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Baticul is burning. Night hangs heavy over the city, dark plumes of smoke rising into the air as Malkuthian soldiers roam the streets freely, drunk from their victory. The capital city of their greatest enemy had fallen; the war is won.
Even the palace had been breached, its heavy doors blasted apart by a fonic arte. Small groups of soldiers move through the halls, swiftly dispatching the last few pockets of resistance, leaving a trail of crimson in their wake. But the servants and guards of the palace don't interest them: they are after a greater prize. Methodically, they search through every room of the once-grand palace, frustrations mounting as their quarry continues to elude them.
"That damn prince, where is he hiding?" One of them growls, after yet another room yields nothing. Anger crackles in the air as the group of soldiers moves as a pack, heading to the next door, the last one on this particular hallway.
"Locked," someone reports after trying the door.
The fonist of the group scowls, readying an arte. "Explosion!"
The door crumples apart in a burst of flame. The soldiers spill into the room, weapons at the ready.
Even the palace had been breached, its heavy doors blasted apart by a fonic arte. Small groups of soldiers move through the halls, swiftly dispatching the last few pockets of resistance, leaving a trail of crimson in their wake. But the servants and guards of the palace don't interest them: they are after a greater prize. Methodically, they search through every room of the once-grand palace, frustrations mounting as their quarry continues to elude them.
"That damn prince, where is he hiding?" One of them growls, after yet another room yields nothing. Anger crackles in the air as the group of soldiers moves as a pack, heading to the next door, the last one on this particular hallway.
"Locked," someone reports after trying the door.
The fonist of the group scowls, readying an arte. "Explosion!"
The door crumples apart in a burst of flame. The soldiers spill into the room, weapons at the ready.