"A Glimmer of Hope"

The throne room, once a symbol of Dunkel's might, now radiated a deceptive tranquility. Edward, acclaimed as the realm's savior, sat upon the throne, exuding regal authority. Dunkel's banners remained, yet a subtle shift in the court's comportment—a nervous energy, a feigned gaiety—betrayed the underlying tension.

The populace believed Fulgor had attacked and Edward had valiantly repelled them, securing his place as rightful heir. Only whispers, confined to the palace's darkest recesses, spoke of usurpation.

Roland stood before him, surrendered, yet bruised and battered. Still, there was defiance in his eyes, a refusal to be broken. He'd been brought before Edward, not as a criminal, but as a subject. The beating had been administered not as a public spectacle but within the guard barracks' confines—"persuasion," not punishment.

"Lord Roland," Edward began, his voice soft, yet laced with a contrived concern. "It grieves me to see you thus. The... incident with the alleged Fulgor sympathizers was regrettable. But tell me..." He leaned forward, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Where is my sister? Princess Leah? She was seen near the battle. I fear for her safety."

"Your sister? Why don't you ask me first how I ended up in this state? You must be having fun, right?" Roland dropped the question, trying to avoid Edward.

"Come ooonnn, little Roland. I do NOT have much free time to play," stated King Edward. "Answer quickly, where is my beloved sister?" Edward's face was pure cynicism, his expression a complete theater of false concern.

The question was a snare, and Roland knew it. The entire court knew it, yet none could admit it. To the outside world, Edward was the concerned brother, the grieving son, the noble protector. To speak against him was treason.

Roland remained silent, jaw tight. He could feel the court's gaze upon him, a blend of pity, fear, and thinly veiled accusation.

Edward sighed, a carefully crafted mask of disappointment settling on his face. "Lord Roland, I understand your... loyalties. You were close to my sister. But surely, you comprehend the gravity of this. Fulgor's agents remain at large, and my sister... well, let us say she may have been... misguided."

He gestured, and two guards advanced, bearing a parchment. Roland's heart sank. This was worse. Far worse.

Edward unfurled the parchment, revealing a crude map. "This," he declared, his voice hardening, "was found on a confirmed Fulgor spy. It purportedly shows a route... leading directly into Fulgor territory. A route, one might say, quite suitable for a... traitor to our realm."

He fixed Roland with a piercing stare, eyes narrowed. "Now, I do not wish to believe that you, Supreme Commander Roland, a decorated hero of Dunkel, would be complicit in aiding my sister's defection. But the evidence..." He shrugged, a gesture of feigned helplessness.

"Tell me, Lord Roland," Edward continued, his voice now dripping with false sympathy. "Is my sister a victim... or a traitor?" The word hung in the air, heavy and vile. He was relishing this, the torment of the once-proud warrior.

Then, with a deceptively gentle smile, "Bring in Berta."

Two guards departed, returning with Roland's mother between them, battered and covered in soot.

Roland felt his heart shatter.

"Tell me, Roland. My sister's whereabouts, and I shall spare your dear mother's life." Edward said it lightly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. This is getting entertaining, he thought.

Roland's fists clenched, rage and impotence churning within him. He would not play Edward's game. He would not betray Leah. He would not betray King Marcus's memory.

"I do not know her location," Roland stated, his voice steady, despite the internal turmoil. "Princess Leah is loyal to Dunkel. This accusation is preposterous."

Edward arched an eyebrow, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Preposterous? You dare dispute the evidence?" He gestured towards the parchment. "This map... this route... it all points to Fulgor. Is your blind loyalty to my sister obscuring the truth, Lord Roland?"

"The truth?" Roland spat the words. "The truth is you wield a lie to justify your crimes! You murdered your own father, and now you seek to frame your sister to consolidate your power!" His voice rang out, clear and strong.

A deathly silence descended upon the throne room. The courtiers held their breath, aghast at Roland's audacity. Even Edward appeared momentarily taken aback, but the facade of feigned benevolence swiftly returned.

"A grave accusation, Lord Roland," Edward purred, his voice soft, yet laced with menace. "Do you possess proof? Or are these merely... the ramblings of a desperate man?"

Roland knew he was trapped. He had no proof, only his conviction and the words of a dying messenger. He glanced at Berta, her face pale but resolute. Their eyes met, and he saw a flicker of pride, of farewell.

"I do not know Leah's location," Roland repeated, his voice now choked with anguish. "But I know she would never betray Dunkel."

Edward sighed, the picture of profound disappointment. "Such a pity, Roland. Such a pity." He rose from the throne, approaching Berta. In his hand, no longer a king's sword but a short dagger, its blade glinting ominously in the torchlight.

Berta trembled, but her gaze did not waver. She lifted her chin, a final act of defiance. "Long live King Marcus," she whispered, the words faint, yet audible.

Edward smiled. "Such touching loyalty," he mocked. "Pity it is not enough to save you."

With swift, brutal efficiency, he seized Berta by the hair, wrenching her head back, exposing her throat. Roland roared, a guttural sound of pure horror, but the Neumond guards restrained him, his chains forged of Frosteel.

The dagger flashed. A clean slice. A torrent of blood. Berta's body convulsed briefly, like a slaughtered hen. Held aloft by her hair, the blood choked her until she stilled. Edward released her, and she crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Roland collapsed to his knees, his mind numb with disbelief and agony. The world around him seemed to unravel into a blur of color and sound. His mother. Dead. Murdered before his very eyes. By the monster who now occupied Dunkel's throne.

