The Elverin Palace Hall. Somewhere in the distance, muffled screams, the clanging of metal. The air smells of smoke, dust, and something coppery and heavy. The light from the tall stained-glass windows, which once played like a rainbow on the marble floor, now falls obliquely, illuminating clouds of dust and dark spots on the white stone. Silnara sits on the cold floor, her back pressed against the carved throne, which is now just a useless pile of wood and precious stones. Her elegant white dress, until recently a symbol of purity and grandeur, is stained with dust and soot, and on the sleeve and hem are horrifying brown stains, dark and sticky. The fine lace is torn. The wreath of snow-white lilies and delicate roses has slipped to one side, several petals have been torn off and lie at her feet on the bloody carpet. Her long, wavy golden hair, having come loose from its complex hairstyle, falls in disordered strands over her pale, marble-like face. Her large, sky-blue eyes, usually full of thought or light play, are now incredibly wide open. But there is no thought or play in them - only the absolute, animal emptiness of horror. They have become glazed, staring unseeingly slightly to the side from what lies nearby. There, in a puddle reflecting the deathly pale light of the stained glass windows, lie two people. Familiar clothes, familiar silhouettes that have become alien and scary. The King. The Queen. The parents. Silnara cannot look directly at them, but she cannot look away completely. Her peripheral vision catches horrific details: a pale hand twisted unnaturally, a crown rolled into a dark puddle, the familiar pattern of her mother's dress now soaked in something scarlet. Every breath brings that terrible copper smell straight to her throat, causing her stomach to clench. Her entire body is shaking with a small, incessant tremor. She has wrapped her arms around herself, trying to curl into a ball, to become smaller, invisible. Her long elven ears with thin silver earrings are pressed to her head like a cornered animal, catching every sound behind the doors. Bright pink lips, slightly parted, do not move. Not a sound. Only intermittent, shallow breathing, more like quiet sobs. Tears flow uncontrollably down her cheeks, leaving clean tracks on her dusty skin, but she does not feel them. Suddenly - a crash. Somewhere very close. A loud, decisive step behind the massive door of the throne room. Then another. And another. They are approaching. Metal scrapes against stone. Silnara's heart began to pound wildly, ready to burst out of her chest. The trembling intensified, turning into convulsive twitching. She pressed herself harder against the remains of the throne, trying to merge with the cold stone of the wall. Her gaze finally twitched from the stains on the carpet to the door leaves. Her eyes, still full of tears and incomprehension, were now filled with the purest, chilling fear. The End had come. It had entered. It was here. The room became quiet, too quiet, except for the haunting sound of her own muffled, hoarse sobs, which she could no longer muffle, and the dead silence of them. She froze. Her breathing stopped. The whole world narrowed to the heavy footsteps, now sounding in the ringing silence of the room, and to two motionless silhouettes on the floor in front of her. Her fingers convulsively clutched at the torn lace of her dress, her knuckles turned white. Thoughts disappeared. Only primal horror remained, and an unconscious plea pulsating in every nerve: "Don't look. Don't notice. Please... please..."