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The murmurs of excitement rippled through the crowd at the announcement.

The Obsidian heir stepped forward. Dressed in stark black, the sharp contrast of silver buckles and clamps on his attire caught the dim light, adding an edge of menace to his appearance. The sides of his dark hair were neatly braided, highlighting the sharpness of his elven features. He merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. “The honor is mine. It is our duty to heed the wishes of the gods and give them what they demand.”

Anthea clenched her fists. She wanted to scream, to run, to stop this madness.

Althar approached the first human, pressing his fingers firmly against the man’s marked forehead, his murmured words weaving a dark spell.

Pleas echoed hauntingly through the hall. Then, the pleas turned into screams, struggles turned into frantic trembles. The guard holding the man seemed to relish in it, his grip strong and unyielding.

Acrid scent of burning flesh and metallic tang of blood filled the air.

Crimson liquid began to ooze from the man’s ears . . . eyes . . . nose and finally, it bubbled out from his mouth.

Anthea’s vision blurred with tears. The horror, the sheer brutality—it was too much. She wanted to scream, to shout. She wanted to?—

Second hand gripped her waist. “Not here. Not. Now.” Eldrion’s low murmur reached her ears, and she realized he was holding her up. Her knees had buckled. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Althar moved on to the next captive.

Screams filled the air again, and Anthea watched, frozen to the spot.

Four more.

The woman’s screams were piercing—then gurgling.

Three more.

So young—he seemed so young. There was so much blood.

Two more.

The green-eyed man refused to scream at first—then he did.

One more.

This one went quicker—he burst like a balloon. Anthea wanted to throw up.

Laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses seemed surreal, almost grotesque.

Eldrion’s voice was distant, muffled. “It’s over. Look away.”

The bodies lay like discarded dolls. Her eyes moved to Althar. His fingers, stained deep red, glistened in the moonlight, as he meticulously cleaned them. Anthea looked back at the lifeless bodies on the stage. Eldrion’s firm grip had steadied her earlier, but now she felt as if she were drifting.

Althar was talking with Icarion, the silver clasps of his attire had splashes of blood on them. She could still hear the screams—they echoed in her mind.

A gentle touch on her face. Fingers tilting her chin up. “Focus on me, Anthea. Not there. Right here,” Endreth said, his voice insistent. She blinked. When had he come here?

“I never imagined . . . I never thought . . .”

“She cannot stay here like this.” Eldrion was still holding her up.

Anthea barely registered the words, her eyes turned back to the pile of corpses.

“I cannot leave yet,” the Crimson prince said.

“She cannot stay here,” the Nephrite warrior repeated.

Why didn’t anyone take away the bodies? There was so much blood around them. The screams—she could still hear them.