Gabriel stepped into the king's chamber, his heart pounding against his ribcage with a ferocity that threatened to betray his outward calm. He squared his shoulders, a silent declaration of unwavering resolve, and approached the center of the room. The king may see an injured boy, but Gabriel refused to appear weak in front of the man that would decide his fate. His journey had etched a single truth into his being: In the realm of power, only strength commanded respect. I must not show weakness.
He advanced further into the sanctum, pausing at the heart of the room, where an intricate rug, crafted from countless threads, lay beneath his feet. Ahead, King Saxton presided over the chamber from behind a desk that gleamed with gold, an emblem of his absolute authority. Elevated upon a throne-like seat adorned with elaborate carvings and sumptuous cushions, the king seemed larger than life, his formidable presence magnified. His piercing blue eyes, set against the backdrop of weathered skin, surveyed Gabriel with a discerning intensity that felt almost tangible.
Opposite the king, a figure shifted his attention towards Gabriel with a languid, almost disinterested movement. Yet, the gaze that met Gabriel's was anything but disinterested; it was calculating, as sharp and focused as a predator, seeming to discern his deepest secrets and fears. This man, with his gaunt features and the hawkish sharpness of his long, aquiline nose, might not have possessed the physical robustness typically associated with danger, but the air surrounding him whispered a different kind of threat—one of intellect and shadows.
With a practiced grace, Gabriel knelt on one knee, one fist gently touching the soft rug, his other arm wrapped across his midsection in the formal martial salute. “Your Majesty, it is an honor,” he intoned, weaving respect and a hint of flattery into his greeting, hoping to pave the way for a more favorable audience.
“Rise,” the king's voice, firm and authoritative, cut through the formality of the moment. Gabriel rose smoothly, his posture straight as he met the king's gaze. “Now, what is this of the Paresh?”
A moment of hesitation flickered across Gabriel's features as he glanced at the figure stationed near the king. "Sire, what I must disclose is of a sensitive nature," he treaded carefully, his voice laced with caution.
“Jacob is my trusted advisor; you may speak openly in his presence,” the king interjected firmly, dismissing Gabriel's concerns with a wave of his hand, indicating the man in question with a nod.
The name 'Jacob' sent a shiver down Gabriel's spine, for he recognized it instantly. Known ominously as 'The Spider' throughout Balatia, Jacob's reputation preceded him as a master of espionage. Stories told that he spun his web across every fiber of the kingdom and ensnaring foes and dissidents alike.
“Your Grace, discretion is crucial,” Gabriel cautiously said.
"Out with it, boy!" King Saxton's command boomed across the chamber, his impatience manifesting in the stern set of his jaw.
Gabriel's preference was for the king alone to be privy to his words. Trusting others, particularly Jacob, was a gamble he was loath to take. Yet, circumstances demanded concession. "Your Majesty, I must first seek your forgiveness," he began, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. The king's growing impatience was evident in the rhythmic tapping of his foot. “The truth I bring concerns not the Paresh, but of Accamania.”
“You dare lie.” Though the king's tone remained deceptively calm, the rebuke filled the room, a dangerous edge lurking beneath the controlled volume. “You sought this audience under false pretenses of a Paresh threat."
Gabriel held his ground. "To speak with you directly, your Grace, lying was the only way."
Saxton’s visage hardened as he stood, his chair protesting loudly beneath the sudden movement. “A lie that could cost you your life.”
Gabriel felt the weight of the moment upon him, his carefully planned words dissipating in the face of the king's imposing presence. It was now or never. “There’s been a coup in Accamania.”
"That information is stale, boy. We've been aware of Accamania's turmoil for months."
Gabriel's thoughts momentarily drifted to Artus and Sarah, his concern for them pressing against his lips, yet he restrained himself. Now is not the time. As this internal battle waged, Jacob, a silent observer until now, rose with a predator's grace. He closed the distance between himself and Gabriel in two quick steps, his intent unclear but imminently threatening. It was at this pivotal moment, just as Jacob's hand nearly clasped his wrist, that Gabriel declared, "I am Matilda’s son."
For a moment, time seemed to suspend—both the king and the Spider, rendered motionless by Gabriel's words. The king's previously furrowed brow now arched in anticipation, his posture subtly shifting, as if bracing for the weight of what was to come. Jacob, the man renowned for his stoic demeanor, allowed a rare slip of surprise to breach his guarded expression. This fleeting glimpse into his thoughts revealed a depth of feeling that contradicted his icy reputation.
