Decreash Imperial Palace
It was early in the morning, when the dew was still thick and the air was still cold.
Thin threads of smoke curled from the first waking hearths, drifting lazily above the thatched rooftops.
Chickens scratched softly at the damp earth, their feathers shivering in the chill, while a lone rooster announced the day with a sharp, echoing call.
Along a narrow path, a little boy walked with a bucket in his hand.
His bare feet padded quietly against the cool earth, leaving small prints on the dew-soaked ground. The wooden bucket swung lightly at his side, sloshing with each step as he made his way toward the village well.
Suddenly, the child saw something.
Something that seemed unclear at first because of the fog crawling low along the ground. He slowed, squinting through the pale haze as a faint shape took form just a few steps ahead on the path.
At first it looked like nothing more than a shadow half-hidden by the mist. The bucket in his hand stopped swaying as he leaned forward a little, trying to make out the outline.
It was a body… lying still on the path. The boy froze, the cold morning suddenly feeling even colder. His fingers tightened around the handle of the bucket as he took a cautious step forward.
Then another shape appeared through the fog, and another.
Not one, not two, but numerous bodies trailed across the ground, stretching from the path all the way toward the well.
The child screamed, a sharp, trembling cry that cut through the quiet morning air.
The bucket slipped from his hands and clattered against the ground.
Without thinking, he turned and bolted.
His feet pounded against the muddy road as he raced toward home, breath hitching in his chest.
The child continued to scream, and his voice was heard, loud and clear.
Villagers who were still asleep were forced to reluctantly arise from their beds, their faces gloomy and their lips muttering curses.
Doors creaked open as sleepy faces turned sharply awake at the sound of the child's cries. Mothers pulled their shawls tight, elders leaned on their staffs, and murmurs rippled through the early light.
The able hunters were already on their feet.
Startled by the boy's terrified screams, they grabbed their cutlasses from beside their doorways and rushed outside, instincts snapping into place.
They moved in low, cautious strides, charging into the mist as though an unseen enemy might spring out at any moment.
But as they drew nearer to the well, what they saw made them halt in their tracks.
Through the thinning fog, familiar shapes became unmistakable; women from the village lay motionless on the ground. The hunters froze, cutlasses lowering as the truth struck them with a force none of them were prepared for.
These were not strangers.
These were people they knew—wives, sisters, neighbors… women who had gone to draw water before dawn, as they did every morning.
A heavy silence fell over the group. Some men staggered forward a step, disbelief clouding their faces. Others stood rooted to the spot, hearts sinking as recognition settled in.
Soon the villagers fell into complete disarray.
Word spread as fast as the morning wind, and within moments people were running toward the well, voices rising in confusion, fear, and heartbreak.
The once-quiet village square erupted into a storm of shouting and trembling grief.
They cried out in vengeance against the crown, voices shaking with a fury born from loss they could barely understand, and lucky for them, the crown heard their desperate cries.
...…..
Racheal lifted her gaze for the fourth time and still found Drigo glaring at her.
His eyes were steady, dark pools of resolve, unflinching and unyielding. There was no trace of fear, only a calm that unsettled her.
She held his gaze, fingers drumming smoothly against the carved wooden table, the faint rhythm echoing in the room.
The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken words.
It was like any other day in the meeting room. Ever since she had become a member of the council, all eyes had been on her, watching…calculating.
She has made her stance not to be intimidated by their aura or the extent of the knowledge they had about the political affairs of the states. Instead, she has made it her utmost priority to be equal to the task.
The door finally swung open, and Ragaleon stepped in, his golden brown eyes fixed ahead. His jaws were clenched, and his hands were crossed behind his back.
As always, there was a strict countenance plastered on his face. His shoulders, broad and dark, carried an almost palpable weight, and the long strands of his black hair glistened faintly in the candlelight, brushing the nape of his neck with an almost regal elegance.
There was no haste in his steps, only a certain authority, a stillness that made the room feel smaller and the air heavier.
As he glided across the room, all the members of the council present at the table began to rise to their feet, then bowed in courtesy.
He took his seat at the head of the table, reclining on the chair lazily, his fingers toying with a small globe. His eyes slowly dropped; before rotating sideways, he glanced at Racheal for a fleeting moment before focusing his gaze ahead.
All the council members took their seats; the sound of chairs scraping the floor echoed in the room momentarily.
"What have you brought to my table on such short notice?"
His deep voice cuts across the room as he questions. The council members glanced at each other; it was Brandon, the hand of the king, that took the initiative and steadily rose to his feet.
He snapped his fingers twice, signaling a guard standing at the corner to step forward. The guard was holding a brown sack in his left hand and his sword in the other hand.
He stepped forward and dropped the sack bag on the long oak table, then took a step backward. Again, Brandon signalled him, the guard stepped forward, then unsacked the content.
Before the eyes of everyone seated at the table, the head of the woman rolled out. Racheal shrieked while shifting uncomfortably in her seat, apparently startled by the eyesore of the head, which was covered in dried blood.
