Chapter 2... Tragedy Birthday.. (2)

The grand hall, once a bastion of opulence and celebration, now reeked of despair. Aurelia's voice, though broken by grief, still carried the weight of her plea as she knelt before the king, her hands clasped in desperate supplication. Her eyes, swollen from tears, pleaded for mercy, but the king's face remained an impenetrable mask of indifference. The air was heavy with tension, each breath drawn feeling like it came at great cost.

Aurelia's words echoed through the vast chamber, trembling yet determined:

"Your Majesty, I beg you—spare them. They are innocent! Please, have mercy on my family!"

Her voice cracked under the strain of emotion, but she pressed on, clutching desperately to the faintest hope that the king might relent. Around her, the crowd shifted uncomfortably, their murmurs dying into silence as they awaited the monarch's verdict. Yet, the king sat unmoved, his cold gaze fixed upon her as if she were nothing more than an insect beneath his boot.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, the king pronounced his decree. His voice cut through the oppressive stillness like steel slicing flesh. "Enough," he commanded, his tone devoid of compassion. "This rebellion ends here." The finality of his words hung in the air, suffocating any lingering hope within Aurelia's heart. She stared up at him, her mind struggling to comprehend the cruelty unfolding before her very eyes.

As the executioner prepared his blade, the room seemed to shrink around her. Time slowed, stretching moments into eternities. Every detail became painfully sharp—the glint of the sword catching the flickering torchlight, the creak of boots against polished stone, the labored breathing of those who watched in horror. Aurelia tried to rise, to throw herself between her father and the blade, but strong arms restrained her. Guards held her fast, their grips unyielding despite her frantic struggles.

Her father stood tall, even in the shadow of death, his proud bearing unwavering. He turned to Aurelia one last time, his lips forming silent words of love and encouragement. Then, with a swift motion too cruel to be merciful, the blade fell. A sickening thud followed, and then silence—a silence so absolute it felt alive, pressing down on everyone present. Aurelia screamed, the sound raw and primal, tearing through the hall like a banshee's wail. Her mother collapsed beside her, sobbing uncontrollably, while guests recoiled in shock, some covering their ears as if to block out the reality of what had just occurred.

And then, as if the universe itself conspired to deepen the tragedy, the king gestured toward Aurelia's mother. "Next," he ordered, his voice carrying no trace of remorse or hesitation. The guards dragged the grieving woman forward, her cries mingling with Aurelia's own anguished pleas. "No! Please, no!" Aurelia shouted, her voice hoarse and strained. But her protests fell on deaf ears, swallowed by the same abyss that had consumed her father.

In that moment, Aurelia felt something inside her shatter irreparably. It wasn't just the loss of her parents; it was the realization that justice, fairness, and humanity meant nothing to the man seated upon the throne. This was not merely about punishment—it was about power, control, and the sheer delight in inflicting suffering. And she was powerless to stop it.

As her mother faced the executioner, Aurelia's world dissolved into chaos. She thrashed wildly, fighting against the guards with all her strength, but they held her firmly in place. Her vision blurred with tears, and her throat burned from screaming until she could scream no longer. All around her, the hall seemed frozen in time, every guest paralyzed by fear and revulsion. Even the servants, tasked with maintaining order, hesitated, their faces pale with dread.

When the second blow came, the sound reverberated through Aurelia's soul, leaving behind a void so vast it threatened to consume her entirely. She slumped forward, limp in the guards' grasp, her body drained of energy, her spirit shattered. For a long moment, there was only silence, broken only by the soft patter of blood pooling on the marble floor.

Then, the king spoke again, his voice cutting through the haze of grief like a whip. "Clean this mess immediately," he commanded, gesturing dismissively toward the lifeless bodies. "We cannot allow such... unpleasantness to tarnish our festivities." His casual dismissal of two lives—and the daughter left to grieve them—felt like a slap across the face. How could he speak so flippantly about death? About *her* pain?

Aurelia's head snapped up, her tear-streaked face twisted with fury. Though her voice was little more than a rasp, she managed to choke out, "You monster." The word hung in the air, heavy with accusation. The king raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her defiance. "Ah, yes," he replied smoothly, leaning back in his throne. "Such passion. Such fire. Truly fitting for someone born on this day."

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "Since today marks your birthday, young lady, let me offer you a gift." His smile was cold, calculating. "I will spare your life—for now. Perhaps someday, when you've learned the value of obedience, we can discuss your future role in my court."

Aurelia wanted to spit at him, to lash out with whatever strength remained, but she knew better. To provoke him further would only invite more violence, perhaps even endanger others she cared about. So instead, she clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging into her palms, and forced herself to remain still. Inside, however, a storm raged—a storm of hatred, grief, and vengeance that simmered dangerously below the surface.

The king rose from his throne, signaling the end of the spectacle. As he turned to leave, his parting words sent a chill down Aurelia's spine. "Enjoy the rest of your special day," he said mockingly, his laughter trailing after him as he disappeared through the heavy oak doors.

For a brief moment, the hall stood utterly still, as if holding its collective breath. Then, slowly, the maids began their grim task, scrubbing away the evidence of the atrocities committed within these walls. Guests filed out quietly, their heads bowed, unwilling or unable to meet Aurelia's gaze. She remained where she was, knees pressed against the cold stone floor, staring blankly at the space where her parents had once stood.

Her mind raced, replaying the events over and over, searching for some way to undo what had happened. But logic offered no solace—there was no reversing the past, no erasing the horrors seared into her memory. All she could do was endure.