Chapter 46: Side Story – Blackwater Crisis VIII

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An arrow clattered off the dragon’s neck, and his long neck curled to look at Timothy, who was drawing the bow back again to attack. She was knelt against the rock behind Daegyar.

‘Three.’

Timothy let loose another arrow, which splattered against the dragon’s scales. 

“Another rat comes to play,” Daegyar snarled, turning to face Timothy. However, he reached up a heavy claw. “Watch, little rat! I will slay your Deathsinger first, and then-“

‘Four’

The arrow struck against Daegyar’s claws, causing him to snarl, turning to face the woman. 

However, emerging from the rocks to Daegyar’s side appeared two warriors, each with a magical blade in hand, and one with two magical swords.

“Daegyar!” cried Kendrick, but before he could say anything, John charged forward with both blades in hand, ready to swing them.

Daegyar turned, struck by a fifth arrow formed of magic, but he charged towards John. 

John thrust both of the blades like a pair of horns, though was knocked aside by a huge claw. Kendrick swept around, bringing his blade down harshly against the dragon’s tail.

“Today is the day you die!” Kendrick exclaimed, rolling forward as he followed the tail, managing a glancing blow against Daegyar’s side as he turned to face him.

John coughed, but leapt back into action, fuelled by his rage. He pierced his blades through the dragon’s hide, feeling hot blood pour all over him. 

Both had seen the dead Iyrman, though they dared not mourn the death now.

More arrows struck Daegyar, but Daegyar paid them little mind, as the two warriors beside him were a larger threat. The Deathsinger had brought him low, but one of these fellows, he with the two swords, was still a whelp.

Both were still affected by the poison, so their bodies did not move as quickly or as sharply as they preferred, but they continued to hack into the large beast, which crashed up against them.

John let out a primal roar, cutting into the dragon’s tail, almost cleaving it through with the might of both swords, though it was drowned out by Daegyar’s screams.

Daegyar snarled, bringing a mighty claw down at John, who blocked the blow with both swords, though was brought low to his knees. He shook under the dragon, with Kendrick swinging wildly, striking and clattering up against the dragon’s scales. 

“Daegyar!” exclaimed a voice and Akrat leapt onto the back of the creature, driving his blade in deep to it.

Kendrick stared at Akrat in shock for a moment, but he drove his sword deep into the dragon’s side, who had turned towards the approaching Deathsinger.

‘The Deathsinger was not dead?’ Daegyar quickly turned, crashing his claw against John’s side to take him out of the fight. 

John’s armour gave in, feeling the bone taking out a chunk of his thigh, and he crashed back against a rock. He gasped for breath, his vision blurry, the world around him becoming more of a dream than reality.

Daegyar spun, striking Kendrick in the side, who fell towards John, though gripped his blade tight still.

“Deathsinger!” the black dragon cried, screeching into the air as another arrow struck it. He reared his long head back, tossing Akrat before him, before blasting the trio with his poisonous breath, which was no longer as harsh. 

Unfortunately for Daegyar, Akrat was heavily wounded, and so had dropped down when he was tossed. The poisonous breath rolled over him, blasting the two. 

Timothy shot another arrow at Daegyar’s neck, her eyes wide as both Kendrick and John turned purple and blue from the poison invading them. Blood began to pour out of their nostrils and ears.

“You’re on your last legs, Deathsinger! I will give you a worthy death!”

Akrat tried to stand, barely able to crawl as he shook. He pushed his sword into the ground and tried to stand. ‘Just one more hit! Baktu! I ask for one more hit!’

Daegyar opened his wings wide, blasting Akrat with wind, but the Deathsinger remained standing, and it charged in forward.

“Ha!” Kendrick roared, leaping off of Akrat’s back, blade in hand as he soared towards the dragon’s open maw. He pierced the dragon’s jaw, with body and blade. 

Daegyar screeched as a blade struck through his mouth, barely missing his tongue as it glued to his face, like a tiny horn. John pierced the dragon with both blades against his side, gripping it tightly.

Timothy leapt down, rushing to Kendrick as Daegyar began to ascend, almost falling aside from the lack of strength. John remained glued to the dragon’s side, refusing to let go. 

She scrambled up to Kendrick, grabbing the necklace to put onto her Captain.