"This was found in the hand of a man lurking around the streets in the villages. Many more women were killed, and their husbands and children cry out in vengeance."
Brandon said while rubbing his palms together, then gave the guard a signal; immediately the guard made his way out of the room.
Ragaleon remained silent, his eyes focused on the head of a woman on the table. His fingers were still toying with the globe, his mind drifting afar.
"When did this happen?"
"Before the break of dawn."
Drigo answered Ragaleon's question.
"Does anyone have any idea who…"
"This was done by Kyron."
Brandon interrupted, already knowing the next question Ragaleon wanted to ask.
"The sigil of an owl was imprinted on every woman that was slain on the street; he left no stone unturned in making sure we get his message."
Brandon continued before making his way back to his chair; he took his seat while letting out a sharp breath.
"The outcry of the people is great. My Lord, Kyron has made his stance clear; he wants war."
Racheal said, giving no room for the men in the room to start babbling amongst themselves.
"War is not a smart move, my queen. That is what Kyron wants, and we would be falling into his trap if we took the same route."
Brandon said after giving her words a thought, but Racheal saw it as a way to make her words seem incompetent.
"How then will you go about it, Lord Hand?"
She said in a challenging tone, referring to Brandon, who was normally called Lord Hand because he was the hand of the king.
"The king has not said anything about this, my lord; we would like to hear what your decision about this matter is."
Drigo had noticed Ragaleon was rather quiet on the matter; his mind was elsewhere ever since he had arrived.
Just then the door opened, and the guard that had stepped out walked in holding a strange man in his grip.
The man he was holding looked like he had been beaten badly. His eyes only spoke fear, and his lips trembled as he struggled not to taste the blood from the injury he had sustained.
"He is one of the men sent from Galveston. He raped a woman before giving her a quick death with his sword."
Brandon said, gesturing at the guard to bring the prisoner closer.
Ragaleon, who seems to have been lost in thoughts for a while now, found himself looking at the prisoner with burning hatred. He could feel the fear emitting from his eyes, but he wanted more.
"My Lord…"
Racheal wanted to say something; she felt her voice wasn't heard, and nobody seemed to want to speak without having to hear anything he had to say.
But before she could say a word,
"Bring him over here."
Ragaleon said to the guard, then steadily rose to his feet; his shoulder-length hair dropped to his shoulders, framing his handsome face.
The guard pushed the prisoner forward, but the prisoner was a bit stubborn; he didn't want to go near Ragaleon.
But soon the prisoner found himself laid on the table in front of Ragaleon, his hand pinned behind his back, his face down, the weight of the guards pressing in from behind.
Ragaleon signalled the guard to pass him the sword sheathed beside him, and the guard did so without hesitation.
"I want you to start talking and answer every question I ask you, and without a single lie."
Ragaleon said, glancing down at the prisoner. He traced the blade of the sword in his hand with his fingers; the blade glimmered sharply.
The council members seated at the table gazed at him, mesmerized by how he was going to handle the matter.
"I would rather fuck a horse than ever submit to you animals!
Saliva mixed with blood splattered everywhere on the table as the prisoner talked.
"Galvestone subjects are just as stubborn as their king, Kyron. Very well then."
Ragaleon shrugged, then grabbed one of the hands of the prisoner, which was pinned down. He placed the hand on the table, straightening it out, making sure all his fingers were outlined carefully.
Snap!
The sword in his hand sliced through flesh and bone in a quick cut. The prisoner screamed out his lungs, a tear forming in his eyes.
In Ragaleon's hands now held the finger of the man he had cut out, the thumb precisely.
Racheal now watched, unbrothered, frozen in place. Her hands were folded up right in front of her; she had no mercy for people who commit murder, and the prisoner happened to be one of them.
"Oh fuck, shit!
The man screamed out in agony when he felt another finger chopped off. Ragaleon gave a clean cut, cutting off three fingers.
"Why were you sent to kill and cause chaos? Did your king make it known to you why he suddenly wants to draw blood?"
Ragaleon questioned calmly while cleaning the blade of the sword on the prisoner's dress. Soon the blade sparkled again, the rays of the sun streaming through the window reflected on it.
The prisoner was now sweating; his left hand only had one finger remaining, and the side of the table where his hand was placed was covered with blood.
"Go ahead, kill me! I would rather die a man who fought for what is right than a traitor!
The prisoner said after groaning and gnashing his teeth. His oily hair was soaked with sweat, and so was the loose shirt he wore.
Ragaleon slowly raised the four fingers he had cut off in the air to take a good look at them.
"Take him away; do not feed him nor give him water. He is to be executed on the holy ground up in the execution tower for all to see."
He said before putting down the bleeding fingers on the table with a loud snap.
"Brandon, have the lord commander prepare the men for battle. We will be marching to Galveston in three days' time, and we will draw a battle line to the east of the valley."
That was his final command.
At his words Racheal smiled cunningly, then turned to look at Drigo with a smirk etched at the corner of her lips.
She rose to her feet, her brown curly hair flowering down her shoulders. With her green emerald eyes fixed ahead, she muttered.
"Meeting adjourned."