A breathless quiet invaded the room. The nobles were reeling, their eyes wide. Ladies clutched their gasping mouths, aghast, while the lords recoiled as though punched. The warriors’ hands instinctively tightened around the hilts of their swords while the children curled up, shrinking into their plush chairs.

Amidst the quiet, Artus wheezed, a grimace of raw agony twisting his face. In stark contrast, the king stood devoid of emotion, a carved statue in a sea of turbulence. He was an island, holding his poise for a moment, then another, as if the catastrophic news was a raindrop falling towards him but hadn’t yet landed. The tension in the room hummed like a plucked violin string, no noble courageous enough to slice through it. The room collectively held its breath, waiting for the bomb to drop.

Artus’s voice ricocheted through the hall, “Leoman is gone.”

And then it happened. The raindrop landed. A shudder wracked through the king’s body as if he had been physically struck by lightning. His goblet slipped from his grasp, its metallic clang against the stone floor reverberating through the paralyzed room.

Gabriel could hardly process his surroundings, his mind a whirlwind of denial. ‘No, this can’t be happening.’ His hands clutched his own thighs so hard he could feel the tendons in his wrists strain under the pressure.

Gabriel was ensnared by disbelief, his heart throbbing painfully in his chest. His brother, with whom he'd shared countless quarrels and bitter exchanges, was no more. He might not have held affection for him, but they were linked by blood. Their relationship, a twisted tapestry of mockery and torment, was a constant presence in his life.

Now, an unsettling void had replaced that familiarity. He ached with a peculiar sort of grief, one not born of love but of shared existence. Leoman’s absence was a stark, cold reality. The loss was disorienting, and it felt as if the world had tilted on its axis. A strange sorrow filled him. It was the loss of what was, what could have been, and what would never be.

A blaze of fury ignited in the king’s eyes, contorting his face into a mask of rage. “How?” he roared.

Artus reeled, then crumbled to his knees.

Through the muffled silence, Artus’s pained voice struck like a harrowing drum, “He was murdered.”

Like a predator, the king leaped off the dais and rushed to Artus, jerking him from his knees and clutching him by his armor. “How?” he bellowed again, a wounded animal crying out for answers.

“They... they killed him,” Artus stammered.

“Who!”

“The commoner rats…they shot him with an arrow.”

The king flung Artus onto the stone floor. “Bring me Loftus,” he roared, and the soldiers scuttled to obey, their usual practiced and graceful movements abandoned in the face of the king’s anger.

“Tell me everything.” His voice was demanding, dangerous.

“It – it was all true… the inv-v-vestigation…Loftus… the Galatians...” distress rippling through Artus’s body, his sentences disintegrating into fragments. Gabriel had never felt sorry for his brother; until now.

“Tell me!”

“We found out the truth, they told us about the soldiers, the fires, the… the wheat. We questioned the people, we… we did nothing wrong; we found the truth. We questioned them. We wanted more information, just information. As he walked through the village, I saw an arrow jut through his throat. He d-died before he could say anything. Dead. No words. No goodbye. Just dead.” His despair filled the room. Artus, always so sure of himself, was a shell of the man he once was.

“Get up!” The king’s rage was cataclysmic.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

‘It’s all my fault. My brother is dead because of me,’ Gabriel screamed within the confines of his troubled mind. His heart pounded in his chest as someone’s hand clutched his arms. His mind reeling with guilt.

“Did you find the one who killed my boy,” the king's voice creaked.

“We killed them all, every last person in the village.”

“Good.” The king’s voice was cold, satisfied.

But Gabriel’s heart shattered. How many innocent lives had been taken? Women, children? ‘What have I done,’ the thought pounded in his head like a relentless hammer.

“Who was the murderer,” the king asked.

“A boy... a hunter... he killed him like a deer. Leoman’s eyes were open. Dead.”

The image of the boy, a mere child, committing such a heinous act was beyond Gabriel’s comprehension. He sensed a deeper narrative, a series of tragic events that had led to the unthinkable.

