THE KING'S DEPARTURE

The castle was silent, but not the noble, serene silence of royal chambers. This was a heavy, gloomy silence, the kind that reigns where life once existed, where laughter, conversations, and music were heard.

Months had passed since Sophie had been taken, and the castle had been unrecognizable since then.

Darian was no longer the king they once knew. He had lost weight, his eyes were sunken, and his face was lifeless. He didn't speak, he didn't eat, and rarely would he look at anyone. He sat on his throne, but like a ghost of what he once was.

Elara had taken full control.

At first, she reveled in power, commanding the servants, issuing new decrees. But now… now she was nervous.

Her voice echoed through the hall as she yelled at her servants:

"Is it possible that this castle has nothing but soup and bread?! What am I supposed to eat?!"

The servants knew that her anger wasn't about the food. She was angry because Darian was still ignoring her.

She, Princess Elara, a beautiful and powerful woman, was right there beside him, and he didn't even look her way.

"I can't believe he's behaving like this!" she angrily spoke to the ladies-in-waiting while they helped her change. "I'm a woman! I have feelings! And he sits there like a damn stone!"

But Darian didn't hear her complaints.

And even if he did, he didn't care.

That morning, something broke inside him.

He could no longer stay there.

He couldn't sit on that damned throne and breathe the air in which Sophie wasn't present.

So, he made up his mind.

He stood up, for the first time in months, and silently walked toward the stable.

No one stopped him.

Perhaps because they were all already used to him not noticing them.

He mounted his horse without a word, without any explanation.

And then, he just left.

The sky was gloomy, the air cold.

He didn't know where he was going.

He just rode, leaving the palace behind.

Hours passed, and ahead of him appeared a village.

He didn't know exactly where he was, nor did he care.

He dismounted his horse and walked toward a small, run-down tavern at the end of the street.

The door creaked as he opened it, and inside, the warmth and the scent of mulled wine and roasted meat greeted him.

People sat at tables, talking, laughing.

Behind the bar, an older man, chubby with a gray beard, was wiping glasses, his eyes revealing both wisdom and a hint of mischief.

The bartender looked at him and immediately recognized that the man before him was someone with a broken heart.

"You need a drink, lad," he said, not waiting for Darian to order.

Darian slumped into a chair and nodded.

"Maybe more than just a drink," the old man added.

For the first time, Darian looked him straight in the eyes.

And for the first time in months, he thought that maybe… just maybe… there was something he could do.