Chapter 57 #2
King Yarum reaches into his silken crimson robe.
He pulls out a thick scroll rolled tightly together, sealed in place with white ribbon.
He places it gently on the table, sliding it to the center.
“You can choose to believe us, or you can choose to question our claims. The outcome will remain because, I assure you, a war is coming. Whether we want it or not. If you need more proof, that scroll holds a detailed record of the actions taken against us, too small to notice when isolated individually but undeniable when listed as a whole. It also outlines the most recent events, including King Alastair’s and King Erasmus’s claims against me. ”
“If their objective truly is a war against the Anatolé Kingdom,” Draven muses, voice low, “then pinning the blame for the uprising attacks in Erandor on you is an ironclad means to sanction their cause.”
King Yarum folds his hands in front of his face, nodding once. “Precisely.”
Gray reaches for the scroll and tucks it into his satchel. “Which would also give the King of Rivara cause to come to Erandor’s aid. They can move as one under the guise of peace—of justice.”
Memories of Casimir flood my mind in a debilitating flash. They knock me unsteady as a pensive grief plays the strings of my heart like a familiar instrument. The discordant chords are his words, the aching melody what he was trying to tell me all along.
The murders of hundreds—thousands, as you say—are suddenly digestible when it is in the name of kings. Done under the guise of sovereignty. Stolen under the protection of Her Majesty, ‘Justice’ herself.
Again, humanity is proving him correct in the claims I fought so hard to dispute.
Because disputing him was what seemed right—how could I claim to be someone who was good while believing what Casimir said was correct?
I had to believe differently. Otherwise, where would that have left my morals? Where would that have left me?
Yet…
Perhaps he was right to believe his plan would be the best course of action…
The space nestled deep within the hollows of my ribcage aches suddenly, rising up and into my breastbone.
It forces me to realize, in the most twisted way, I miss Casimir.
Miss some of the days we spent together.
It’s strange to think I have fond memories with him—like the night we agreed to eat cake together, or when I bumped into him on my way home from a music-filled tavern.
Will there ever come a day where you won’t see me as a monster?
So much has changed since those precariously good days between us. So much death, grief, and pain now branded into the soil of a home which will likely never be a home again—into the skin of a man who can scarcely call himself one anymore.
I wonder how he is doing. If he still seeks a cure for Abdites or continues monitoring the gods’ cracking statues.
If he is still even in the Wastelands at all or has already fled from the bleeding wound.
I am a continent away from Halfaria, and I still see their ghosts.
I can’t imagine how torturous living in their graveyard would be.
As if sensing my sudden turmoil, Draven’s hand finds my leg beneath the table again—this time landing respectably on my knee—and at the steadying presence, I shake all the rampant thoughts from my head, forcing my focus back onto the ongoing conversation.
“So that is the way it is,” King Yarum says.
“We must call on you for aid because there is no one else who will stand with us against the other kingdoms. All we have are my soldiers and a small intelligence network composed of anonymous sources who feed me information when they can. It is not enough to stand against the might of Erandor’s legions as is, let alone their forces combined with Rivara’s. ”
“And you think us four alone can help turn the tide of a brewing war?” I ask.
King Yarum observes me with a show of intent.
Then he does the same to Draven. “I think both you and Captain Dalmar are capable of such a thing by yourselves. You two are the strongest wielders on the continent, with magics rivaled by very few.” He slides his eyes to Gray next.
“And you wield a powerful variation of illusion magic unseen in a wielder for centuries.” He finds Marcella last. “And I hear you wield a flora magic so strong, you were the single cause of the sudden flourish and prosperity that befell our people of Rolfbear.”
At the impressive display of personal knowledge about them, everyone swivels their gazes to Nuri. She shrugs. “What? I already told you I was both spying and scouting for my kingdom.”
King Yarum smiles warmly at his daughter before rising from his chair. “You do not need to make a decision at this moment. Take the night, enjoy the rest of the festival and all the beauty it offers, and we can reconvene in the morning.”
He departs from the table and knocks twice against the arched doors at the front of the room.
A guard hinges one of the double doors open.
Before departing, King Yarum glances back at us a final time.
“My kingdom is the only thing standing between those men and tyrannical power. Make no mistake, a defining line is being drawn as we speak, and so you must ask yourselves: which side of it do you wish to stand on?”
King Yarum leaves the room, leaving behind a trove of solemn expressions in his wake.