "You always were slow to see the bigger picture. I've struck an agreement with the demons, Froi. In exchange for aiding them in conquering Carlan, I will be its ruler—under the protection of the Demon Lord, of course."
Froi's grip tightened around his sword, disbelief warring with anger. "You've betrayed your own people… for power?"
"Power is all that matters in the end, Froi," Solomon said coolly. "A truth you'll understand once you stop idealizing virtue and start recognizing reality."
Sinatra's voice, smooth and mocking, broke through the tension. "You humans are amusing. Betrayal and ambition—so deliciously predictable."
Froi turned his gaze toward the demon general, his eyes narrowing. "You think you can waltz in here and take our kingdom? You underestimate me."
Sinatra's smirk widened. "Oh, I know exactly what you're capable of. Which is why this won't take long."
Solomon waved a dismissive hand. "Defeat him, Sinatra, but ensure he lives. He is, after all, my heir."
Sinatra's amber eyes glowed with excitement as he stretched out his hand. From the blood-soaked ground, a sword began to take shape—red as freshly spilled blood, jagged as broken glass. It was a weapon forged from the essence of death itself.
"Let's see if you can keep up, boy." Sinatra leaped forward, his sword swinging in a deadly arc.
Froi raised his blade to block, the impact sending a shockwave through his arms. The force behind the strike was immense, far greater than anything Froi had ever faced. But he held his ground, pushing back with all his might. Their swords clashed again and again, sparks flying as light met darkness in a violent collision.
For a moment, it seemed as if Froi might hold his own. But Sinatra was not playing fair. With a flick of his wrist, the blood sword liquefied, twisting around Froi's blade like a serpent. Before Froi could react, the sword solidified into spikes, stabbing into his arms, legs, and chest. Pain exploded in his body as he staggered back, his vision blurring.
"You're not even worth my time," Sinatra sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. He waved his hand, and the blood on the battlefield responded, forming countless spikes that shot toward Froi from every direction.
Froi gasped as the spikes pierced him, each one a burning dagger of agony. He tried to raise his sword, but his strength was failing. The light in his blade flickered, then died, leaving him defenseless.
Sinatra loomed over Froi's fallen form, shaking his head in disappointment. "If you can't even put up a decent fight against Algul, one of the weaker generals, what makes you think you could ever defeat me?"
Froi tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth, choking his words. He had failed—failed his men, failed his kingdom. And the worst part was, it was his own father who had orchestrated his downfall.
"Enough, Sinatra." Solomon's voice cut through the air, laced with concern. "Don't forget, he's still my son. I can't have him dying before he fulfills his role."
Sinatra sighed, clearly bored with the encounter. "He'll live. Though, perhaps not as he was."
Solomon stepped closer to Froi, looking down at his son with a mixture of pity and disappointment. "You always were too righteous for your own good, Froi. In the end, you're just another pawn. And pawns, unfortunately, are expendable."
Froi's vision darkened, the world fading into an inky void as his strength ebbed away. The last thing he saw was the cold, calculating gaze of his father, the man who should have protected him, now standing over him like a conqueror over a vanquished foe.
"And now," Solomon said, turning to Sinatra, "to end this war, we must eliminate the remaining threats: the king, queen, and the second princess."
Sinatra's lips curled into a sinister smile. "Leave it to Hindred. He's already inside the palace, preparing to finish the job."
As Froi's consciousness slipped away, he could only hope—desperately—that the royal family would escape the fate that awaited them. But hope was a fragile thing, easily crushed under the weight of betrayal and the relentless march of ambition.
The sun continued to shine down on the capital, but its warmth felt cold and distant, as if even the heavens had turned their backs on Carlan.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder