Two dozen figures filled the room, a handpicked cross-section of the Ring’s power brokers, their faces a gallery of ambition and discontent.Lord Aldrich presided at the head, his portly frame ensconced in crimson velvet, his beard like tangled thorns framing a face schooled in deception.He had risen through cunning, amassing lands by exploiting the post-war reconstruction, resentment growing year by year as Thorgrin’s reforms elevated commoners at the expense of nobles, the very people who had made the kingdom what it was.Beside him sat Lady Elowen, her midnight silks clinging like shadows, her sharp eyes missing nothing.She had lost influence when Gwendolyn redistributed her family’s trade monopolies, fueling her ambition to reclaim power.Baron Holt, wealthy from caravan routes, toyed with his jeweled rings, his mind on profits disrupted by the breaches but also by the opportunities chaos might bring.
Lord Garrick, the host, paced by the hearth, his ire fuelled by the feeling that his families and his own efforts and sacrifices were now largely forgotten or at least under appreciated by the "shepherd king. Lord Varis clutched his goblet, his house's declining fortunes pushing him to desperate alliances.Other barons, captains, and merchants rounded out the group—some fully complicit, others swayed by fears of instability, bound by the promise of a new order.
The remaining few were loyal to the king, but had been selected for their loose tongues and/or the influence and respect they wielded in areas of the kingdom where Lord Aldrich held little sway.
Conversation hushed as Proudlock entered, his boots echoing on the flagstones, Skarn and Garr flanking him like grim sentinels.Aldrich rose, his expression a perfect mask of anxious anticipation, his hands clasped as if in prayer.“Lieutenant Proudlock, you’ve come at last.Rumors fly like ravens—tell us it’s not true,” he said, his voice rich with feigned concern, eyes glinting with the knowledge of the script they played.
Proudlock bowed deeply, his face a study in manufactured grief.“My lords, ladies...I wish it were lies.”He approached the table, unwrapping the bundle with trembling hands—a touch of drama to sell the moment.The cloak unfurled first, its bloodstains stark against the druidic fabric, runes crusted with gore that flaked onto the table like grim ash.Gasps echoed; a lady in green silks covered her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.Next, the pack, torn and muddied, maps of the northern wastes peeking from a ripped seam.The broken dagger sheath, notched as if by monstrous claws.Finally, the amulet, its chain snapped, the MacGil crest gleaming accusingly in the candlelight.
Aldrich’s eyes widened, his hand reaching out to touch the cloak, fingers lingering on the bloodied hem.“By the gods...this is Thorgrin’s.The blood—so much.”His voice trembled, a masterful performance.“What happened, man?Spare no detail.”
Proudlock launched into the fabricated narrative, his voice steady but dripping with sorrow, honed over hours of rehearsal.“We rode north to investigate the breaches, as the king commanded.The wastes were treacherous—tremors shook the ground, cracks spewing foul mists that burned the lungs.In a narrow gorge, they struck: beasts unlike any I’ve seen, rock hides, venom claws, eyes like coals.Dozens, swarming from shadows.The king led the charge, his magnificent sword blazing, cutting them down.Reece and Erec fought beside him, Alistair’s magic blasting waves of attackers.But they kept coming, endless, their roars shaking the cliffs.”
He paused, feigning a choke in his throat, eyes downcast.“I saw the king take a claw to the side, blood flowing, but he pressed on, shouting for us to hold the line.Another strike to the thigh, then arrows—venom-tipped, sizzling as they struck.He fell, shouting for us to flee, to warn the Ring.We tried to save him, but the horde dragged him into the storm.These...these are all that remain.”
The room erupted in chaos.A baron slammed his fist on the table, goblet toppling.“We thought the king indestructible!After all he had endured and overcome, to be slain by beasts in his own kingdom…” Captains muttered of bolstered defenses, advisors scribbled notes, quills scratching furiously.Lady Elowen leaned forward, her voice silky but sharp.“The Shield fails, and now this.Treachery from beyond?Or something closer?”
Aldrich staggered, clutching his chest as if stricken, his face a portrait of anguish.“Thorgrin...our mighty king, felled by monsters?He who slew the Blood Lord, restored peace?This cannot be!”His voice rose in a wail, tears welling—crocodile tears, but so convincing that even Proudlock felt a flicker of admiration.Aldrich lifted the cloak high, letting blood flakes fall like grim confetti, the fabric billowing like a shroud.“Look upon this!His lifeblood, spilled for us.The realm weeps!”
The emotional tide swelled, sweeping the room.Varis wept openly, tears streaking his flushed cheeks.Garrick roared, “Vengeance for the king!”his fist pounding the table, rattling plates.Holt nodded solemnly as he calculated gains in the power vacuum.Aldrich let the grief linger, pacing before the hearth, his silhouette looming in the firelight.Then, his voice firming, he seized the moment.“We mourn, but the Ring endures.Breaches multiply, beasts roam.Who will protect our people in this dark hour?”
He turned, orchestrating like a conductor before a silent orchestra.“We, the noble houses, built this kingdom’s foundations.House Aldrich pledges grain stores for armies, enough to feed a thousand men through winter.Elowen, your scouts?”
“Deployed to every border,” she affirmed, her smile cold.
“Holt, supplies?”
“My caravans stand ready, laden with steel and provisions.”
“Garrick, forts?”
“Manned and armed, walls reinforced.”
“Varis?”
“My men will rally, swords sharpened.”
Aldrich nodded, his eyes gleaming with purpose.“Then we form a Council of Protectors.I’ll chair, coordinating defenses.Not to rule, but to safeguard until the crown stabilizes.Proudlock, you’ll advise us militarily, your experience invaluable.”
Agreements murmured through the room, plans unfolding like a map: patrols reinforced, borders sealed, messengers dispatched to spread word of the nobles’ “protection.”Propaganda would calm the masses, elevating the houses as saviors.Scrolls were prepared: “King fallen heroically; nobles rise to defend.”Proudlock was tasked with delivering the cloak to a public display, a grim relic to cement the tale.
“But first,” he said, seemingly having trouble to keep his voice from breaking with grief, I must go to the Queen.She would want to see this with her eyes, though I know it will cut her to the depths of her heart more than it even does us.”
As the meeting adjourned, riders galloped into the night, their horses’ hooves drumming a rhythm of urgency.By morning, criers in King’s Court’s market square proclaimed the tragedy.A throng gathered, faces ashen under the gray dawn.“King Thorgrin dead!”the crier bellowed, holding a replica cloak aloft, its bloodstains staged for effect.Women sobbed, clutching shawls; men vowed revenge, fists raised.Children clung to parents, whispering of monsters beyond the Shield that could kill he who they thought could not be slain.
In taverns, bards sang laments, their strings plucked with coin from noble purses, lyrics praising the houses’ vigilance.“In darkest hour, Aldrich stands tall, Elowen’s eyes guard us all...”Villages along the canyon barred gates, messengers spreading the call: “Council protects; send aid to lords.”In southern outposts, knights sharpened blades, rumors fueling loyalty shifts toward the nobles’ banner.
From his balcony overlooking his lands, Aldrich imagined the chaos that was stirring across the Ring.The revelation would have struck like lightning, emotion forging unity under their control.The Ring was theirs to shape, a kingdom ripe for their ambition, its people unaware of the strings pulled in the shadows.
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."
