chapter 39

chapter 39

Darkness wrapped around him.

Silent. Still.

Then came a flicker-soft, silver, like a candle in the void.

Hosea turned.

She stood there.

Hera.

Clad in white that shimmered like starlight, her pale dark hair drifting as though underwater, her dark eyes watching him with an aching sadness. She looked exactly as he remembered-yet older somehow, touched by something beyond mortal reach.

"Hera?" he whispered, voice cracking with disbelief.

She didn't speak. Instead, she reached out her hand. He took it, and the world around them shifted.

Smoke.

Ash.

Screams carried by the wind.

He found himself standing on a battlefield-his armor bloodied, his body broken. He was both there and not. Both the watcher and the dying man.

Steel clashed around him. Arrows blackened the sky.

He fell to his knees, his blade slipping from his grasp. The wound in his side pulsed with fire, the taste of iron thick in his mouth.

He was surrounded.

Then-flames erupted from the edge of the field. The enemy faltered, screams rising as fire devoured them.

Through the inferno came a woman with long black hair, her eyes wild with fury and sorrow. An army followed her, clad in shadow and light. They struck like thunder behind her.

But she saw no one-only him.

She ran, calling no name, only racing forward. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as they cupped his face.

He looked up at her, half-conscious.

"My Alissa..." he whispered, a fragile smile breaking across his bloodied lips. "You came..."

He collapsed into her arms.

She held him close, light pouring from her hands as she healed him. Her tears fell silently as she kissed his brow, her presence fierce and tender all at once.

Then the scene stilled.

Hosea stood watching, disoriented, breath shallow. He turned behind him, searching.

"Hera!" he called.

She was gone.

"Hera!" he shouted again, panic surging in his chest.

The battlefield dissolved.

He gasped awake.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting pale beams through the chamber. Sweat clung to his brow, and his heart pounded like a drum.

He sat there, staring into the dark, her name still echoing in his head.

Hera.

Alissa.

The fire.

The vision.

And the quiet whisper of fate winding tighter around his soul.

--------

The Great Hall of Aethelgar stood silent.

No jest, no song, no whisper stirred its breathless air. Only the echo of the king's voice as he rose, draped in black and crimson, from his throne.

"Let it be known," Tommen's voice rang, cold and sharp as steel, "that Lord Malrik, once a trusted hand of the Crown, is found guilty of high treason against the realm."

A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles, but none dared speak above it. The crowd swelled, eyes hungry for blood, for spectacle, for justice.

Beside the throne, a chest was drawn forth-its contents laid bare: scrolls with altered seals, forged decrees, and the trembling witness-a servant of Malrik's household-who claimed, with tear-stained cheeks, to have overheard Malrik plotting to sway loyal houses to rise in quiet rebellion.

False though some of it may be, it was enough. Too carefully prepared to be doubted. Too damning to be dismissed.

Malrik stood chained.

His dark hair which was covered with gray hair than usual was matted, his robes plain and dirtied from the dungeon's damp. His eyes scanned the faces-some looked away, others sneered. A few smiled.

One smile stood above all.

Tommen.

Smiling not with joy, but satisfaction-cool, complete.

The verdict followed.

"Stripped of title, lands, and name," the herald cried, "banished henceforth from Aethelgar, never to set foot upon its soil again."

The hall erupted-not in protest, but in jeers. Men spat upon the stone as he passed. Women cursed his blood. Children flung dirt.

As the guards gripped his arms, Malrik's mind wandered.

---

A memory-two days past, in the dungeon.

Esmeralda stood in the torchlight, cloaked and hooded. Her perfume fought the stink of stone.

"You must remind him, Father," she had said, her voice low and fierce. "Remind him of the secret-of Hera, of the witch, of the war. He'll bend."

Malrik had chuckled bitterly.

"I was careless," he muttered, staring through the bars. "I thought him weak. I thought the crown still hung in my grip. But I underestimated Tommen. He let me hold the leash too long."

She stepped closer. "Then what am I to do? What of me? Of Raymar?"

"Nothing," he growled. "You do nothing. You smile. You obey. You keep your claws in the king and his little brat." He sneered. "You'll lose him soon enough. The boy's spirit is not yours."

"But-"

"Quiet," he snapped. "Do not come here again."

Footsteps interrupted-the guard she had bribed.

"My lady," the man whispered, bowing low. "Another comes. He was not to have visitors."

With one last glance, Esmeralda fled into shadow.

---

Back in the hall, the chains bit into Malrik's wrists as he was dragged forward. He looked up once more, and there it was:

Tommen's smirk.

A slow curl of triumph, masked as mercy.

Malrik said nothing. But hatred flared in his eyes like flame denied air.

As he passed, Hosea stood still, brows furrowed, caught in another world-the echo of a dream that refused to fade.

Esmeralda watched, her face unreadable, as her father-the high and mighty lion of old-was hauled from the throne room like a mongrel beaten in the street.

A new silence fell.

But in the shadows, resentment stirred. And vengeance, like rot, found new soil to fester.

-----

The road to the gate was long, and cruel.

Malrik walked with iron-bound wrists, flanked by two guards bearing the king's crest. Around them, a tide of commoners surged, spewing filth from their mouths and mud from their hands.

"Traitor!" they screamed.

"Burn with your schemes!"

"Curse upon your blood!"

One boy hurled a stone. It struck Malrik's shoulder with a dull crack, and he stumbled-but did not fall. His back remained straight, his face carved in marble. Yet within him, something blistered. Something coiled.

The great gate of Aethelgar loomed ahead, tall and ancient, carved with the emblems of kings long dead. The guards did not speak. No farewell was offered. Only the grinding moan of iron and wood as the gate was heaved open-wide enough for one man to pass.

He stepped beyond.

And the gates closed behind him.

With a final clang that shook the earth, the realm of Aethelgar shut its mouth upon Lord Malrik.

He stood still.

A wind swept his hair back from his face. The sun was setting, and its dying light caught the sweat and grime upon his brow. He stared at the gate, unmoving, as if sheer will might reopen it.

But the silence mocked him.

Hoofbeats approached.

Two riders came from the shadows beyond the trees. Both cloaked, both silent. One dismounted with ease and walked to him.

"Come, my lord," the man said, voice hushed.

Malrik said nothing. He was helped onto the second horse, his bones aching with age and shame. No words were shared. No name was spoken.

As the horse began its slow pace into the woods beyond the kingdom's reach, Malrik looked back.

One last time.

The walls of Aethelgar stood tall and proud, bathed in firelight, untouched by the ruin within.

He narrowed his eyes.

"I built you," he whispered, too low for any to hear. "Stone by stone... you shall not stand forever."

And with that, he turned forward into exile.