Gabriel hesitated, not for the sake of theatrics, but from the profound understanding that with his next utterance, the trajectory of his life would irrevocably change. He inhaled deeply, the air in the vast chamber feeling denser around him, charged with the gravity of his impending declaration.
With a resigned exhale, as though surrendering to the tides of destiny, Gabriel embraced his truth. “I am Gabriel, son of King Leonard the Third, Prince of Accamania.”
The impact of his revelation was immediate and profound. King Saxton, who had risen in a blend of curiosity and skepticism, now reseated himself with a thud, the air of authority momentarily displaced by the shock of recognition. Jacob, meanwhile, became a statue, his usual impassiveness shattered by the unmistakable jolt of astonishment that traversed his features. Why does Jacob, the King's Spider, care so much?
The king’s countenance returned to normal. Imperiously he stated, “Prince Gabriel is dead.”
Gabriel's response was a hollow laugh, devoid of any humor. “They tried to kill me, but I’m not so easy to kill.”
Before the king could probe further, Jacob intervened, his voice a mere whisper, yet carrying a weight that silenced the room. “What happened to Matilda?”
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At the mention of his mother, any facade of bravado Gabriel had maintained crumbled. His gaze dropped to the rug beneath his feet. Its complex weaves a metaphor for his own tangled fate. Memories of his mother's final moments flooded back with painful clarity—the way she had looked at him, life fading from her eyes as her blood stained the ground around her. That image was seared into his memory, a wound that time had failed to heal. Until this moment, Gabriel had cloaked himself in anonymity, a shield of falsehoods to defend against both the threat to his life and the agony of his loss. But now, standing before the king and the spider, that shield fell away, leaving him vulnerable.
With great effort, Gabriel forced the words out, his voice strained with emotion. "She was murdered before my eyes." Each word was a struggle as he fought back the swell of grief threatening to overwhelm him. "Her dying wish was that I come to you."
King Saxton's features softened, a rare glimpse of vulnerability crossing his stoic visage. "Matilda... she was like sunlight to us all," he reflected, his voice tinged with a sorrow that seemed to reach back through the years. "She and Dary were as close as sisters, inseparable and radiant." His gaze momentarily drifted to the window, as if seeking their spirits in the daylight.
Gabriel absorbed these words, the mention of Dary stirring a new curiosity within him. "Dary?" he echoed, seeking clarity on a name that felt both familiar and distant.
"Dary was my daughter, gone too soon," the king revealed, a shadow passing over his face. "She and Matilda shared their childhoods; their laughter filled the palace halls."
Observing Jacob's reaction, Gabriel noted the tension in the man's frame, his clenched fist betraying an emotional turmoil that belied his usual composure. These memories, these names, held weight for everyone in this room.
“Tell me what happened? How did you come to be here?” King Saxton's solemn gaze held Gabriel's as he posed the question, the weight of his inquiry hanging between them.
“Before I speak of that, there’s something I must know.” He had to ask what he was most dreading, his voice carrying a mix of hope and dread. “Do you know what happened to the rest of my family? To Sarah? To Artus?”
The king rose with a gravity that seemed to fill the room, approaching Gabriel with a compassion that belied his regal demeanor. Placing a reassuring hand on Gabriel's shoulder, he delivered the news with gentle frankness. “I’m sorry son, Artus is dead, but Sarah, at least, is still alive.”
Gabriel had braced himself for news of his brother's fate, yet the stark confirmation sliced through him with a raw edge. Memories of their last moments together flooded his mind. The moment Artus clasped his shoulder, mending the rift between them, their brotherhood reborn in that single gesture. And then, the embrace—Artus pulling him close for the first and last time. Brother, if only we had loved each other as we did in those final moments.
This pain, however deep, was momentarily lifted by a glimmer of hope. Sarah's alive. Gabriel looked up at the king, “Is Sarah well??”
“Yes, she is. But...” The king's voice trailed off, his expression turning contemplative, as if weighing his next words carefully. The pause stretched, laden with tension, and Gabriel felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. “Sarah is now betrothed."
