Shadows Cast Long

Thorne, the enigmatic leader of the Shadowscales, stood poised at the precipice of his own demise. His reign, once absolute, now crumbled like the dust beneath his feet. Jikirukuto, his nemesis, had arrived, vengeance etched upon his face like a twisted smile. The air crackled with anticipation, the silence broken only by the ragged gasps of Thorne's men.

Then, with a swiftness that defied his age, Jikirukuto drew his blade. It sang a deadly song as it sliced through the air, leaving a crimson stain on Thorne's chest. The leader of the Shadowscales crumpled, his eyes wide with disbelief, his final breath a guttural gasp.

The scene erupted into pandemonium. Maids and butlers, once gliding silently through the opulent halls, now scrambled for cover. Screams pierced the air, mingling with the clash of steel. Dalia, a young maid with eyes as bright as the diamonds she dusted, found herself caught in the crossfire. A stray arrow grazed her arm, sending a searing pain through her body. It was the first taste of the bitter truth: this was no ordinary skirmish, but a massacre in the making.

Eamon, the stalwart butler whose presence had always calmed even the most turbulent storms, was struck down. A falling chandelier, its crystals raining like deadly shards, claimed his life in an instant. His demise, swift and brutal, served as a stark reminder of the fragility of life, the fleeting nature of security in this whirlwind of violence.

Chaos reigned. The once-gleaming halls were now stained with blood, the air thick with the stench of fear and death. Dalia, her arm throbbing, stumbled through the pandemonium, her heart hammering against her ribs. Around her, the Shadowscales fought with the ferocity of cornered animals, but their resistance was futile against Jikirukuto's relentless onslaught.

As Dalia rounded a corner, she came face-to-face with a sight that chilled her blood. Jikirukuto stood over a fallen figure, a cruel smile twisting his lips. The figure stirred, a weak hand reaching out in supplication. It was Anya, Thorne's most trusted advisor, her once vibrant eyes now clouded with despair.

"Please," Anya rasped, her voice barely a whisper. "Spare me..."

Jikirukuto's laughter echoed through the halls, a chilling sound devoid of mirth. He raised his blade, its glint catching the dying light. Dalia watched, frozen in terror, as the blade descended...

To be continued...