Alaric's boots strike the polished castle floor with a hard, rapid rhythm, each step echoing the frantic beat in his chest. A tight knot twists in his gut, a physical manifestation of the morning's relentless assault.
Problem after problem, each new report stokes the simmering coals of terror, fanning them into flames that threaten to engulf the kingdom in war.
Guards stand at attention as the procession sweeps past, their eyes tracking the Prince and his entourage.
They reach the dungeons. The iron gate looms, usually a symbol of containment, but today it's a gaping maw. Guards, their faces grim, surround a single cell, spears pointed inward.
Their knuckles are white on the shafts. The air is damp and cold, smelling of stale air, mildew and something else, something metallic, something like blood.
The heavy iron gates of the cell lie mangled on the stone floor, twisted remnants several meters from the entrance.
A sharp gasp escapes Lord Jaxriel's lips; his hand flies up to cover his mouth, his eyes wide and staring. Around him, the rest of the council gasp, their breath catching in collective shock.
Inside the ruined cell entrance stands Freya.
Her posture is rigid, defiance radiating from her like heat from a forge.
"I didn't do it," her voice rings out, clear and strong, echoing off the dungeon walls. Her gaze is locked, blazing with fury, her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles bone-white.
"You know I wouldn't do this," her gaze shifts, softening almost imperceptibly as it finds the face of the man who holds her heart, the Prince, Alaric.
He meets her eyes for a brief, agonizing moment, then looks down, a silent battle playing out on his features. His jaw works. A tremor runs through his frame.
Then, his gaze lifts again, fixing on hers. His expression is unreadable, a carefully constructed wall.
Vorlag, his voice thick with shock and accusation, breaks the silence. "If you didn't do this, then who did, Freya?"
Her eyes remain fixed on Alaric, a silent plea passing between them. "It was… your mother," the words are heavy, deliberate, "The Queen is responsible for this,".
The words hang in the cold air. Alaric's eyes widen, the muscles around them tightening.
The mask of control slips just for a fraction of a second, revealing a flicker of raw pain. His eyes seem to glaze over, the horror of the implication sinking in.
Lady Sylvia, her pristine white robes a stark contrast to the grim surroundings, her voice a sharp inquiry, cuts through the moment.
"Who reported this?".
A guard swallows hard, his gaze darting from bodies to Freya, "The Queen did, my Lady. She… she seemed in shock when she found them,".
"I bet," Alaric mutters under his breath, a low, dangerous sound. A vein pulses on his temple, stark against his skin. He turns his back on the grisly scene, his voice tight with suppressed rage.
"Freya, walk with me. Alone," it's an order, cold and sharp.
The council erupts, a babble of protests, questions, challenges to his authority.
"Silence!"
Alaric roars, the single word exploding through the dungeon, heavy with unleashed power and fury. The sound reverberates, silencing the council members instantly, though their eyes still burn with unspoken demands.
Alaric turns and walks away, not waiting. Freya, her rigid posture softening slightly, steps past the guards and the horror, falling into step beside him.
They ascend the stairs, leaving the chilling damp of the dungeon behind. The air grows warmer, the sounds of the castle returning, distant footsteps, the murmur of activity.
"Alaric, you know I wouldn't do this," Freya begins, her voice lower now.
"I believe you," he cuts her off, the words clipped, decisive. They reach the main floor, the ground level of the castle, sunlight streaming through high windows casting long, dusty beams across the polished floor.
"I have a plan, but it's a fragile one. It may not work. We have to be prepared. You have to be prepared to face her," the seriousness in his tone sends a shiver down Freya's spine.
They walk past tapestries depicting ancient battles, their steps quick but less frantic than before.
"I believe she has the relic," Alaric says, his voice dropping slightly, a conspiratorial edge to it.
"Her behaviour… it's not her. Something is terribly wrong with her. She's willing to plunge us into war, just to keep her hands on it. I can't stand by and let my people suffer for her selfishness,".
Freya stops, gently takes his arm, bringing him to a halt in a quiet alcove near a sun-drenched window.
"Alaric," she says, her voice soft but firm. Her grey eyes search his, filled with a deep concern.
"You have to understand that if she can go this far, if she's capable of that," she gestures vaguely back towards the dungeons, "she will kill you if necessary.
To keep the relic. To protect herself".
"I know," his gaze drifts towards the sunlight, away from her. His voice drops to a near whisper, raw with a deep, buried hurt.
"She is only my mother in look now. Deep down, I know the woman who raised me never woke up from that coma". His shoulders slump, just for a fleeting moment, before he straightens, his resolve hardening.
"We must send word to Rolandia immediately, before this escalates," he turns back to face her, his expression stern.
"I can't have her knowing of my plans before they ripen. I need you to go to Rolandia, I will have her believe you are dead,". He anticipates her protest, "We have no teleportation spell for that distance. You have to fly, fast.
Tell the king everything. Tell him I want a united front to retrieve the relic from my mother. Tell him of his emissaries' demise".
"What?" Freya's eyes widen again, her breath catching.
"There is no time for explanations or questions, Freya. Just listen" Alaric takes her hands, his grip firm.
"Tanix and Lord Grimshaw are dead. Poisoned," his voice low and grim.
"Tell them evil had breached the walls of High Town. We need their assistance to retrieve the relic before it's too late,".
"He may not believe me," worry creases her forehead, her voice trembling slightly.
"That is precisely why I am sending you." Alaric squeezes her hands, "They won't be able to kill you."
"And what if she decides do something to you" her worry deepens, her free hand reaching up to cup his cheek.
"I can't let anything happen to you, my love".
His gaze holds hers, but it feels distant, focused on a grim necessity rather than their connection.
