Voice of the Storm
Anxiety crept into the castle as an uninvited guest—not thunder amid clear sky, but stealthily, like chill before a storm. It flowed through corridors as stone breath, seeped through cracks in walls, settled on the heart as metallic taste in the mouth.
In anxiety, go to the hall—simple rule for complicated times, instruction ancient and unshakable as these walls themselves.
When I entered, the hall already breathed fear. Servants huddled together like sparrows under icy rain, the royal guard stood with tense faces. And in the midst— the princess, slender and pale as moon in misty haze, but with proud posture, as if an invisible corset of pure will wouldn't let her bend.
The air was heavy as before a thunderstorm. And in this silence full of forebodings stood Leyont de Mortvel.
His figure—immobility itself, carved from granite of sorrow and steel of resolve. Eyes deep, dark, holding secrets. When he spoke, each word lay on the soul like a pebble in still water—with ripples of consequences.
— Our kingdom has met trouble now, — he said, and his voice, calm and firm, cut through the oppressive silence. — Kriver has declared war on us.
A sigh swept through the hall, like the moan of wind in a ruined tower. Words fell into the crowd like a stone in stagnant water. Someone sobbed, someone convulsively crossed themselves. And I thought: here it is, politics in all its glory—others' ambitions, and we'll pay.
— We need a plan to save the princess, — continued Leyont, surveying the gathered with a gaze that saw through each. — While you think, I'd like to talk with Loyn.
My heart did a somersault. With me? We went to a small room where heavy tapestries muffled sounds from outside. Smell of old leather, parchment, and something elusively sad hung in the air.
— We have very little time, — he said, and in his voice, usually unyielding, sounded a shadow of fatigue. — I need to tell you the whole truth. No extra questions.
I nodded. Words stuck in my throat.