Edward wiped the dagger on a cloth, as if cleaning away a trivial stain. He regarded Roland, his face devoid of emotion.

"A regrettable death," Edward stated, his voice cold and calculating. "But necessary. An example, Lord Roland. A reminder of the consequences of defying my authority."

He turned to the court, who observed the scene in petrified silence. "Let it be clear to all: treason will not be tolerated. Nor will incompetence."

His gaze returned to Roland, now dripping with contempt. "I cannot, regrettably, accuse you of treason, Lord Roland. The evidence is insufficient. But your absence during the attack on Lumeria, King Marcus's death... that is unpardonable."

He made a dismissive gesture. "Therefore, I strip you of your title of Supreme Commander. You are demoted to the rank of Captain. And, as punishment for your negligence, you are sentenced to five years' imprisonment. In Gothia."

The mockery in Edward's voice was palpable. Gothia, the very place Roland had just escaped, would now be his prison. Exile disguised as retribution.

Roland said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He had lost everything. His mother, his honor, his rank, his freedom.

Roland awoke with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, his heart hammering. His mother's blood, Edward's cruel smile, the whispered promise to Leah... it all swirled in his mind, fragments of a vivid nightmare. For a moment, he lay there, gasping, struggling to separate reality from memory.

Then, the damp chill of the stone beneath him, the distant clink of chains. Reality crashed back. It wasn't a nightmare. It was the past. The past that had forged him, the past to which he was now chained.

He was back in Lumeria's prison. He recalled Berta's death, Leonard's birth, Elara's sacrifice... all of it, years ago. He'd relived it all, every agonizing detail, in a fitful sleep that felt more like a curse than solace.

The deep breath he drew upon waking was more than just regaining his breath; it was the intake of pain, of guilt, of rage.

Twenty-eight years ago. He would never forget.

The sounds of armored boots snapped him to attention. The heavy cell door creaked open, and two guards entered, their faces grim. These weren't Edward's loyalists. These were Dunkel guards, but their eyes held no hostility, only... guilt; Dunkel's army had always admired Roland.

"Roland Silverback," one of them said, his voice trembling, "the time has come."

He rose, his body stiff and aching from hours of confinement, but his mind... his mind was sharper than ever. The dream, the nightmare, had rekindled the flame.

As the guards escorted him through the prison's dark corridors, Roland steeled himself to face whatever fate awaited. But one thing he knew: the debt he owed the past.

He arrived back at the court; it was packed, and the collective murmur was silenced instantly upon his entrance.

Edward, already seated on his throne, positioned behind the magistrates' bench, observed Roland's entry with a malicious smirk.

The few guards present were seasoned Neumonds, observing the scene in silence, on alert should Roland attempt anything. One approached Roland, checking his Frosteel chains, ensuring they were secure.

The judge cleared his throat, the sound echoing strangely loud in the hushed courtroom. He unfurled the parchment. His hands were visibly shaking.

Edward's pressure from behind, Roland's furious glare before him—he was caught between an angel and a demon. His throat dry, he began to read, his voice a thin, wavering thread.

"Roland Silverback... for the crime of... of..."

He faltered. His eyes flickered to Edward, a fleeting moment, then back to the parchment. The words seemed to swim before him. He swallowed hard—the sound, audible in the oppressive silence. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

He opened his mouth. Tried to continue. A choked sound escaped.

He looked at Roland. In the judge's eyes, a flicker of doubt—pity? Fear?

"Do you... do you have any final words?"

Roland, who had been looking down, slowly lifted his head, his countenance a mask of contained fury. He stared directly into King Edward's eyes, a silent challenge, a dare.

Roland then spat on the floor and activated his ELEV. The magical Frosteel chains around his neck strained against his immense power, threatening to erupt like a volcano.

The Neumonds present instantly assumed defensive stances. Eyes throughout the audience widened, mouths agape in disbelief.

Edward nodded to the guards, a signal to relax. He then crossed his legs, a sarcastic smirk playing on his lips, and tossed the question to Roland. "Little Roland, just who do you think you are?" The tone, pure mockery.

Roland responded swiftly, his voice bitter and resolute, as if his very soul spoke, not just his mouth.

"Who am I? WHO AM I?... My name is Roland Silverback, Supreme Commander of Dunkel, Brigade Lord of the Burt Crusades, First Officer of the Royal Squadron, right-hand man to the one true lion of Lumeria, Marcus Winters, loyal friend, and son of a mother murdered in cold blood before his very eyes..."

Edward abruptly uncrossed his legs, his expression hardening, his eyes narrowing, his hands gripping the throne's armrests. His unease was palpable.

"...Stripped of my rank, sentenced to prison, and demoted to captain, condemned for crimes I never committed, because you, Edward..."

Edward rose, his gaze locked on Roland, furious, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"...Usurped your father's crown! Hunted your own sister, who had just given birth! I, Roland Silverback, swear upon the utter destruction of my ELEV!"

King Edward's eyes stared into the void. A shimmer ran down the back of his neck—the activation of his ELEV. A momentary spatial distortion, a blur, and then... nothing. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, pregnant with a terrible anticipation. Edward's face was an inscrutable mask.

No one present knew precisely what had transpired...