The three legacy princes lay in a twitching, blood-slicked heap on the cold marble, limbs already twisted into grotesque, unnatural shapes, faces pulped beyond recognition.
Their bodies glistened with layers of sweat, piss, blood clot vomits, and fresh crimson that steamed in the rapidly dropping temperature. They were still conscious — barely — eyes wide and rolling with animal panic, exactly as Phei intended.
He stood over them for a moment, head tilted, humming softly to the icy melody only he could hear.
Then he stepped forward again.
Anderson first.
Phei knelt, took the boy's already-dislocated right arm, and began to twist it further — slow, deliberate circles, forcing the ball of the humerus deeper out of the socket until the skin split wider and the bone bulged like a grotesque tumour under the torn flesh.
He kept going, rotating the entire limb until the tendons tore with wet, elastic snaps, one after another.
