CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The spires of King's Court pierced the overcast sky like jagged teeth, a silhouette of stone and iron that had stood defiant through wars and wonders alike.
Proudlock rode through the grand gates at midday, the weight of the bloodied bundle under his arm feeling heavier than the chainmail he wore.
The city, once a vibrant heart pulsing with the rhythm of festivals and trade, now thrummed with a subdued urgency.
Whispers slithered through the streets like smoke—rumors of the King's fall, carried on the wings of ravens and the hooves of exhausted riders.
Guards at the palace steps eyed him warily, their hands resting on sword hilts, but recognition dawned in their faces.
"Lieutenant Proudlock," one murmured, saluting stiffly.
"The queen awaits you. She's... been pacing since dawn. "
Proudlock nodded, his scarred features schooled into a mask of solemn duty.
Inside, his pulse quickened. The tale had spread faster than he anticipated, twisting through taverns and markets like a venomous vine.
Captain Malik's missives had arrived before him, seeding doubt and dread.
Now, it fell to him to deliver the killing blow—not with steel, but with cloth stained in royal blood.
He dismounted in the courtyard, handing his reins to a stableboy whose wide eyes betrayed the boy's youth and the fear gnawing at the palace's foundations.
Servants hurried past, their faces pale, carrying trays of untouched food and linens that spoke of a household in quiet disarray.
The throne room, vast and echoing, had been transformed into a chamber of vigil.
Crimson banners hung limp from the rafters, the MacGil crest casting long shadows in the filtered light from high arched windows.
Gwendolyn stood at the far end, not upon the throne but before a simple oak table strewn with maps of the northern wastes and half-read scrolls from Aberthol, the ancient druid advisor.
Her once red, now silver hair was usually braided with the precision of a queen, but today it fell loose in waves, framing a face etched with lines of worry that the years of peace had softened but never erased.
She wore a gown of deep blue silk, embroidered with druidic runes that matched those on Thorgrin's lost cloak, as if invoking his protection through mere thread.
Her eyes, sharp and stormy gray like her son's, fixed on Proudlock the moment he entered.
Flanked by Sir Kellan, captain of the Shield Guard—a towering figure in polished silver plate, his face a map of old scars and unyielding loyalty—she straightened, her composure a fragile armor.
"Sir Proudlock," she said, her voice steady but laced with a desperate hope that clawed at the edges.
"Please tell me there has been some terrible mistake. Tell me my husband lives."
Proudlock approached, kneeling before her with the grace of a man who had once sworn fealty without reservation.
Now, that oath twisted in his gut like a dull blade.
He rose at her gesture, his hands unfolding the bundle with deliberate slowness, drawing out the moment like a storyteller building to an awful climax.
First, the cloak—druid's robe, heavy with crusted blood, the runes along the hem dulled by gore.
Then the pack, its leather torn as if by claws; the broken sheath, notched and splintered; the amulet, chain snapped, the crest staring up like an accusatory eye.
Gwendolyn's breath caught, a sharp inhale that echoed in the vast hall.
She reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed the cloak's hem.
Recognition hit her like a physical blow— the faint scent of earth and pine that always clung to Thorgrin after his communions with the wilds, now overlaid with the metallic reek of dried blood.
"This... this is his," she whispered, voice fracturing.
She lifted it fully, burying her face in the folds, inhaling deeply as if she could summon him from the depths of its threads.
A sob escaped, muffled but raw, her shoulders shaking beneath the weight of it.
The room held its breath; even Kellan, stone-faced sentinel, averted his gaze, his gauntleted hand tightening on his sword.
For a long moment, grief claimed her utterly.
Images flashed unbidden: Thorgrin as a young warrior, eyes alight with an untamed fire during their wedding on the Day of Seven; Thorgrin cradling newborn Guwayne, swollen with pride and joy; those first clandestine meetings when he had first arrived at Kings Court, tongue tied and bashful in her presence; Thorgrin last, riding north, kissing her farewell with a promise of swift return.
