chapter 11
Chapter 11
The morning sun hung low over the vast hunting grounds as King Mathias rode through the thick forest. His steed moved steadily beneath him, the scent of damp earth and pine filling the air. The invitation to hunt had arrived at dawn, scrawled in Tommen's unmistakable hand. It was a thinly veiled show of dominance, but rejecting it would have been an insult. Now, he found himself among men who worshipped Tommen's every move.
Ahead, Tommen rode with a confident ease, his armor gleaming under the dappled sunlight. A few other kings and nobles had joined the hunt, each choosing their finest stallions. The group moved as one, their falcons soaring above in search of prey.
The first kill came swiftly-Tommen's arrow flew true, striking a deer through the heart before anyone else had drawn their bow. The men cheered, showering him with praise.
"Remarkable shot, Your Majesty!" one of the nobles exclaimed.
"None can rival King Tommen in the hunt," another added.
Mathias remained silent, his fingers tightening around his reins. He had seen this display before-a man playing the role of the invincible king, basking in the flattery of those too weak to challenge him.
The hunt continued, and Tommen's kills only mounted. A wild boar fell next, then a hawk mid-flight, then yet another deer. Every successful strike was met with more admiration, more adoration. Yet Mathias only watched. He had no desire to flatter a man who built his strength on the blood of witches and the fear of lesser men.
As the sun began its descent, Tommen dismounted, wiping the sweat from his brow. "A fine hunt," he declared, his voice rich with satisfaction. He turned to Mathias, smirking. "You barely spoke today, Mathias. Were you awed into silence?"
Mathias offered a measured smile, brushing the dust from his sleeve. "A hunt is best enjoyed in quiet, Your Majesty. It allows one to listen-to the wind, to the hounds, and to the shifting of the prey." He met Tommen's gaze steadily. "And, at times, to the company one keeps."
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Meanwhile, back at the palace, Esmeralda stood before her mirror as her maids worked around her, adjusting her gown and smoothing her brown hair. She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, leaving only silence in the grand chamber.
A knock came at the door, followed by a quiet voice. "My lady, Lord Malrik has arrived."
Esmeralda turned as the doors opened. Dressed in black, her father strode into the room, his presence commanding, his expression unreadable. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his calculating eyes took in everything with a single glance.
"Father," she greeted with a smile.
"How are you?" he asked, settling into a chair across from her. "And my grandson? And the king?"
"All well," she replied with a sigh.
Malrik studied her carefully. "I expected as much. You always were good at pretending."
She chose not to respond, instead pouring him a glass of wine. "How was your trip?"
"A necessary absence," he said, taking the goblet from her hand. "And I see I missed quite the spectacle at court. A shame the witch didn't give Tommen the satisfaction he wanted." His lips curled in mild amusement.
Esmeralda's smile was sharp. "Yes, a shame."
Malrik took a slow sip of wine before his gaze darkened. "And what of you and Tommen? Have you made any progress?"
She remained silent.
His expression hardened. "Don't tell me, after everything I have done to put you where you are, you are still this useless. Just like your mother." His voice was sharp, biting.
Before she could respond, the doors burst open, and a small figure ran inside. "Grandfather!"
The harsh lines of Malrik's face softened instantly as he bent down to lift the child into his arms. "Raymar, my boy," he said warmly. "And how is the future king today?"
The little boy laughed, oblivious to the tension in the room.
Esmeralda rose from her seat, watching them for a moment before turning toward the door. "I'll leave you with your grandson." She smiled, but as she walked away, the expression faded, replaced by something unreadable.