In a spacious room, it's walls made of quality stones, with thick linens for curtains, the bed in the middle of the room, leaned on the walls, it's frames made of the fine woods, and goodly silks for sheets.
A broad man, clothed in purple robes stood close to the bed side, his eyes fixed on a figure lying there with his eyes dimly shut, as his breath were but whispers.
All around the room were the maidens in charge of taking care of this room and the figure on its bed, all nine of them, their heads humbly bowed, their hands clapsed together and held down in front of them, conveying respect and deference, to the purple robed figure.
Behind this purple robed figure, also stood some figures in important looking attires, anyone with eyesight would recognize their attires from anywhere –The three Eunuchs.
Looking at the figure lying weakly on the bed, the voice of the purple robed man, rang through the room.
"Leave us" His voice held no emotions to them, just blunt instructions, neither did they hold volume, just enough to be heard.
Hearing this instruction, they all gave a deeper bow, then in orderly fashion walked out the room –the maidens and the three Eunuchs.
Moving closer, the purple robed figure sat on the bed beside the lying figure and reached for his hands, holding them into his, same hands he recognized when they had less wrinkles and fine lines.
Feeling the warmth and familiar scent, the dimly shut eyes of the lying figure weakly pried opened, and like tiny whispers his lips gave way to parting words.
"Is...that you... Omah?"
"Yes father, --I'm here"
Looking at his father, despite knowing this moment had been but a matter of time, the eyes of the purple robed figure began forming a red coloring, as they held and valiantly fought back the tears, that threatened to pry out.
"Come" the lying figure instructed.
Leaning in closer, slowly, the hands of his father reached out for his face, bringing his ears to his mouth for the words he had.
Like calm passing breeze and in mild whispers, the lying figure mustered some words into his son's ears, and at the end of it, like a needle through a piece of light clothing, he drew his last breath.
And like calm dripping of morning dew, the fight the eyes of the purple robed figure waged against his tears were lost, as his tears left his eyes, and calmly dripped down his polished cheeks.
The purple robed figure sat there for a while, no sobs or sounds, just his mind running miles and his eyes licking liquid, despite this death being of natural causes, his heart still felt what it felt.
Using his handkerchief, he rid his face the tears that plagued them, then in a tone just bold enough to be heard from the out doors, he asked.
"Where's the Queen?"
Like hot knife through butter, an Eunuch, tore his way for that information, and in the moment it took a squirrel to burry it's nuts, he returned with the answer.
"The Queen is at the train grounds"
"Hmm..." The robed figure nodded, pushing himself off the bed before striding toward the door. It opened for him the instant he approached, allowing him to pass through without breaking pace.
Just beyond the threshold, he paused and cast a glance back at the maidens.
"Do not enter," he said, the words dropping like a quiet command that lingered in the air after him.
And with this he started making his way through the corridors towards the train grounds,The three Eunuchs following closely behind him.
There was a back entrance to the training grounds—an almost invisible access point most never noticed, swallowed by poor lighting and disuse. The purple-robed figure slipped into this shadowed corner and came to a halt, hands folded behind him as he settled into the scant darkness the place allowed.
From the small elevation of the platform, his gaze swept across the grounds until it found the Queen. She stood entirely absorbed in the duel unfolding at the center. Sharp, rhythmic clacks rang out again and again, filling the vast space like the pulse of combat—each sound either a deadly exchange or the brutal acceptance of one.
With his eyes on the sparing, the purple robed figure had no expression to his eyes, as he just watched, his eyes devoid of the light they normally held.
His attention snapped into focus—surprise mingling with a warrior's quiet thrill—as the atmosphere in the arena shifted. A cold ripple spread outward as the air around the young Ecnes' changed, subtle at first, then unmistakable. He knew instantly the spar was about to change—and the change came like a storm.
The Prince was pushed back step after step, forced into a defensive scramble while the Ecnes' speed climbed with every heartbeat. In a handful of blinding moments, the Prince's guard broke, and the Ecnes' strikes began to land—sharp, precise, and mercilessly accurate.
He could read every motion, every angle, every intention, yet even with his eye, he had never seen such astonishing speed in one so young.
He watched the young Prince absorb hit after hit, his expression unchanged—eyes dull, empty, merely taking in the scene. But that blank observation shattered the moment he saw blood.
Something flared. An aura—sharp, fleeting, disturbingly familiar—brushed past his senses. It came and vanished in the span of a heartbeat, carrying a weight he instinctively recognized, though never in a way he'd call welcome.
Then everything happened at once.
Before the air could fully track the shift, the young Ecnes took a clean, brutal strike to the head and dropped instantly. And in the same breath, the young Prince who delivered the unforeseen blow collapsed as well, falling into unconsciousness beside him.
Seeing as the both sparing younglings were out cold, and the Queen dashing to the middle of the arena, he turned his back into the shadows and left.
The moment her son crumpled to the ground, the Queen moved—swift, instinctive, breath sharp—crossing the distance to him in an instant. Who in all the realms was trying to cut her life short with a scare like this?
She knelt beside him, hands hovering, then sinking onto his shoulders as she felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. A low, shaky sigh escaped her lips.
Asleep.
Not wounded. Not dying. Just asleep.
That… was infinitely better than the dark possibilities that had stabbed through her mind in those frantic heartbeats.
Liah hurried to her master's side, skidding to a halt just within reach. The Queen didn't waste a heartbeat.
"Take them to their rooms—and bring the physician," she commanded, her voice steady but unmistakably sharp.
Her son might look like he was only asleep, but she had no intention of leaving anything to chance.
The rest of the spectators were still reeling from the intensity of the duel—its sudden shift, its abrupt end, the two boys collapsing without warning. But they had little time to dwell on it. Attendants moved quickly through the crowd, leaning in to whisper hurried updates into their masters' ears.
One such attendant stepped quietly to the Queen's side.
"Your Highness," he murmured, "His Majesty is in the court."
The King's court was a vast and imposing hall, its grandeur unmistakable. At its far end rose the King's throne, perched atop twelve carved steps, each one gleaming beneath the light. The throne itself was fashioned from pure precious stone, its surface catching and scattering brilliance—a silent testament to the dynasty's towering wealth.
Through the towering grand doors, the Duke and the generals entered in a precise, orderly line. At the far end of the hall—high above them on the throne of twelve steps—the King sat watching.
His eyes lacked their usual warmth. He leaned back in a slight, weary sag, his left hand propping up his chin as he stared down at the men filing into his court. Draped over him was his richly adorned purple royal robe, regal yet doing little to soften the cold distance in his gaze.