The bomb has been planted was everything that he could think about that day** as he entered the door and locked it again. Its former occupants had migrated to Egypt, since then, only disappointment sleeps in the house.

Million inhabitants will die in that festival, including the elves and centaurs that came from the west. The fair was supposed to be a venue for recreation and alliance, a place where negotiations can be conducted and economic conflicts between the kingdoms can be settled.

But it has been planted and many lives will perish.

He crouched in one corner and noticed the peeling wallpaper – its edges bruised and forgotten and damped and dusty and bleeding. He folded his knees against his torn garments and enclosed his wings around himself and clasped his hands, trying to calm the trembling nebulas and screaming stars, but there is no escape from shattering.

The bomb has been planted.