The scream that tore from the king’s throat was a sound Gabriel would carry to his grave. A terrifying, bone-chilling sound, colder than any winter’s breeze. It was as though the air turned to ice, the piercing wail sending tremors down his spine. No magic, no spell could ever emulate that raw, all-consuming anguish. The harrowing sound would have scared even Ash’s fiercest followers.

The king paced, his eyes glazed, his mind drifting somewhere far away. The room remained petrified, frozen in the tableau of dread. Gabriel found himself shaking, his breath hitching in his throat.

The heavy doors groaned open, revealing shackled hands and legs, the metallic grate of his chains a cacophony of impending doom. Loftus, dragged in like a lamb to slaughter, resisted each step forward into the lion’s den. The guard behind him used the condemned man as a shield, trying to hide from the king’s predatory gaze. Gone was the distant stare, the king’s face was red, his jaws clenched, his fist tense.

Loftus was pushed to his knees at the exact spot where Artus had knelt moments before. The king’s eyes bore into him like twin daggers.

“You took him from me,” the king growled.

“My king, I do not know what you are talking about. I did not do anything.” Loftus stretched out his hands in front of him.

“My son is dead.”

“My King, you have my condolences.”

“I don’t want your condolences. I want your head.”

“My king, I was in the cell, I couldn’t have done anything.”

“He died. Investigating your treason.”

“I did nothing wrong; your son must have caused this himself.”

The slap rang out, a vicious, unrelenting sound. Loftus sprawled on the floor. The king hauled him by his hair, forcing him to his knees again.

“Tell me the truth, and I won’t kill your entire line, or so help me, by Ash, they will cry as I gut them.”

Loftus shook his head. “No, please, no.”

“Do you understand?”

Loftus continued to shake his head, “I didn’t do anything”.

The king’s fist whipped out, snapping Loftus’s head back. Blood sprayed across the stone floor. Gabriel’s stomach churned at the sight.

“Do you understand?” The king bellowed again, spittle flying from his mouth.

Loftus, sensing his impending doom, took a moment before simply nodding once.

“Did you commit treason?”

Loftus slowly rose to his feet, his gaze steady. Gabriel couldn’t help but admire the lord’s newfound calm. He stood strong, resolute before a raging wind, a force of nature.

“Never have we suffered a poorer monarch; you have brought our once mighty kingdom to its knees. Did I commit treason, you ask? No, I am no traitor,” Loftus proclaimed. His words hung in the air, a damning testament to the king's failings.

“I sold the grain, so the people could know your ineptitude; you are unworthy of the throne.” Loftus’s voice was firm, his eyes never leaving the king’s face, challenging him openly.

“You sold it to our enemy.”

“Why are we at war with the Galatians?”

“Because they steal our wealth.” The king snarled, his face reddening.

"They only resorted to such measures because you attempted to seize their territory. What's worse, you failed." Loftus’s words were punctuated with a scornful chuckle.

“You killed my son!”

The king’s eyes twitched, a lethal glint crossing his face. In a single swift motion, his sword was unsheathed, cutting through the air and into Loftus’s outstretched hand and throat. The blade emerged on the other side, blood dripping from its steel edge. The room echoed with the sickening thud of a lifeless body falling onto the stone floor.

A chill permeated through the room. Gabriel could see the horror in his sister’s eyes. Her joyous day had turned into a nightmare. The lords exchanged stunned glances, and the warriors looked away. Gabriel turned and wretched, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

The king’s eyes moved slowly over the crowd, searching for signs of dissension among his court. But his gaze stopped at Lord Carnahy, who stared back unflinching. Though he spoke no words, his determined look said enough.

The king’s voice boomed out, a thunderclap of wrath. “Rally the troops. We shall scourge Loftus’s forsaken lands until not a soul remains. We will reduce their homes to ash and rubble.”

The king's decree plunged the hall into a stunned silence. The looming uncertainty of their future was palpable, bearing down heavily on each individual present. The king's words, still resonating ominously within the stone walls, hung in the air as a forewarning of the imminent shadow about to descend upon them all.