Spirits of the Forest （Part 4）
No longer holding back, Gareth exploded. He wasn't going out without a fight.
He slammed his boots into the guards' knees.
There was a wet crack of cartilage tearing from bone.
The soldiers weren't ready for that kind of fury, especially not from an injured man. Adrenaline, or maybe something darker, gave him strength he shouldn't have had.
Their hands slipped from his arms.
He was almost free
almost
But more soldiers closed in.
The Dissolver, seeing his chance, opened his jaws and shot a spray of acid at the nearest guards.
Their armor sizzled, and their flesh hissed. The smell was sharp and ugly.
They drew back, screaming in pain.
Someone grabbed The Dissolver, but the grip was weak, and he tore loose, lashing out with wild claws.
Bodies crashed together. Blows rained down.
Gareth saw his axe
so close
then Jhas'tir stepped down from the dais, cloak swirling, staff raised, and everything changed.
"Enough!" he thundered, raising his staff high.
The staff flashed. A blast, like thunder, struck Gareth and The Dissolver.
One moment they were fighting, the next they were airborne, tossed over the heads of the guards and dumped onto the stone court.
Gareth hit first. Air rushed out of his lungs. For a moment, he didn't know if he'd ever breathe again.
Rowena's jaw dropped.
Magic.
It was the only word for it. But magic wasn't real...
was it?
She tried to tell herself there was some other answer, but awe and fear twisted inside her like two snakes fighting.
Jhas'tir stepped off the throne, no hesitation, just purpose.
He yanked a glaive from the nearest guard and stalked over to Gareth, pressing cold steel to Gareth's chest.
"You fight valiantly, but your efforts are in vain. This ends now."
Gareth tried to move. Nothing happened. His muscles screamed, but his body wouldn't listen.
"No!" Rowena's voice cracked. Tears blurred her vision. "Please, don't!"
"It is already done," Jhas'tir said coldly, tightening his grip on the glaive.
Gareth's eyes found Rowena.
The fear in her eyes.
The tears.
He had failed her.
A new voice broke through the tension. "Your Highness, you mustn't kill him!" It was the fauna with the golden hair.
Jhas'tir paused, his expression unexpectedly softening as he turned to her. "What is it, Zephyrah?" he asked, a note of concern in his voice.
"They're telling the truth," She replied, eyes wide. "They carry something with them—a relic of the past. I can feel its connection to the Ancient Power."
Jhas'tir's eyes widened as he darted a look at Rowena. "Is this true?"
"I—I—" Rowena couldn't decide what to say.
How did Zephyrah know this?
"Guards, search their belongings!" Jhas'tir commanded.
The guards obeyed, finding the ornate Etherian scabbard in seconds. One guard bowed, holding it out to the king.
Jhas'tir took it without hesitation and opened it swiftly.
The moment his eyes landed on the weapon within, he froze—his stony composure fractured. He stared, jaw slack, into the deep black metal.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Zephyra stepped closer, curiosity flickering in her gaze as she examined the weapon without surprise.
"How did you come to possess this?" Jhas'tir demanded.
Rowena glared at him, jaw set. "It is a relic of my people. I owe you no explanation."
Gareth struggled to sit up, a dull ache pulsing through his body as he tried to piece together the fragments of memory clouding his mind.
Somewhere nearby, voices tangled in argument, their words muffled by distance and the pounding in his skull.
Jhas'tir glared at her, his eyes cold as ice, astonishment flickering beneath his stern facade at her brazen defiance.
"So it's true, then," he muttered, voice edged with disbelief. "Etheria has fallen. There's no other reason to dredge up the weapon after all these years, is there?"
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and final, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Rowena met his icy gaze, her cheeks streaked with tears. She drew in a shuddering breath, her answer barely more than a whisper.
"Yes."
For a moment, she looked smaller, younger.
Just another survivor clutching at hope in a kingdom of ashes.
"Where is your king?" Jhas'tir demanded, his tone sharp and unyielding.
"King Leofric has been dead for years," Rowena replied, her voice thick with grief. "Our only hope is his heir, Ladomir. We only want to deliver the weapon to him. Please." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "You have to let us go. It's more important than you know."
Jhas'tir, still gripping the weapon tightly, glanced toward a cluster of well-dressed, official-looking faun gathered just beyond the torchlight.
They eyed the weapon with a mixture of fear, fascination, and something more concerning:
ambition.
Their hushed voices tangled in the gloom, a chorus of secrets that threatened to spill into violence at any moment.
Jhas'tir's expression softened, then, his words smoothing out like silk over steel. "My people hold great respect for King Osias. I will not dishonor his memory by spilling the blood of his kin. And you," he paused, eyes lingering on Rowena, "deserve a chance to rebuild what was lost."
But his next words came with the weight of command. "You will stay tonight as my guests. It appears you have had a long journey. You need rest and medicine."
"I need the weapon," Rowena stated coldly, no longer caring about decorum.
"And you shall have it," Jhas'tir replied, matching her intensity with a glare of his own. "Once you are rested and ready to depart, the weapon will be returned to you, with my blessing. Until then, I will keep it secured—there has been enough harm done to my people already."
He shot Gareth a warning glare. Rowena opened her mouth to protest, but Jhas'tir silenced her with a raised hand. "In my kingdom, you will obey me. My ruling is final."
He turned to Zephyrah. "Take them to the healing grove, then to their quarters. Don't let them out of your sight."
His glare lingered, cold and unyielding
a silent warning sharper than any blade.
Step out of line, and there would be no second chances.