As Kalian clenched his fist and made a silent vow, the heavy oak door of the chapel creaked open, breaking the solemn stillness.
Footsteps echoed from the entrance, signaling an arrival.|
Princess Kiabel’s wet nurse entered, her elderly frame flanked by two stern-faced guards.
Her usually kind face was etched with a mixture of confusion and anticipation, her eyes darting around the austere chapel.
“Your Highness, did you call for me?” she inquired, her voice a little shaky.
She had expected a summons to the royal chambers, perhaps for a reward, certainly not to this hushed and somber space.
The air felt heavy, pregnant with an unspoken tension that made the hairs on her arms prickle.
She couldn’t fathom why Kalian, known for his directness, had chosen this unusual meeting place.
Kalian, his stern expression softening imperceptibly, began to walk towards the wet nurse.
His hands were clasped behind his back, a posture that always conveyed a sense of thoughtful deliberation, though sometimes a hidden agenda.
His steps were measured, deliberate, as he approached the bewildered woman.
“Did you say Kiabel was close to Prince Josef in Berden?” he asked, his voice low and even, betraying nothing of the churning thoughts within him.
“Yes,” the wet nurse confirmed, a flicker of memory passing through her eyes.
She recalled the young princess, full of life, and her tender moments with the Berden prince.
Frederic Charles, the King of Berden, had died, his reign ending abruptly.
On the very day he was asked to surrender his kingdom to Equilium, he had dueled Blayden, the formidable knight of Kalian’s court, and lost, his life extinguished on the battlefield.
His eldest son, Josef Charles, had inherited the throne, but it was merely an empty title, a crown without power, for Berden was now under Equilium’s dominion.
Under such tumultuous circumstances, it had come to light that Princess Kiabel, even as she fled, was carrying Josef’s child.
Kalian had considered the implications of this revelation with cold precision.
What would have happened, he mused, if the former king had passed away as things were, with Kiabel alive and carrying a Berden heir?
There would have been significant room, perhaps even legitimate claim, for a royal of Berden to interfere with the succession, potentially challenging Equilium’s burgeoning control over the conquered kingdom.
It was a cold, hard truth, but Kalian had no regrets.
He had done what was necessary.
It was good, he reaffirmed to himself, that he had eliminated Kiabel.
She was a threat, a potential rallying point for rebellion, a loose end he had to deal with someday.
He ruthlessly brushed off the lingering tendrils of guilt that attempted to coil around his heart, a luxury he could not afford in his position.
He turned his attention back to the wet nurse, his voice devoid of any warmth.
“How long have you been caring for Kiabel?” he inquired, his gaze piercing.
“Since the princess was a newborn, so it has been twenty-four years,” she replied, her voice soft, almost a whisper, as if speaking of the deceased princess too loudly would disturb her rest.
“A long time,” Kalian acknowledged, a slight pause in his speech.
“Yes,” she simply agreed, wondering what line of questioning this was.
“And yet,” Kalian continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge, “your devotion after all that time is truly light.”
“Excuse me?”
The wet nurse’s eyes wavered, a flicker of fear replacing her initial confusion.
The tone of the conversation had shifted, and a cold dread began to creep into her heart.
Kalian, his head slightly bowed, peered into her beautifully adorned, aged face.
His voice, now solemn and chilling, cut through the quiet of the chapel.
“Melina O’Hares. Your name will be remembered throughout the history of Equilium.”
A faint, hopeful smile touched the wet nurse’s lips, a desperate attempt to cling to the promise of honor.
“I dare not wish for such a great honor,” she demurred, through her eyes betrayed a glimmer of pride.
“You should wish for it,” Kalian countered, his voice dripping with icy sarcasm.
“Daringly. You should become a lesson for future generations as a traitor who sold out the master you served.”
“Your Highness…”
The wet nurse’s face went utterly pale.
Her body began to tremble uncontrollably as she crumpled to the floor, kneeling and begging.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb Your Highness’s peace of mind.”
Her voice was a desperate, pleading whisper, laced with terror.
“Disturb?”
Kalian let out a chilling, humorless laugh that echoed unnervingly in the chapel.
“You enlightened me. You showed me that this palace is teeming with spies. That no one can be trusted.”
His eyes, cold and hard as obsidian, fixed on her.
He then snapped his head towards the chapel entrance, his voice rising to a shout that cracked through the silence.
“Bring what has been prepared!”
Two soldiers, their faces grim, entered, wearing thick gloves that seemed to offer more protection than warmth.
Between them, they carried an iron bowl, roughly the size of a human head.
The wet nurse’s eyes widened in horror, a silent gasp tearing from her throat as she caught a glimpse of the contents within the bowl.
It was molten, glowing with an unholy heat.
“Your Highness, please save me!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with pure terror, her face contorted in a mask of primal fear.
“Proceed,” Kalian commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion, his gaze unwavering.
One of the guards who had escorted the wet nurse into the chapel seized her with brutal efficiency, holding her firmly in place.
The other guard, moving with practiced swiftness, placed a leather muzzle over her nose, muffling her desperate cries.
