Outside, the snow was no longer white.
It was trampled into mud and blood.
The attack had weakened, but it had not fully ended. The enemies were still fighting in groups, pushing where they could, trying to break the defense before the defenders’ new strength from Isabella’s survival could fully settle. Kian was still chained down in his lion form near the side of the battlefield, roaring and fighting the restraints with blood covering his fur. Osiris and several others were still trying to keep the chains tight.
Zyran stopped at the edge of the field.
His red eyes moved over everything.
Dead bodies. Torn limbs. Injured villagers. Attackers still trying to crawl toward the inner wall. Guards bleeding but refusing to fall. Osiris with his arms strained from holding one chain. Asael near Kian, trying to keep people away from the raging lion. The mountain ridge beast sleeping near the palace entrance, taking up half the space like a fallen hill.
Zyran frowned slightly.
"When did this plot twist happen?" he muttered, looking at the chained white lion.
Then he chose to ignore that for the mont.
His attention moved back to the attackers.
Zyran was not supposed to use his power this way on mortal lives.
He knew that.
He was from the underworld, not heaven and not hell. His bloodline did not exist only for killing. It existed to guide dead souls, to guard gates, to touch the space between breath and silence. There were rules, even for beings like him. Excessive killing of mortals without a true reason could stain things that were not supposed to be stained.
But when had Zyran ever lived by rules just because they were placed before him?
He looked toward the palace.
Isabella was inside.
Alive.
Exhausted.
With three newborn babies.
And enemies had chosen that night to co for her.
That was reason enough.
Zyran stepped forward.
He did not shout.
He did not roar.
He only lifted his hand slightly, and the shadows under the snow, under the bodies, under the broken walls, and beneath every standing attacker seed to wake at once.
His voice ca calmly.
"It has been hours," Zyran said. "Aren’t you all tired?"
Every single person heard him.
The words were not loud, but they moved through the battlefield as if the air itself had carried them to each ear. Guards turned. Attackers turned. Injured n lifted their heads. Even Osiris looked back from where he was holding the chain around Kian’s body.
The villagers who had seen Zyran fight before went still.
They knew that tone.
That calm tone.
Whenever Zyran sounded like that, sothing terrible usually followed.
The attackers did not understand.
So of them only saw a handso black-haired male standing at the edge of the battlefield with a lazy expression and red eyes that seed almost bored. One of them raised his weapon and laughed harshly.
Zyran looked at him.
"Too noisy," he said.
Then he snapped his fingers.
The battlefield ended.
It did not end with one final roar.
It did not end with a long heroic struggle.
It ended in one breath.
Every attacker still standing burst apart.
Blood and flesh spilled into the snow. Bodies that had been running, shouting, clawing, and fighting were suddenly nothing but torn remains falling where they stood. The sound was wet, sharp, and brief. Then there was only silence.
A terrible silence.
The defenders did not move.
For a few breaths, no one even breathed properly.
The attack that had lasted through the night, that had wounded so many, that had nearly reached the palace and almost broken the village open, was simply over.
Zyran lowered his hand.
He looked completely unbothered.
The villagers stared at him.
So with fear.
So with awe.
So with the clear expression of people realizing that this man could have ended things much earlier if he had chosen to leave Isabella’s door sooner.
Nobody said that out loud.
No one was foolish enough.
Osiris stared at him with his mouth slightly open, still holding the chain. "My arms are hurting."
Zyran looked at him.
Then he looked at the chain.
Then he looked back at Osiris.
"Tie it to sothing."
Osiris stared. "Every ti we try to move, he pulls."
Zyran’s expression did not change. "How is that my business?"
Osiris looked at him like he could not believe the lack of concern.
Zyran had already turned away.
Asael called after him, "Zyran. Kian is still unstable."
Zyran glanced back once at the huge chained lion still growling against the restraints. His gaze rested on Kian for a mont. He could see the poison. He could see the cloud over his mind. He could see that the situation was bad.
Then he looked toward the palace again.
Isabella was inside.
Cyrus was cooking for her.
The babies had just been born.
Zyran’s priorities were very clear to him.
"Then keep him tied," he said.
And just like that, he walked back toward the palace.
Behind him, the battlefield remained silent.
No one knew if they should cheer.
No one knew if they should cry.
No one knew if they should be grateful or angry or terrified that the male who had just ended the attack with one snap of his fingers was now strolling away as if he had only stepped out to clear so noise.
Osiris looked at the chain in his hands.
Then at Kian.
Then at the field of dead attackers.
Then at Zyran’s retreating back.
After a long mont, he muttered, "I hate him."
Nobody answered.
Because honestly, no one knew what to say.
By the ti morning finally ca, the village looked like it had survived a nightmare and was still trying to understand how.
The snow had stopped falling heavily, but the ground was no longer soft and white the way it had been the day before. There were deep marks from claws, feet, bodies, dragged weapons, and blood that had been covered with fresh ash so the sll would not spread too strongly and make the injured males restless. The outer wall had been damaged in two places.
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