???(Uncle's) POV
The rain fell in relentless sheets as I stepped out into the courtyard, leaving the suffocating gloom of the dungeon behind. The air was cold and sharp, but it carried the fevered energy of the crowd before me, which stretched out to the heart of the ruined kingdom of Ethel. Its once-grand courtyard now stood as a shadow of its former glory. A tight knot stuck in my throat as I thought about my nephew, and the threat of insanity loomed around me. I felt it surrounding my very being. I had killed my nephew with my very hands. I watched my bloodied hands as my vision blurred continuously.
The stone courtyard, which had once gleamed under the sun, was cracked and discolored, its intricate carvings eroded by time and neglect. Pools of rainwater collected in the uneven cobblestones, reflecting the pale, flickering light of the torches mounted on the surrounding stone walls. These walls, adorned with the remnants of faded banners bearing the kingdom's crest, loomed high above the gathering.
A massive iron gate, twisted and warped by years of disrepair, stood at the far end, barely holding back the restless throng of the kingdom's people. Hundreds—no, thousands—of faces pressed together, smeared with dirt and desperation, lit by the eerie glow of the torches and flashes of lightning above. The storm roared its approval, thunder shaking the very ground as if the heavens themselves demanded blood.
"The cursed prince is dead!"
The cry started with a single voice, loud and shrill, slicing through the sound of rain and wind. For a moment, there was silence—a breath held collectively by the crowd. Then, as though an invisible dam had broken, a deafening roar erupted.
"He's dead!"
"The curse is lifted!"
"Long live the kingdom!"
The people surged forward, slamming against the iron gate with such ferocity that it groaned under the strain. Their cheers were wild, untamed, more animalistic than human. Fists pumped the air, banners were waved frantically, and makeshift torches sputtered in the rain.
Amidst the cacophony, some fell to their knees in the muddy pools, clutching their chests as they wept tears of relief. Others screamed themselves hoarse, clawing at the gate as though they could rip it apart with their bare hands. "Freedom!" they cried, their voices raw with emotion.
The stench of sweat and wet earth filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the blood still staining my armor. I could feel their desperation, their hatred, their twisted, fervent belief that the death of my nephew would save them all. My eye began twitching as I watched them jubilate at my nephew's death-- Kill Them --. I thought as I watched happiness drawn brightly on their faces. I wanted them to feel my pain, to understand what had happened to me, but I can't blame them. The prince's aura of corruption had affected Ethel more than other parts of the continent. Disease reigned, Death, Phantoms dragged their ghastly presence here. My selfishness caused this. I should have killed him sooner, but I couldn't. He was the last connection to my brother and sis Diana.
From where I stood on the stone steps, I could see the breadth of the crowd. They were packed so tightly that even the vast courtyard seemed too small to hold them. To the left, the skeletal remains of a burned-out fountain stood as a grim monument to the kingdom's former glory, its central statue of the goddess Alea shattered and forgotten. To the right, a towering pyre of broken furniture and rotting wood had been hastily assembled, ready to burn in celebration.
The storm seemed to mirror their rage and joy. Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the courtyard in flashes of blinding white light. Thunder rolled like an angry drumbeat, its rhythm in sync with the pounding fists of the crowd.
I stood motionless, the rain soaking through my golden general's coat, now stained dark with the blood of my nephew. My hand rested on the hilt of my sword, still warm from the life it had taken. The weight of it felt heavier now, a grim reminder of the choice I had made.
The crowd chanted my name now, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony that reverberated through the courtyard. "King Grey! King Grey! King Grey!"
I raised a hand, and the cacophony reached a fever pitch before falling into a hushed murmur. All eyes turned to me—thousands of them, hungry for the reassurance that their suffering had not been in vain.
I took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs. "The cursed prince is dead," I declared, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. It was a voice I had practiced for years, commanding and unyielding, meant to inspire both fear and devotion. "The darkness that plagued our kingdom has been vanquished. Today marks the beginning of a new era—a peaceful era!"
The crowd erupted again, their cheers shaking the very earth beneath my feet. They waved torches and makeshift flags, their faces twisted into expressions of jubilation. The storm seemed to join them, the rain hammering down harder, the lightning crackling in defiance of the darkened sky.
Yet, even as their cheers echoed around me, my gaze drifted downward to the blood still clinging to my hands. It mixed with the rain, forming crimson rivulets that snaked their way down the stone steps.
Was this peace worth the price?
I glanced back toward the corridor's dark entrance, where the High Mage Brian now stood, his crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood of his pristine white robes, his white hair flowing seamlessly. He smiled, an innocent expression that belied the monstrous truth of what he was.
