Chapter 12— The other King's Revelation
The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of destruction, a symphony of burnt wood and crushed herbs. The once-thriving village now lay in ruins, its heart consumed by flames. Caelun stepped cautiously over the charred remnants of what was once a peaceful hamlet. The mossy path, now scorched and brittle, crunched under his boots.
Blood stained the earth, mingling with the ashes. Lifeless forms lay sprawled across the ground—a grim tableau of flesh and entrails. The massacre had been thorough, merciless. Caelun's jaw clenched as he surveyed the devastation. He knew this scene all too well—the claw marks etched into the walls, the shattered windows, the ominous silence that followed a battle.
His cloak billowed, smoke curling from its folds. The hood concealed his face, but the scars beneath were a constant reminder. The beast had marked him, left him maimed and haunted. Now, as he stood amidst the wreckage, he could almost feel the phantom pain—the searing agony of that fateful encounter.
The ominous trail led Caelun deeper into the cove—a place once steeped in magic, now reduced to ruin and chaos. The mushroom roofs, once protective canopies, lay shattered like fragile dreams. Books, their pages scorched and torn, whispered secrets no more. Witch paraphernalia, symbols of power, were strewn haphazardly, their potency extinguished by the flames.
And there, the empty cauldron, once bubbling with elixirs and incantations, now lay tilted, its magic drained. Caelun's gloved hand brushed the soot-covered rim, memories of potions and whispered chants flooding his mind.
The burnt marks on the walls told a tale of desperation—a battle fought with spells and steel. The shattered wall, jagged and unforgiving, beckoned him outside. He stepped over rocks, their jagged edges like broken promises. Swords and weapons, once wielded by skilled hands, now lay discarded—their enchantments severed, their purpose forgotten.
The lifeless bodies, eyes slashed, bore the signature of the beast that haunted Caelun's nightmares. But as he followed the path, his gaze fell upon something else—a thorn bush, its twisted branches piercing a cold and gray body. Another party, perhaps, or an accomplice?
"You have been a victim of her young man." A voice behind him spoke. He looked back and saw it was a victim of the onslaught. The white hair, like a frost-kissed memory, framed a face etched with suffering. The claw marks, raw and crimson, slashed across the man's eyes—windows to a world now forever shrouded in darkness.
Hagatha—the name hung in the air, heavy with fear and reverence. The village elder, once a beacon of wisdom, had fallen before the wrath of the woman who wielded power like a scythe. Caelun clenched his fists, the memory of their last confrontation still vivid—the searing pain, the desperate struggle.
The old man's voice quivered, a blend of awe and despair. "Not a scratch," he murmured. "She's too powerful, that beast of a woman." The words echoed through the cove, a lament for lost lives and shattered hope.
And then, the ashes—a trail of vengeance left in her wake. The old man pointed, and Caelun followed his gaze. There, where the ground bore the scars of centuries-old flames, lay the remnants of a witch's pyre. The same flames that had consumed Hagatha, the same flames that now danced in the old man's blind eyes.
Is she with someone?" Caelun's voice cut through the smoky air, urgency lacing his words. The old man's response sent a chill down his spine. "Yes," the man confirmed. "She came with a man—blond, wielding a unique sword. Its energy defies I can't describe." And then, the revelation that struck like a blade: "Another woman, her legs limp, unable to walk."
Caelun's jaw tightened. The woman had allies, and one of them was already ensnared. Was it the thorn rose—the cruel twist of fate that had left the gray form impaled? His mind raced, speculating on the connections, the motives.
But there was hope. "Did she take anything?" Caelun pressed. The old man's response held a clue: "A dispute about payment. Hagatha took an interest in the man." The pieces fell into place—the aether sphere, coveted and dangerous.
Caelun's gaze dropped to the wet dirt, where burns and petals mingled—a residue of magic. He clenched his fists, determination flaring anew. The wolves—the void-born pack—materialized at his command. Their breath, like tendrils of smoke, swirled around him. "Find them," he ordered, and they vanished into the shadows, tracking the scent of vengeance.
