The Emperor's chamber had been preserved in the exact state of interruption. Zircon Iondora lay upon the floor where he had fallen, his body fell awkwardly, completely unprepared to die, despite already being prophesied to.
His robes, the deep purple of imperial office, now saturated to black in places, were torn in three distinct locations. A large claw gash opened his neck from ear to collarbone, the edges ragged, the work of something inhuman.
Matching wounds scored his torso and his right arm, which had been raised, apparently, in defense or command or simple biological reflex.
Damon winced. The precision of the wounds suggested calculation, but their ferocity suggested hatred. Whether this was the clean work of a professional or personal, this was someone who clearly had wanted his father to see what was killing him.
The captain of the guard stood at attention near the door, his face carefully emptied of expression, his voice emerging in report.
