"It is coming! The darkness you all feared," the woman's voice echoed across the crowded marketplace, sharp and unwavering. Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of fear and determination, holding the attention of every soul within earshot. Merchants paused mid-bargain, traders clutched their wares, and mothers silenced their restless children. The air seemed to grow heavier with each word she spoke.
"The dead have awoken. The sleeping army has risen to lay waste to all that remains. Kingdoms will be burnt to the ground, and all that there is. From the ashes of your bones shall your children be buried. You shall long for rest, but you won't find the peace that comes with death. When they come, you'll wish you had never seen the light of day. You'll beg for death. And when death finds you," she paused, her gaze sweeping across the terrified faces before her, "you'll beg for life, for the torment of the dead shall be far greater than the suffering of the living."
The woman's voice cracked, but her stance did not waver. She stepped forward, her presence commanding the crowd, her trembling hands clutching at the folds of her tattered shawl.
"I saw it with my own eyes," she continued, her voice dropping into a haunting whisper that made the listeners lean in. "On my way to Thalorwyn, traveling from a distant kingdom, I passed between the ruins of Grimhold and Gryndhall. And there, I saw Modkha."
At the mention of the mystical name, gasps rippled through the crowd. Whispers of disbelief and fear stirred like a rising tide, yet no one dared interrupt her.
"Modkha," she repeated, her tone reverent and grim, "a kingdom unlike anything of this world. A land that defies mortal comprehension. Twice the size of Erythoria, and yet not of this realm. Its beauty was indescribable, teeming with mystical creatures of such majesty and terror that a mere mortal like me was unworthy to behold it. And perhaps, as punishment for my intrusion, I was shown the nightmare that is to come."
Her voice quivered, and for a moment, her gaze seemed distant, as though she relived the horror. "I saw hooves—black as night—thundering across the ground. Dark cloaks billowed like smoke in the wind, their faceless riders mounted on shadowy steeds, the very embodiment of death. These were no ordinary foes, no mere mortals. These were the riders of death itself. Yet," her voice faltered briefly before rising with urgency, "even they are but foot soldiers. Their leader....."
She stopped, swallowing hard, her words faltering under the weight of what she could not name.
"The ugliness of what I saw to come," she continued at last, "was enough to make me forget the breathtaking splendor of Modkha. Though I know of its beauty, the memory of how it truly looked has been replaced by the terror of that night. And now, I can only recall one thing clearly—the prophecy." She raised a hand, her finger trembling as she pointed to the heavens. "The only thing standing between us and the abyss are the seven heroes, one yet to come."
A profound silence fell over the crowd. The once-bustling marketplace of Eryndral seemed frozen in time. The clamor of bartering, the jingle of coins, even the rustle of wind through fabric stalls, all of it ceased. No one dared to move, to breathe, as though their very lives depended on hearing the woman's final words.
"And so I tell you this," she said, her voice quieter now, yet every word pierced the stillness like a dagger, "prepare yourselves. The darkness spares no one. It comes for us all."
The woman stood tall, her eyes scanning the sea of stunned faces before her.
Footsteps echoed through the thick silence as three royal guards pushed their way through the frozen crowd. Their armor clanked softly with each stride, their presence sharp and commanding.
"Hey, you there! Come with us!" the lead guard barked, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He raised a gloved hand, signaling the other two guards to seize the woman.
Without protest, the woman allowed them to take her arms. She didn't flinch, didn't fight, her mission, it seemed, had been fulfilled. Her expression was grim but composed, as if she had expected this outcome all along.
"You lots! Keep your hands off my wife!" a man's voice rang out, rough and desperate. A middle-aged man in ragged clothing burst through the crowd. He looked worn, dirt on his face, but his eyes burned with a quiet fire.
"And who are you?" the lead guard asked, clearly unimpressed. "Another runaway seeking shelter in Eryndral?"
"I'm Jorvan Tymor," the man replied. "Surely not a name you've heard before… but soon to be one you'll never forget if you don't release my wife. Now!"
