Ryan's heartbroken question, "Byron, tell me this is all a lie?" hung in the cold, damp air of the ruined chapel, a desperate plea against a truth his heart could not yet bear to accept.
Byron, kneeling beside the cooling body of his only confidant, slowly raised his head. He looked at his hands, stained dark with Elias's blood, not with horror, but with a strange, detached curiosity. Then, with a chilling deliberation, he pushed himself to his feet. He bent down, picked up the pistol that had fallen from his grasp, and aimed it, once more, directly at Ryan.
Immediately, the circle of guards tightened, their swords now pointed just inches from Byron's body, the steel tips glinting in the moonlight. Davis drew his own pistol, his aim steady on Byron's chest. The air was thick enough to choke on.
