CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
"I've felt it since the first breach, Mother. The dreams aren't whims—they're prophecies, like Father's were. Shadows closing, cracks in the world, but always him rising. If he's dead, why does the ring pulse like this? Why do I feel him, pulling north, waiting?"
Gwendolyn's face hardened, the queen resurfacing over the mother, her voice sharpening to a blade's edge.
"Because grief is a storm, Guwayne, and it howls what we wish to hear.
I feel him too—in every empty chair, every echo in the halls.
But queens do not rule on wishes. We rule on evidence, on what serves the Ring.
" She retrieved the cloak from the floor, holding it out like an accusation, the bloodstains stark in the fire's glow.
"This is his blood, his scent. Touch it.
Smell it. This is reality, not some druid's riddle.
Your father charged into danger as he always did, and this time.
.. the gods took their toll. We must accept it, or the court will devour us whole.
The nobles circle already, with their 'Council of Protectors' and honeyed oaths.
They smell weakness—a grieving widow, an untested prince.
We cannot afford your denial to fuel their schemes.
" She paused and took a breath, deliberately softening her voice before continuing.
"They will look to you now more than ever before.
You, we, cannot show weakness. Doubt, refusal to admit what is in front of us will be seen as weakness, be sure about that my son. "
The tension crackled between them, thick as the hearth's smoke, mother and son locked in a standoff that echoed the kingdom's own fractures.
Guwayne's fists clenched, knuckles whitening, his broad frame taut with the leashed fury of youth denied its due.
Anger not tears—anger at the beasts, at the breaches, at the father who had left him behind once more, even in death.
"Accept it? And what then? Wave from balconies while Aldrich and his ilk carve up the throne?
Father's legacy isn't a cloak to drape over a pyre—it's action.
If he's alive, I'll find him. If not..." His voice broke, but he forged on, determination hardening his jaw. "If not, I'll avenge him."
Gwendolyn stepped closer, her hand reaching for his, but he flinched away.
Her eyes softened, grief etching deeper lines around them.
"Guwayne... my heart breaks for your fire.
It's his—Thorgrin's unyielding spark. But fire unchecked burns the hand that holds it.
Stay. Help me hold the court. Be the prince they need, not the boy chasing shadows.
" She paused, voice dropping to a plea. "For me. For your father. For all of us."
He met her gaze, the storm in his eyes unyielding, but a flicker of pain betrayed him—the boy beneath the prince, yearning for her approval amid the rage.
"I am the prince they need, Mother. But not by waiting.
I'll go to the council, play the part. But the ring.
.. it calls north. I can't ignore it." He turned toward the door, pausing with hand on the latch.
"We'll hold them off. Together. But if Father's alive. .. we'll bring him home."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Gwendolyn alone with the cloak, her shoulders slumping as her facade cracked.
She sank onto the stool, fingers tracing the bloodied runes, whispering a prayer to gods who seemed deaf.
Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the panes like fingers on a war drum.
Guwayne descended into the palace's heart, the corridors alive now with the subdued hum of court life resuming under mourning's veil.
Servants bowed low as he passed, their eyes averted, murmuring "Highness" like incantations.
The antechamber to the great hall buzzed with nobles, but to him, they were no more than a flock of velvet-clad vultures gathered under the guise of condolence.
No grand assembly this—just a receiving line of whispers and sidelong glances.
Lord Aldrich stood at the fore, swathed in black-trimmed crimson, his beard oiled to a gleam.
Beside him, Lady Elowen, Baron Holt, and Lord Garrick.
They parted like a sea as Guwayne entered, their bows deep but their eyes. .. ah, their eyes.
Calculating. Predatory. Guwayne felt it like a chill draft down his spine, the weight of their scrutiny pinning him in place.
Aldrich's gaze lingered on the Sorcerer's Ring, a flicker of avarice masked as sympathy.
"Prince Guwayne," the lord intoned, voice rich as aged wine laced with venom.
"We mourn with you. We have lost a king and a friend.
You have lost all of that, and a father, too.
A true legend. The Council stands ready to aid your mother—and you—in this hour. "
Elowen's smile was a serpent's curve, her eyes tracing his broad shoulders, the sword at his hip, as if measuring a colt for the block. "Such strength in grief," she purred, extending a gloved hand. "The Ring looks to you now, young lion. We are your shield."
Holt nodded, his merchant's eyes appraising the ring's runes, no doubt tallying its worth in gold or power. "Resources at your command, Highness. Caravans, steel—whatever fortifies the throne."
Garrick clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, grip lingering a beat too long, testing muscle and resolve. "We'll hunt those beasts, lad. For Thorgrin."
Guwayne forced a nod, his smile a thin blade, but inside, the anger coiled tighter.
Prey. That's what he was to them—a fawn in the den, untested, the throne's empty half a lure.
How soon his exploits at the breach had been forgotten, swept under the rug.
They watched not with loyalty, but hunger: for the ring, for the crown, for the boy-king they could mold or break.
Varis pressed forward with a goblet of spiced wine, but his eyes darted to Aldrich, seeking approval like a hound.
Even Sir Kellan, stationed by the hall's arch, shot him a warning glance—Watch them, boy.
"Thank you, my lords," Guwayne said, voice steady, injected with the authority he'd honed in training yards.
"The Ring endures because of such unity.
We'll speak more in council—on the breaches, the hunts.
Father's work unfinished is mine now." He accepted the goblet from Varis, sipping just enough to wet his lips, then set it aside.
The nobles murmured approval, but their eyes followed him as he moved through them, a ripple of silk and steel parting before the heir.
In the hall's alcove, away from their gaze, Guwayne leaned against cool stone, his breathing ragged.
Anger surged anew—not at the nobles, not yet, but at the web closing around him.
They thought him prey? Let them. He'd be the blade in the dark, the storm in the desert.
If Thorgrin lived, he'd find him. If not, he'd carve a legacy from their bones.