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Your beloved wife here appears to be spreading lies. Wild tales. Imaginations crafted to stir fear and unrest among the people. I'm guessing you're part of this too. Tell me, stranger… are you spies?"
Tymor stepped forward boldly, fists clenched. "And who told you they're lies? You feed these people comfort, wealth, distractions and they've begun to believe they're untouchable. But they won't be ready for what's coming."
The crowd remained still, a sea of breathless faces hanging on every word. The lead guard slowly stepped closer, nose to nose with Tymor, his voice low and threatening.
"We have power. The kind that's kept kingdoms like yours trembling. The kind that's made Eryndral unbreakable."
"You mean the relics?" Tymor shot back. "Yes, they've stopped armies, human armies. But what's coming… is not human."
The guard clenched his jaw. "Take her away. I've heard enough of this man's nonsense."
As the two guards began leading the woman toward the palace, Tymor shouted, "I demand an audience with your king!"
The lead guard didn't stop. "Don't hold your breath."
Tymor's face twisted in fury. Without thinking, he lunged toward the guards, trying to wrest his wife free. The brawl lasted only seconds—trained soldiers moved swiftly. One struck Tymor in the ribs, another in the head. He collapsed to the ground with a grunt. They grabbed him by the arms and dragged him alongside his wife, both now prisoners of the crown.
The once-silent marketplace slowly broke into scattered murmurs. The crowd began to disperse, buzzing with whispered theories, arguments, and fear. But beneath it all, one question burned in their minds:
What if the madwoman was right?
******************************************
Kaelion's legs buckled beneath him as the full weight of Ronan's words crashed down like a falling mountain. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. With a trembling hand pressed to his thigh, he collapsed to his knees, head bowed low as though the very air around him was suffocating.
"Kaelion!" Ronan exclaimed, stunned by the king's reaction. He took a step forward, then turned as if to rush for help. "I'll have today's court session called off. You need to rest, regain yourself before appearing in front of the court."
But he was stopped by a low whisper, words that crawled out from Kaelion's throat like a ghost.
"Why is this happening, Ronan? Why now? Am I… am I being made to pay for my sins… from thirteen years ago?" Kaelion's voice cracked, his face contorted in anguish. He sounded like a man haunted not just by fear, but by guilt.
Ronan slowly walked back, knelt beside him, and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"There was nothing else you could have done," Ronan said softly. "You were asked to sacrifice your only son, the one true heir to the throne. You did what any ruler, any father… would have been torn to do. You made the choice no one else could."
Kaelion was silent for a long moment. Then, with a quiet groan, he looked up, eyes rimmed red.
"Ronan… help me up. I mustn't delay this court session. Not now."
Ronan hesitated. "Sire, you need rest. We can move the session to tomorrow or any day that suits your strength."
Kaelion shook his head slowly, yet with resolve. "No. Any further delay could prove dangerous. We no longer have the luxury of time, not when we don't know what's at stake."
With Ronan's help, Kaelion rose to his feet, drawing a deep, steadying breath. Together, they walked toward the great doors leading to the inner court chamber.
As the heavy wooden doors creaked open, the herald's voice rang clear and loud through the chamber:
"All rise for His Majesty, King Kaelion of Eryndral, and Her Grace, Queen Aradelle."
Everyone in the room stood in unison and bowed low, heads lowered with reverence as the king and queen stepped in. Kaelion moved slowly but with quiet determination, the weight of his crown seemingly heavier today than ever before. Aradelle followed closely, her presence poised and alert.
The royal pair took their seats at the head of the great table as the court chamber quieted. Before them sat a rare and complete assembly of Eryndral's highest order: the Chancellor and Chamberlain, the royal magisters, knight generals, dukes, counts, marquesses, bannermen, the grand admiral, and the king's trusted ambassador.
Every title, every rank, every corner of power had gathered in one room. A gathering like this had not occurred in years—summoned only in the most urgent and dire times.