It's the look of a prince, not a lover. "We will contain her until you arrive back with Rolandia's support. I am the Prince of this nation. My first duty is to my people.
My safety… my safety means little right now." He pulls her hand from his face gently.
"Do this, Freya. It is an order" his voice firm and final.
She steps into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding him tight. "Be safe, my love" she whispers.
He holds her back, a silent embrace before the weight of their separate tasks pulls them apart.
NIRVANA
The sunlight filters through the lush green canopy of the forest in dappled rays, warm on the skin. Emilia moves with a light, graceful step, her basket filling with plump mushrooms and vibrant herbs.
Her company of fairies flits and dances, tiny wings buzzing softly, their voices like a cascade of tinkling bells, weaving songs that fill the magical air.
Emmet walks a short distance behind them, his gaze switching from Emilia to the green of the earth. He studies the flowers she pauses near, trying to learn which ones she seeks so he can be useful to her.
He moves slowly toward them, making sure to be as natural as he can, "Why do you still do this? Run the errands of the gods?", his words are quiet, but the question lands heavy.
"They gave you, family, and your people a haven only to take it away from you,".
"And you said I won't even know you are here," she whispers to herself, "What is it to you?".
"I just don't understand," Emmet stops walking, looking not at her, but at the sun drenched forest floor. "The gods do not care about us. We're just pawns in their games. If they truly cared they would have protected your people," the half-elf voice grows more intense, a raw edge surfacing.
Emilia turns sharply, "What do you have against the gods?", she raises her voice.
The songs of the fairies begin to falter, their tiny voices dying down one by one.
"Shiroi. That is the goddess you serve. My family worshipped a god too.
Zeus, he was said to be the greatest of all the gods. They offered sacrifices to him, they were faithful…" his voice cracks slightly, "…and yet, on the night of their demise he did nothing for them.
My mother was… she was raped just as they killed my father before our eyes, my sister, killed. Somehow my mother and I escaped, we were barely alive.
The god did nothing, Zeus did nothing," the songs of the fairies completely die down as he recalls a story steeped in horror.
"I do not wish to turn you away from your god but what good have they brought into your life?".
Emilia stiffens her jaw, "Zeus may have done you wrong but he is not my god," her gaze meeting his, unwavering, "My god gave me purpose, the path she lays for me is not an easy one but she believes in me.
My visions, the gem, it is all her doing. And she gave me Kane,".
"Emmet! Emilia!" A voice calls out, loud and a little frantic, from the edge of the forest clearing. Braga stands there, waving them over.
"Come on, Kane teleported! Again!".
The two with elven blood running through their veins share a quick, knowing look. A shared question hangs in the air between them.
What is the chosen one up to now?
MEANWHILE IN VERLAINE
The air inside the tent is thick with the scent of earth, sweat and something musky; perhaps stale ale or recent intimacy. It's a large tent, far grander than the others huddled in the hidden camp, buried deep within the tangled, monster-infested bushes of Verlaine territory.
Fangor sits on a rough-hewn chair, a heavy, satisfied look on his face, sipping from a metal cup.
Beside the cot, a woman dresses. Her long, wavy brown hair falls like a curtain around her shoulders as she fastens the closures on her tunic and breeches.
With practiced movements, she pushes the hair back, gathering it into a single, practical ponytail that trails down her back.
There is no haste in her actions; she moves with a languid confidence, comfortable in his presence.
"How are we going to retrieve the relic from the Queen?" Her voice is smooth, low, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.
Fangor lowers his cup, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face.
"The war must happen.
Mother will try to win the Queen's side but to me it doesn't matter. As long as the war happens, we will take her down in its chaos," he says and looks up at the woman.
Now dressed but radiating an undeniable power.
Her brown skin glows softly in the tent's dim light. She moves towards him, settling onto his lap, her arms circling his neck.
She leans in, her lips finding his in a slow, possessive kiss.
"And by the blessing of our god," she murmurs against his mouth, her voice a low, fervent purr, "your father, Bloodhowl. You shall be reborn a god.
And we shall take High Town as ours," she stoops to kiss him again, body pressing closer to his.
The heavy canvas curtain at the tent entrance swishes open abruptly.
"Forgive me,", a male voice, edged with apology, interrupts the moment.
Fangor's woman lifts her head from his lips, her eyes sharp as she focuses on the newcomer. She slides gracefully from Fangor's lap.
"Good evening, Conall" she greets him, her tone polite, masking the brief flicker of annoyance at the interruption.
"Evening, Fiona," Conall replies, his head dipping in a slight, respectful bow.
Fangor stands up and embraces the man, a strong, back-slapping hug that speaks of shared history and loyalty.
"My friend," they separate, "Tell me, what news do you bring?"
"They said they will think about it," his voice low, confidential "but…" a hint of triumph enters his eyes "…they already have a few men checking our tunnels as we speak. If all goes as planned, Rolandia will back us in taking the throne of High Town.
And you will be crowned king,"
Fiona's gaze moves from Fangor to Conall, a knowing glint in her eyes, "What did you two do this time?" She asks, her tone light and teasing.
She knows their capacity for cunning.
Fangor chuckles, he runs a hand through his dark hair.
"I sent him to deliver the news of Tanix's death to the Rolandian king. To let him know that Prince Alaric… the noble Prince… means to keep the relic for himself and wage war on Rolandia,".
Fangor waves his hand at Conall, who gives a light bow and exits the tent.
"You are one devious man, husband" Fiona says, walking back to him. She settles onto his lap once more.
Leaning forward, she plants a kiss on his lips, a smile echoing his on her own face, while his arms go around her waist, "I know,".