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.
"People of the Ring," she began, her voice carrying clear and strong, amplified by the authority forged in exile and triumph."We gather in sorrow, for our hearts are rent asunder.King Thorgrin, my beloved husband, your sovereign and shield, has fallen.In the frozen north, pursuing the shadows that threaten our borders, he faced abominations born of the earth's ancient wrath.Beasts of stone and venom, spilling from breaches in the Shield he himself restored.He fought as he always did—with the fire of druids in his veins, the sword of destiny in his hand.He felled legions, saved his men, and in his final breath, commanded them to return and warn us.To remind us that the Ring is worth every sacrifice."
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by sobs—raw, keening wails from those who had known his mercy, his justice.From those who had only known his reign.Gwendolyn paused, letting the grief wash over them, her own eyes glistening but unyielding.She clutched the cloak tighter, its runes catching the torchlight like fading stars.
"As well as our King, my husband, it is also likely we have lost others, dear souls whose lives and actions are indelibly wound into the history of this kingdom.Kendrick, Reece, Erec, and Alistair all played crucial roles, as you all know, in returning us to our home here in the Ring.Others too, brave soldiers who took part in the mission to preserve our safety, no thoughts for their own lives, only those they left behind.Our thoughts must be with all of them until we know for sure, and their families."
"We have endured hard times before," she continued, her tone shifting to steel wrapped in velvet."Remember the Empire's iron fist, the Blood Lord's shadow, the shattering of the Shield that scattered us like chaff.We wandered deserts, fought in foreign lands, buried our dead under alien skies.Those hardships did not break us—they forged us.They taught us resilience, the unyielding bond of kin and crown.Thorgrin rose from a shepherd's field to King not by birthright alone, but by the fire in his soul, mirrored in yours.We are the Ring: warriors, builders, dreamers bound by blood and oath."
She leaned forward, eyes sweeping the throng, connecting with individuals—a baker's tear-streaked face, a knight's clenched fist."Grieve, my people.Let your tears honor him, let your songs echo his name through every hall and hearth.But do not let sorrow blind you to the dawn.The past is our teacher, etched in stone and story, but the future is our forge.Thorgrin's legacy lives in his deeds, in our children, in the Shield we will mend stronger than before.Rise with me.Honor him by living boldly, by standing vigilant.The beasts may howl, the shadows creep, but we are the light that endures."
The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in a roar of affirmation, fists raised, voices chanting "For the Ring!For Thorgrin!"Gwendolyn stood tall amid the tumult, the cloak a weight against her heart, her speech a bridge from despair to defiance.As the assembly dispersed into the night, murmuring her words like a talisman, she retreated inside, the façade cracking just enough for Kellan to see the tremor in her hand.
"You spoke as he would have," the captain said softly, escorting her to her chambers."The people will hold to it."
She nodded, weary."They must.For Guwayne's sake, if nothing else."
The next morning dawned gray and unrelenting, the palace halls echoing with the footsteps of couriers and the rustle of urgent parchments.Gwendolyn had risen before first light, dispatching a raven to the eastern training camp where Guwayne had retreated—a remote outpost in the hills, chosen for its isolation and the chance to hone his skills away from the court's adoring gaze.His exploits at the breached outpost had made him a hero in ballads, but the attention chafed like ill-fitted armor.She had sent a longer note the previous night, confirming what he had no doubt heard in whispers, detailing the brave way in which his father had fallen.Now she had a different message."Return at once, my son," her missive read."The Ring needs its prince.Your father...would want you by my side."She sealed it with wax.
By midmorning, the antechamber overflowed with nobles, their support arriving in a tide of velvet cloaks and honeyed words.Lord Aldrich swept in first, his portly form flanked by attendants bearing gifts—crates of fine wines from his cellars, bolts of imported silk."My queen," he intoned, bowing low, his thorned beard quivering with feigned emotion."The Ring mourns with you.House Aldrich stands ready—our granaries open, our swords drawn.In this transition, allow us to ease your burden."
Lady Elowen followed, offering scouts and spies for the borders."Your wisdom guides us, as always," she purred, eyes flicking to the cloak draped over a nearby chair.Baron Holt arrived with ledgers of trade credits, promising caravans unburdened by tariffs.Lord Garrick and Lord Varis echoed the sentiments, their voices a chorus of loyalty, each vying to outdo the last in protestations of devotion.
Gwendolyn received them in the solar, a sunlit room now dimmed by heavy drapes, seated upon a cushioned bench with the air of a queen unbroken.Outwardly, she was gracious—thanking them with nods and measured smiles, accepting their tokens with words of appreciation."Your houses have ever been the bedrock of this realm," she told Aldrich, her tone warm."Thorgrin would commend such unity."To Elowen: "Your vigilance honors his memory."Yet inwardly, a chill settled.Their support rang hollow, tinged with the subtle probe of ambition—the way Holt's eyes lingered on the throne's empty dais, how Garrick's hand rested possessively on his sword hilt.
It was Varis who broached the Council's name."We have formed the Council of Protectors, Your Grace," he announced, unrolling a parchment emblazoned with seals."A coalition to coordinate defenses, chaired by Lord Aldrich.Patrols, supplies, fortifications—all rallied in your name, to bridge this...difficult transition.No slight to your rule, of course, but the breaches demand swift action."
Gwendolyn's fingers tightened on the armrest, hidden beneath her sleeve.Outwardly, she inclined her head, a picture of grateful poise."A noble endeavor, Lord Varis.The Ring thanks you for your initiative.Thorgrin's vision was one of shared strength; this Council embodies it."But her mind raced, grief sharpening to suspicion.A council?Declarations shouted from rooftops when loyal silence would suffice?Allegiance should flow like blood in veins—automatic, unquestioned.Not paraded as if the throne teetered.Was it her sorrow clouding judgment, turning allies to foes?Or had the years of peace bred serpents in the garden?Better they express support, she chided herself, than question her outright.Yet the parchment's bold script mocked her, a veiled claim to power.
Sir Kellan, stationed by the door with a phalanx of Shield Guards—their silver armor a gleaming vow of fealty—caught her eye.His nod was subtle, a rock amid the tide.The Guard remained steadfast, their oaths to the crown unbroken, swords sharpened for queen and prince alone.But as the nobles departed, murmuring of further "consultations," Gwendolyn felt the isolation creep in like fog from the canyon.Proudlock's tale had rooted deep, and with it, the nobles' ambitions flowered.
She rose, dismissing the last advisor with a wave, and crossed to the window overlooking the city.Below, folk went about their days—smiths hammering, children playing under watchful eyes—clinging to her speech's fragile hope.But in the palace's quiet halls, the air grew thick with unspoken threats.She and Guwayne—boy-king in waiting, untested and untempered—stood as beacons to those who hungered for the throne.Isolated, yes, but not alone.Not yet.Kellan's boots echoed behind her, a reminder of loyalties that endured.
As the sun climbed higher, Gwendolyn touched a necklace at her throat, a gift from Thor.She would protect their son, mend the Shield, root out the shadows.For the Ring.For him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