Betrothed. The word echoed in Gabriel's mind, a bittersweet realization that while Sarah lived, her path had decided by those who had killed her parents. "To whom?" The question came through gritted teeth, harsher than intended, fueled by a protective instinct.
"Lovren Andrellis."
The revelation pierced Gabriel with chilling clarity. His best friend now promised to his sister in a union he could scarcely comprehend. The swirl of confusion gave way to a profound, seething anger—a cold, relentless fury that promised to shadow him indefinitely. At the heart of this maelstrom of betrayal, one name stood out as the architect of his family's ruin.
"Carnahy has claimed the throne?" Gabriel's voice was a whisper, yet it carried the weight of his burgeoning wrath.
The king's confirmation came softly, laden with sorrow. "Yes," he acknowledged, the word hanging heavy between them.
The revelation hit Gabriel like a tidal wave of ice, freezing the breath in his lungs. In that moment, Gabriel's awareness narrowed to a singular point of focus. The physical sensations of the world around him—the hard floor beneath his knees, the warmth of tears streaking his cheeks, even the king lowering himself in a gesture of shared grief—seemed to fade into the periphery. Encased within his own turmoil, he barely registered the king's proximity, his mind consumed by the enormity of the betrayal.
Carnahy, one of the few men in the court he had held in high esteem for his seemingly genuine kindness and respect, was the architect of his family's downfall. The irony of it twisted in his gut like a knife; not the Demon, not Loftus, and certainly not Gabriel himself, but Carnahy had orchestrated the ruin of his lineage. It was a betrayal that cut deeper than any blade, a poison more lethal than any venom. Gabriel's anguish morphed into a wrath, all his thoughts converging on one inevitable conclusion: He’s the one responsible for killing my family.
As Gabriel pieced together the fragments of duplicity, he realized Carnahy's reticence toward him was not born of disappointment or disgust at any perceived failure on Gabriel's part. Instead, it was a calculated move to distance himself from the young prince he had marked for death, to spare himself the discomfort of guilt for a deed he had yet to commit. The truth that Carnahy was responsible for his mother's death stripped away any remnants of self-blame Gabriel had harbored. The guilt that had once gnawed at him, suggesting he was somehow complicit in the tragedies that befell his family, evaporated, leaving a clear path for his vengeance.
“I’ll kill him”. Gabriel hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud until he heard the noise escaping his mouth.
The king looked at him with pity. “I’m sorry Gabriel.”
How could Lovren do this? How can he marry my sister after his father killed my family? After he tried to kill me? Sarah – she must be so lonely and scared. How could they do this? And Jessinta…how could she? His thoughts were a maelstrom of confusion and anguish, each revelation folding into the next, collapsing his understanding of the world around him. The pain of loss was profound, but it was the sharpness of treachery that cut deepest, chilling his soul to its very core.
But within that coldness, a plan crystallized. Sarah, still so young at ten, had eight years before the law would allow her to marry. Time was on his side, and Gabriel's resolve hardened like forged steel. He would use the coming years not just to thwart the ambitions of a usurper, but to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. He would become the avenger for his family, the protector of his sister, and the rightful King of Accamania.
As the ice within Gabriel’s soul coalesced into purpose, he stood suddenly.
The king spoke softly but firmly, “Stay the night at the palace. Jacob will arrange a room for you and see you to a healer. We can talk more about the future and how you came to be here tomorrow.”
Gabriel's response was marked by a detachment he scarcely recognized, his voice emanating a chill that belied the tumult within. “The wounds are superficial, and the blood is mostly not my own. I will return to the academy tonight. I need time to think.”
King Saxton observed Gabriel with a renewed intensity, as if seeing him for the first time. It seemed that he was ready to contest Gabriel's refusal of care, but the resolve etched into the young prince's features must have prevented him from objecting. With a contemplative nod, the king withdrew a piece of parchment from his desk, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and penned a note with swift, deliberate strokes. Affixing his seal with a heavy press, he transformed the document into a token of immense authority.
"Jacob will ensure you receive attention for your injuries before you depart," the king decreed, the finality in his voice brooking no argument. He handed the sealed letter to Gabriel, adding, "This will grant you passage back into the castle on the morrow. Keep it safe."
Gabriel accepted the letter, his movements mechanical, the weight of truth settling heavily upon him. With a curt nod, he acknowledged the king's command, his mind a whirlwind of strategy and sorrow.