Then, with a chilling lack of hesitation, he forced open her mouth and inserted a steel funnel.
“This is the promised reward,” Kalian announced, his voice carrying clearly in the now terrifyingly silent chapel.
“Gold equal to your weight.”
At Kalian’s signal, the iron bowl was lifted high above the wet nurse’s face.
The bowl tilted, and a dazzling, horrifying stream of boiling gold liquid poured out, catching the light in a sickeningly beautiful cascade.
Beneath that agonizingly brilliant stream, a desperate, guttural scream echoed through the chapel.
“Aargh!”
Screaming a soul-rending shriek into the quiet space, the wet nurse writhed, her body convulsing violently.
Her struggles were desperate, her pain-filled cries a testament to unimaginable agony. But her torment, though intense, did not last long.
Like a fish thrown onto dry ground, thrashing frantically in its final moments, the wet nurse convulsed briefly before her body went limp.
Her eyes, wide and staring, closed, and she ceased to move.
A thin, viscous stream of yellow gold liquid dripped from her finely made-up mouth, a grotesque mockery of a final embellishment.
Kalian clicked his tongue in a gesture of mild annoyance, his gaze fixed on the corpse sprawled on the cold stone floor.
Without another word, he turned and exited the chapel.
Atenak, his loyal aide, stood waiting at the entrance, his head bowed, both hands clasped in front of him.
Kalian passed Atenak, who offered a silent, respectful bow, and issued a chilling instruction.
“Let all the servants and maids see the wet nurse’s corpse. So they may engrave deep in their bones what fate awaits those who betray the master they serve.”
His voice was calm, almost conversational, yet the words carried the weight of absolute power and ruthless warning.
***
Meanwhile, Blayden, having meticulously infiltrated the king’s chambers through a secret passage known only to a select few, remained hidden behind a thick, velvet curtain in the corner of the room.
From his concealed vantage point, he carefully observed the movements of the royal physician and the maid.
The physician, a man of precise habits, after carefully pouring a few spoonfuls of a potent medicine into Tigrinu’s mouth, stated that more medicine would be needed and left the chambers, leaving the maid alone to attend to the king.
Blayden, moving with the silent grace of a shadow, approached the maid who was now alone, her back turned as she adjusted the king’s bedclothes.
With a swift, decisive movement, he pressed down on the nape of her neck, a visible spot just above the collar of her dress.
The maid, her vital point attacked with surgical precision, lost consciousness instantly and slumped down, unconscious.
Leaving the maid seated in a chair, a silent, still figure, Blayden approached the ornate, four-poster bed. Tigrinu, the king, lay motionless with his eyes closed, appearing as if in a deep, death-like slumber.
Confirming that Tigrinu was indeed unconscious and not merely feigning sleep, Blayden’s gaze shifted to the king’s portrait, an intricately framed painting hanging prominently beside the bed.
With a deliberate movement, he opened the portrait.
To his surprise, another hidden painting was revealed within the frame – a smaller, more intimate depiction.
It was the youthful face of his birth mother, her eyes, filled with a bittersweet nostalgia, gazing back at him from the past.
‘What could “behead your mother” have meant?’
The cryptic message had haunted him since he received it.
His hand instinctively went to his sword hilt, a reflexive urge to draw the blade, but ultimately, he did not draw his sword.
The moment was not yet right.
Blayden closed the hidden painting, replacing the king’s portrait, and turned to fix a cold, unwavering gaze on Tigrinu’s unconscious form.
“Don’t worry. I will go and find a cure to save Your Majesty,” he murmured, his voice a low, chilling promise that held a double meaning.
You mustn’t die yet.
You need to watch with wide-open eyes as I dismantle your family.
Your son is testing me. I will show no weaknesses.
Just as you crouched for ten years for revenge, I too await the opportune moment.
They say an enemy is the best military treatise, don’t they?
That’s right. Everything I know, I learned from you.
Tigrinu Olaus, you and my father should have killed me.
The bloodline of a beloved woman, this dog kept laughing.
That a warrior like you would be swayed by love and make a misjudgment—you won the war, only to screw it up at the very end.
Thank you for the valuable lesson. I don’t get sentimental like you.
Blayden bowed respectfully to the king, who lay like a corpse, his face a pallid mask in the dim light of the chamber.
On his way out of the chambers, a finely crafted chess set, arranged on a small table, caught his eye. The pieces stood poised, frozen in an unfinished game.
“Whose destiny do you wish to change?”
Tigrinu’s mischievous question, posed on another occasion, echoed in Blayden’s mind, a subtle taunt from a past conversation.
Blayden looked down at the chess pieces, his gaze lingering.
Then, with a decisive motion, he picked up the black queen and, without a moment’s hesitation, put it into his pocket.
It was a silent declaration, a symbol of the game he was playing and the piece he intended to control.
He pulled back the thick curtain in the corner of the chambers, revealing a section of the stone wall. With a precise touch, he pushed a small, almost imperceptible stone in the wall.
The stone slid inward with a faint click, and then, with a soft grinding sound, the wall itself moved, slowly creating a narrow gap.
