As Sarios was dragged like a discarded rag, his armored boots scraping lines into the earth, he clenched his teeth and—through sheer grit—grabbed the masked man's wrist, trying to relieve the weight pulling his scalp.
"AAARGHH!" he growled, both from pain and defiance. "What the hell do you want from us?!"
The masked man halted.
Everything fell silent.
The air thickened like fog.
Then, slowly… his eyes opened wider—those glowing crimson slits burning like fire under the shadow of his hood.
A deep rage trembled beneath his words, low and seething:
"Do you… realize… how long it's been?"
His voice wasn't loud—but it shook like thunder inside Sarios' bones.
"How long…"
"…since the rightful Princess has been stolen from the throne of Eldor?"
Sarios' eyes widened. "What…?"
The masked man stepped forward again—his face still half-shrouded in shadow—and hoisted Sarios up with one hand, still clutching his hair.