Gone. Swallowed by shadows and beasts, his light extinguished in some frozen gorge.
She clutched the cloak to her chest, the blood flaking onto her gown like tears from the heavens, staining the blue with crimson memories.
But queens did not shatter. Not while kingdoms teetered.
Gwendolyn drew a ragged breath, straightening as if pulling the weight of the Ring itself onto her shoulders.
She set the cloak aside gently, folding it with care, her hands steadying through sheer will.
"Tell me," she commanded, voice low but iron-clad. "All of it. Leave nothing unsaid."
Proudlock obeyed, reciting the rehearsed litany with the fervor of a bard: the tremors in the wastes, the cracks spewing horrors—hulking trolls with rock hides and venom claws, serpents uncoiling from the earth.
Thorgrin's valor, sword blazing, felling dozens; Reece's fierce stand, Erec's unyielding charge, Alistair's azure blasts shattering foes against cliffs.
And young Aiden, the prince's own companion, fighting with desperate valor at the King's side, his arrows finding eyes in the beasts' glowing skulls before a venomous swipe sent him tumbling into the snow.
The swarm overwhelming them, claws raking the King, their venom piercing his flesh.
His final roar, commanding flight, the horde dragging him into the blizzard.
"He saved me, my queen," Proudlock concluded, eyes downcast in feigned remorse. "Bought my escape with his life. For that I will always be grateful, but I would do anything to have our places reversed and it was him standing before you today with my ragged and blooded cloak.” He gestured to the items, the cloak clutched in Gwen’s arms and the others on the table in front of them.
“These remnants... all we could salvage from the carnage. "
Gwendolyn listened, her face a mask of regal poise, but her eyes betrayed the storm within—grief warring with duty, love fracturing against loss.
She nodded once, touching the amulet briefly, as if hoping to feel some remnant of warmth under her fingers.
"You have my thanks, Proudlock. For your loyalty.
For bringing him... home, in part." She dragged her eyes away from the amulet and looked at the lieutenant.
“Did no one else survive? From the party that left these gates?”
Proudlock lowered his gaze solemnly and shook his head. "I don't think so, my lady. I saw some fall, but without evidence, I don't know who was left standing. But…"
Gwen nodded, and though she felt she couldn't feel any more grief, another wave hit her.
Kendrick, her half-brother. Reece and Erec, who were like brothers to her.
Alistair was like a sister. Could all of these be gone?
She must tell Stara, Reece's wife. She, too, would have heard the rumors and whispers, though she would still have the horrible doubt of having no evidence of her husband's fate.
She turned to Kellan. "Prepare the hall for address. The people must hear from me, not whispers. And summon the heralds—let every corner of the Ring know their King fell a hero."
As Proudlock withdrew, bowing deeply, Gwendolyn allowed herself one private indulgence: a hand pressed to her abdomen, where old scars from battles long past reminded her of survival's cost. Thorgrin was gone, but the Ring endured.
Despite her pain, that was the most important thing.
It had to be. And she would ensure that it would.
The sun hung low by the time the courtyard filled, a sea of faces turned upward to the palace balcony—merchants in woolen cloaks, knights in half-plate, mothers clutching children, elders leaning on canes.
Word had spread like fever: the King slain by beasts from the breaches.
Panic simmered beneath the crowd's murmur, eyes wide with fear of the Shield's faltering magic, of horrors that could claim even Thorgrin, the unbreakable.
Torches flickered in the gathering dusk, casting the assembly in a glow of amber and shadow.
Gwendolyn emerged, the bloodied cloak draped over her arm like a banner of mourning, her gown a somber echo of the kingdom's grief.
Kellan stood at her side, a bulwark of silver and steel, his presence a silent vow of protection.
She raised a hand, and silence fell, heavy as a shroud.
The thousands of eyes lifted to her, their owners hoping to hear the rumors had been wrong but fearing they were about to be confirmed.