The Price of Vengeance

At midnight, Tom rose from his bed like a wraith, the weight of his grief pulling him upright. The palace sprawled around him, silent and vast, its corridors bathed in moonlight that cut through the windows in jagged, ghostly slivers.

He moved through the grounds, a specter on his final mission, driven by a vow etched in blood and loss.

“Tom!” Hans’s voice sliced through the stillness, sharp with panic. He emerged from the gloom, his face pale under the moon’s eerie glow, blocking Tom’s path.

“This is Lord Wellington’s quarters… what are you doing here?” His eyes dropped to Tom’s right hand, knuckles white around the sword’s hilt, and widened in horror.

“Tom, no… you can’t do this!”

“Get out of my way, Hans,”

“I know you’re angry,” Hans pressed, stepping closer, his tone desperate. “But this won’t bring her back—it’ll only bury you deeper in pain!”

Tom’s jaw clenched, his gaze hard as flint.

“He took her from me! I’ve got nothing left.”