Yet Kaelion, seated upon his throne, seemed distant. His eyes were heavy with thought, his brow furrowed not with anger, but burden. The court could feel the tension, thick and unspoken. Everyone awaited the king's words, but none dared to break the silence. They could all see it:
Their king was not just troubled. He was terrified.
With the king's nod of permission, the court began its session. One by one, matters were raised—from border disputes to trade disagreements, and from resource distribution to vague whispers of unease among the outer villages. Yet, through it all, Kaelion sat still, as if carved from stone.
He offered no comment. No decree. No judgment.
His eyes, usually so piercing, seemed distant, lost in thoughts that no one dared to ask about. Queen Aradelle glanced sideways at Ronan, her worry barely hidden behind her calm exterior. Something was troubling the king, and it wasn't hard to guess what.
Then, amidst the discussions, a voice echoed through the chamber.
"...Modkha."
Kaelion jolted upright like a man struck by lightning.
His voice cut through the room like a sword:
"What did you say about Modkha?"
All eyes turned. The chamber, once buzzing with voices, fell into a deadly hush.
"My informants bring troubling news from the market," said Eunuch Baldric, a wiry man with a calculating gaze. "Apparently, some refugees have been spreading fear and unrest, claiming they've seen Modkha with their own eyes… and that it revealed a prophecy."
Kaelion narrowed his gaze. "Who was in charge of market security today?"
"That would be Malric, Your Majesty," Baldric replied, "Captain of the East Wall."
"Send for him. Immediately."
The wait that followed was brief but under the weight of tension in the chamber, it felt like eternity. When the doors opened, Malric entered swiftly and bowed low before the king.
"I was told you apprehended a couple earlier today," Kaelion said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"What are their crimes?"
"They were spreading dangerous rumors, sire. Stirring unrest, inciting panic. Speaking of things meant to shake the people's faith in the crown."
Kaelion's jaw tightened. "What rumors?"
"They claimed to have seen Modkha, and spoke of a prophecy it revealed."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Tell us this prophecy," Kaelion said.
Malric nodded and repeated, word for word, what he had heard the woman say. The warning of the rising darkness. The waking dead. The sweeping destruction of kingdoms. The children buried in the ashes of their ancestors. The pain worse than death. The seven heroes. The one yet to come.
A chill descended over the court.
You could see it—the tension rippling like a wave across the lords and nobles. Fear carved its mark into their faces. Some tried to hide it behind rigid posture. Others shifted uncomfortably, whispering prayers or curses under their breath.
Kaelion's hands trembled. He clenched them tight, trying to still them. He opened his mouth to speak but for a long moment, no words came. He had to remember: he was a king. He could not afford to be just a man.....not now.
"Where are these people now?" he finally asked, voice lower and colder than before.
"In the palace cell, Your Majesty," Malric answered.
"Bring them here. At once."
Malric bowed and left. He returned minutes later, dragging the couple into the chamber under guard escort. They stood before the throne, ragged but defiant.
"You may leave," Kaelion dismissed Malric, who bowed and exited silently.
Kaelion leaned forward. His voice was calm, but laced with tension.
"I've heard you've been spreading strange stories among my people. Is this true?"
"Strange stories?" Tymor scoffed. "Call it what you will. It's the truth."
Kaelion's tone sharpened. "A truth designed to unravel peace? To destroy what we've built?"
"We have no such intention," Tymor's wife said bitterly. "You're already doing a fine job of that yourself."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Eyebrows raised. Some bristled at the insolence, others leaned in, intrigued. Caidric, the Grand Marshal, stepped forward.
"Watch your tongue, woman!"
"No," Kaelion said, raising a hand. "Let her speak."
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with force barely contained.
"All it took was one mistake. One moment of hesitation… and you doomed us all. You, Kaelion, had the choice. And you chose this path."
The court stared, stunned. No one understood what she meant. But Kaelion sat motionless.
No rebuttal. No defense. Just… silence.
It was as though her words had reached deep, past the armor of titles and crown, and pierced the man beneath.
"You, Kaelion…" she said, her voice now a whisper full of thunder,
"…are the harbinger of our doom."