As he slipped into the gap, a faint rustling sound was heard from within the secret passage, a subtle confirmation of his presence.
Blayden swiftly disappeared beyond the wall, swallowed by the enveloping darkness.
The wall, with an equally silent motion, returned to its original position, leaving no trace of the hidden opening.
The maid, when she eventually regained consciousness, would only see the king lying in bed, a tableau of peace that belied the dark events that had just transpired.
***
The weapon storage at Klavil’s outer fortress was a vast, echoing space, meticulously organized and filled with an astonishing array of weaponry.
Long swords of various lengths and designs, axes with myriad blade shapes, heavy hammers, blunt clubs, curved sickles, and shields of different sizes and appearances were all categorized and organized by type, each hanging or resting in its designated spot.
Considering that there was only one or two of similar weapon types, excluding the ubiquitous long swords and daggers, it was more appropriate to call it a sample display room for military implements rather than a mere storage facility.
Each weapon seemed to tell a story, a testament to the battles fought and lives taken.
Leni’s gaze drifted to a fearsome battle-axe hanging on the wall, secured by a thick chain.
Each chain wrapped around a weapon had a heavy, unyielding padlock, effectively preventing any casual access.
In other words, this was the backstage of the stage of war.
Just as it’s crucial for a play to use appropriate props to enhance its narrative, weapons would be a crucial choice in the grim reality of battle, determining the success or failure of a skirmish, the life or death of a warrior.
Though comparing a life-and-death war to a play, even metaphorically, seemed illogical, the thought still crossed Leni’s mind.
The person who cleaned props in a theater company, she mused, now did the same job in a weapon storage. Is there truly a destiny for everyone, a preordained path for each individual?
Leni momentarily lost herself in these whimsical, almost philosophical thoughts, a fleeting escape from her grim reality.
Her current task was to oil the sword blades, meticulously applying a thin layer, and then carefully wipe them with thin leather, a process designed to protect the metal from rust and keep it gleaming.
It was a familiar task, one she had done often since her father, a man of quiet expertise, had taught her when she was young.
However, she tried her utmost not to show her familiarity, to betray no hint of her prior experience.
It seemed best not to reveal her comfort or proficiency with swords, for such knowledge might invite unwanted attention or suspicion.
Besides her, five young boys and William were also present in the spacious room.
The boys appeared to be apprentices, their ages probably ranging around fourteen or fifteen years old, their faces earnest and focused.
They were dressed in shabby but clean clothes, clearly uniforms of their station, and all had neatly cut hair that covered their foreheads, giving them a uniform appearance.
Everyone in the room silently focused solely on cleaning the weapons entrusted to them, their movements diligent and precise.
William sat on the floor in the very center of the room, an almost regal figure amidst the weaponry, examining swords and daggers with intense concentration.
His gaze as he inspected the weapons was sharp, almost hawklike, discerning every minute detail.
His hands moved with an agile and meticulous precision, running over the blades and handles. |
He was clearly a skilled craftsman, undeniably proficient in his trade.
It made sense, she reasoned; he handles weapons used by the Red Wolf’s unit members, the elite soldiers of Kalian’s army, so he must be highly skilled indeed.
The weapon storage was not an isolated space; it was connected directly to the blacksmith’s forge.
Through the arched doorway in the heavy stone wall, the rhythmic clang of steel being hammered could be heard, a constant symphony of creation and destruction, varying in intensity and regularity.
Occasionally, men who looked as if they had been steeped in sweltering heat, their faces flushed and bodies dripping with sweat, would enter from the forge and go directly to William.
They held newly crafted swords in their hands, still warm from the forge.
William would examine the blades and handles of these swords, offering various critiques and instructions, his voice low but firm.
The blacksmiths, despite their rough appearance, were remarkably respectful of William, listening intently to his every word, and William’s instructions were always thorough, leaving no room for ambiguity.
It seemed William was the supervisor here, the undisputed authority in this realm of steel and fire.
Leni found herself thinking of her father.
Though seemingly indifferent and often quiet, he was someone who saw through everything that happened both inside and outside the theater company, a master of observation and subtle control.
A similar aura of quiet authority emanated from William, a sense of underlying power that belied his gentle demeanor.
He’s not a sloppy person at all, she concluded. His gentle impression might merely be a carefully constructed mask, a way to conceal his true nature or intentions.
Even his act of giving her a weapon, seemingly a benign gesture, might also be a test, a subtle probe into her skills and reactions.
William had been observing her movements with a leisurely, almost casual gaze, yet Leni felt the weight of his attention.
She, in turn, was cautiously scrutinizing William, stealing glances at him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.
When their eyes occasionally met across the room, tranquil smiles were exchanged, polite and seemingly harmless, but a subtle, unspoken tension hung in the air between the two, a quiet understanding of the complex dance of power and suspicion.
I shouldn’t act rashly, she resolved.
Every move must be calculated.
When the opportune moment comes, when the stars align, I must seize it without hesitation and escape in a single, decisive attempt.
There would be no second chances.
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