The last man trembled, blood slick on his hands as he raised them in surrender. The room reeked of gunpowder, iron, and death, bodies slumped against overturned tables, bullet casings scattered like fallen leaves. The sharp metallic scent of blood mixed with the acrid sting of burnt powder saturated the air, making it thick and suffocating.

Killian stood among them, a ghost in the carnage. His rifle, now empty, was slung across his back, replaced by the heavy weight of his sidearm. His knuckles were bloodied, split from breaking the jaw of the last bastard who had dared to stand in his way. The coppery taste of someone else's blood still lingered on his tongue from where he'd taken a hit to the lip. But now, there were no more threats. No more bullets flying toward him, no more shadows lurking in the corners.

"You've destroyed the serpent's head," the man gasped, his voice cracking under fear. "Now the rest of us are no longer a threat."

Killian exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. The adrenaline still burned beneath his skin, whispering that it wasn't over. That it wouldn't be over until he saw her.

"You think this ends here?" His voice was low, hoarse from hours of silence and gunfire. "You think I can let you walk away after what you did?"

The man's breath hitched. "I—I didn't touch her! I was just following orders!"

Orders. Like that made it better. Like that excused the hours of tracking, the ambush, the bruises he'd seen on her skin before they dragged her away. His pulse pounded against his temple.

His mercy had drowned long ago.

The bullet hit the man clean between the eyes, snapping his head back before his body crumpled to the ground.

For the first time in hours, maybe longer, it was quiet. The halls of this decaying stronghold stood empty now, save for the corpses of the men who had called it home. He holstered his weapon and stepped over the bodies. He was going to find his wife.

He had warned them. They should have listened.