Lewis lay on a makeshift mattress of hay and sticks, the rough fibers scratching his skin. The barn in Eldri offered little comfort, but it was a refuge—a place to rest amidst the chaos that had befallen the kingdom. His body bore the accumulated rashes, a testament to the unforgiving bugs and the prickly hay. Yet, Lewis endured, brushing off discomfort with a determined scratch.
"I can't believe it," he murmured, his voice echoing in the dimness. "King Datura… I must find him at Verdant." The king—the once-mighty ruler—now reduced to a fugitive, hiding in the shadows. Lewis's duty as a knight of Adri weighed heavily upon him. Duty, honor, and the remnants of loyalty tugged at his heart.
Elara, his companion, shared neither his reverence nor his resolve. "He can't thrive on his own," she retorted, her voice tinged with disdain. "Just a man, a man of the castle." Her words carried an undercurrent of bitterness, a resentment for the privileged few who had ruled from their ivory towers.
"I don't like him," Lewis confessed, "But he's still the rightful King." The title held weight, even in these desperate times. "And I'm still a knight," he added, "Sworn to protect." His gaze wandered, seeking answers in the distance—the path to Verdant, the place where hope clung to the roots of ancient trees. "Brax came to us heavily wounded, it's a wonder how he came far with those injuries." Elara said, her eyes a hint of sadness and for the fallen comrade.
"Why does he know of King Datura? Does he have any connection with King Daemon?" Lewis's suspicion, like a hidden blade, cut through the air. The citadel—the place where secrets festered, alliances formed, and loyalties wavered—held answers. Elara, her voice measured, revealed fragments of their shared past. "We worked with each other," she admitted, "but contracted with different clients."
But the truth lay deeper, buried beneath veils of deceit. "I think they contracted him to dispose of his body," Elara speculated. The words hung heavy, a revelation that tasted of betrayal. "He doesn't want the body to be investigated," she added, "to find out that they killed him."
Lewis's anger flared, a tempest within. "It's probably the reason he demanded all knights that night to be executed," he scoffed. The king—their once-beloved ruler—now a pawn in a deadly game. Lewis clenched his fists, the smoke of disillusionment curling around him. They had fought for honor, for justice, but perhaps they were no better than the shadows that danced in the citadel's corridors.
"I'll find him," Lewis declared, his voice a blade forged in determination. The king—the elusive monarch—was more than a figurehead; he was the embodiment of hope, the tether that held their fractured realm together. "I just hope he lives."
Elara, her fingers deftly braiding her brown hair, regarded Lewis with a pointed gaze. Her pointy ears, a mark of her lineage, peeked through the strands. "Do you not dream of sitting high up there?" she asked. "You could've been the next King." Lewis's smile held a touch of melancholy. "I'm content already," he confessed. The royal crest, a relic of desperate choices, clung to his chest. "It was between life and death," he continued, "but I'm not fit for the throne." His aspirations had always been simpler—to live in peace, to serve the royal family with unwavering loyalty.
But Elara's next words shattered his equilibrium. "I'm going to be honest," she said, rising from her seat. The leather of her armor creaked, mirroring the tension in the air. "I saved you because I wanted you to be the King," she revealed, "to save Adri and my kin."
Lewis's mind whirled. Why him? Why this burden? The breakthrough she spoke of felt like a chasm opening beneath his feet. "This is for peace," he murmured, grappling with the weight of destiny.And then, the revelation that shook the very foundations of his identity. "Isn't Myrdadri your home?" he asked, seeking clarity.
Elara's answer struck like a lightning bolt. "Your mother, Eraviel," she said, "is soon to be the queen of Adri once she's back. She will destroy Myrdadri." Shock dawned upon Lewis's face—a collision of loyalties, a choice that would shape the fate of two kingdoms.