"You played your part beautifully, Your Highness," he said softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the storm. His smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp, too predatory.
"Do not test me, Brian," I muttered, my voice low and dangerous.
His laughter was soft and almost melodic, but it carried an edge that sent a chill down my spine. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, my king." He stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as if he had never been there.
I turned back to the roaring crowd, raising my hand once more. Lightning split the sky behind me, casting my shadow long and ominous over the cracked stones of the courtyard.
Let them cheer, I thought bitterly. Let them rejoice in their ignorance. For even in this moment of triumph, I knew the truth: the curse had not been lifted. It had only just begun.
The sound of revelry spilled across the palace walls—pipes, drums, the roar of voices drunk on survival. The kingdom was alive, eager to toast the future. But in the rain-drenched courtyard behind the revelry, the king stood alone before three graves.
My brother's stone was worn by recent touch, the chisel marks still sharp, the name heavy with the memory of rule. Beside it, my sister-in-law's grave seemed quieter, gentler, as if even the soil mourned the warmth she had given to the world. But it was the newest mound that hollowed the king from within—the grave of my nephew, too small, too fresh, the earth not yet settled. The boy's name was a wound etched into marble, a life erased before it could begin.
The rain showed no mercy. It did not drizzle—it consumed. Each drop struck the stones like a drumbeat of grief, washing the carved letters as if the skies themselves sought to weep what I could not. My robes clung heavily to my frame, my crown absent, set aside as if I dared not stand before the dead adorned in gold.
Above me, the clouds writhed, bruised and black, their bellies swollen with sorrow. Thunder cracked—not in triumph, but in mourning, as though heaven split itself open to echo my loss. The courtyard was no place of triumph, only of memory and soil and silence, where the air stank of wet earth and grief too large for one man to bear.
Then, at the edge of the graves, the old yew tree began to change. For centuries, it had stood sentinel, its needles evergreen, defying seasons as though it too ruled the silence of the dead. But under the weight of the storm, its color bled. Green gave way to crimson, not in slow decay but in a swift, shuddering transformation. It was as though the roots had drunk the anguish of the king, of the buried, of the storm itself. Each branch dripped red as if the tree bled openly, marking itself in sacrifice beside those it sheltered.
I watched, frozen, as the tree mirrored my soul—once steadfast, now bleeding, once eternal, now marked by sorrow. Beyond the walls, the people of Ethel sang and cheered, blind to the storm, blind to the graves. They lived, as was their right. Yet he remained here, chained not by crown but by memory, ruler of the living and the dead alike.
And in the hush between thunder and rain, I whispered—not to the people, not to the storm, but to the stone before me, to the names carved in cold permanence:
"Forgive me," I said as I touched my brother's -- Past King Grey's -- grave, tears flowing as I placed my hands on the grave, my eyepatch glowing a dark yellow. The glow intensified, causing a heavy amount of pain to hit me.
"I wonder why our king isn't celebrating with our people." A towering figure looms, already massive in stature yet made even more imposing by the sheer bulk of his armor. His hair is a shock of short, fiery red, cut close but burning like a live ember atop his head. Beneath the crimson crown, his eyes are a steady, earthy brown—ordinary in color, yet unsettling in the way they seem to anchor the storm of violence raging in his movements.
His armor is heavy, plated, and built to exaggerate his already formidable size. Each piece is layered with brutal efficiency, turning him into a walking fortress of iron and intimidation. Golden bundles—braided cords, almost ceremonial in their gleam—wrap tightly around the bulk of his armored arms, as though binding his strength in place until it's unleashed in battle.
At his sides rest two immense axes, their hafts thick enough to be tree trunks to lesser men. The blades are broad and cruel, clearly forged for devastation rather than finesse. There's something raw about him—less a man and more a force of violence given shape. His sheer size, his blunt eyes, his scarlet hair like a banner of war—all mark him as the embodiment of the berserker: relentless, unstoppable, and terrifyingly alive in the chaos of battle.
"He already lived a life of pain. Death is probably the only merciful thing he could have, ". He continued as he placed a hand on my shoulders.
"Probably..... Daril send his body to the abyss. Now he is dead, keeping it would just cause suffering to our people." I said as I walked past Daril.
--I will exact my fury on chaos--. I thought as I walked into the darkened corridor. Gold light slowly encompassed the palace, lighting up the corridor and Ethel. The share beauty of the sun, its comforting warmth shining on my skin, softening my heart. A far memory tugging at the back of my mind.