“No,” Kendrick coughed. “Akrat.”

Timothy stared at him, but she nodded, turning to Akrat who was still unable to stand. He coughed up blood. Timothy placed the necklace around his neck, and stared at him.

Kendrick raised his sword, striking Akrat with all his might, for how else was a man to kill an Iyrman? “I’m sorry, Ak-,” his voice cut off as the necklace burst and he was pushed back, rolling away from them.

The necklace filled Akrat with vitality, allowing him to stand. “Daegyar!” he roared, before he opened his eyes wide and stared around. He first glanced at Kendrick, who was on his front.

A boom echoed, and the dragon fell from the sky, landing between a set of rocks nearby. It twitched, but could not move. 

“No!” Daegyar wailed, weakly.

“Akrat,” Kendrick called, coughing up blood. “Akrat.”

Akrat quickly approached, turning the Captain over. “I am here, Captain Kendrick.”

“Akrat,” Kendrick coughed, staring up at him. “I don’t want to die alone.”

“No Iyrman dies alone,” Akrat said, removing the man’s helmet. “I will fight to bring you back to the Iyr.”

Timothy’s tears were pouring down her cheeks as she stared at her dying Captain, whose face was pale and purple, his veins completely black. The armour around him had been torn apart by the dragon’s teeth, and blood was pouring out of the holes.

Kendrick smiled at her. “You were never officially accepted into the Royal Guard,” he said. “You can walk away from this.” He could feel the blood entering his lungs. “Promise me, Akrat. Promise me that you’ll take good care of her.”

“I promise you, I will take good care of her.” Akrat bowed his head.

“Tell John,” Kendrick struggled with the words, trying to declare them as he coughed, “he’s Captain.” He looked back up at Timothy, his lips twitching into a smile. Blood poured from the corners of his lips as he fell forever still.

Akrat closed his eyes, bowing his head. He stood, turning to see Daegyar still twitching, gasping for breath. He and Timothy approached the dying form of Daegyar.

John lay there, crushed under Daegyar. His left side was bloodied, from the explosion of magic from the sword. He had called the blade to his hand, but he didn’t grip the blade. His right arm was splayed out, trying to reach for Randal’s sword beside him, but even so, he had no strength to lift it.

“Captain John,” Akrat called, dropping to a knee beside the Royal Guard, removing his helmet to reveal the sickening appearance of the young warrior. 

John’s lips twitched, tears falling down his face. Akrat’s form was already blurry, but through the tears, the blurred form was made worse. “Akrat.”

“I cannot save you,” Akrat said, his voice cold and regretful. He had been given the necklace, denied the right to die.

“Daegyar is still breathing,” he said. “I can feel it.”

Timothy aimed an arrow at the dragon, but Akrat pulled the bow aside. He looked down to his sword, patting the handle. ‘This isn’t our story.’ The Iyrman walked over to John’s right, and pulled Randal’s sword to his hand. He held the young man’s hand, helping him grip it. 

“Is it Randal’s sword?” John asked, hopeful. 

“Yes,” Akrat replied, forcing the blade through into Daegyar, who shuddered, and finally fell still.

John smiled. “Will I be able to see them? Charles. George. Randal. Captain Kendrick?”

“I will bring you to the Iyr,” Akrat assured.

“I’m a hero too, huh?” John asked, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to smile.

“Yes,” Akrat said. “Well done, John, Slayer of Daegyar.”

“It wasn’t worth it,” he admitted, frowning now that he had no strength to smile. “I wish we had returned.” John’s eyes glazed over, and a small smile appeared on his face, thinking of better days. 

Timothy dropped before him, brushing his hair gently, until the life in his eyes faded. She closed his eyes, no longer afraid of seeing or touching the poisoned appearance of her comrade. She had wished she had sent Kendrick off like this too.

“It’s done,” Akrat said, looking at the still dragon, having been killed by their efforts. He had promised them the glory, and they had all died. 

“It wasn’t worth it,” Timothy agreed.

They buried the warriors, with Timothy unable to weep any longer. Akrat cut the dragon’s head with Randal’s sword, and he made a make shift sled for the dragon’s head, tying it to the raft as he dragged it.

When they returned to the village, they saw the head of Daegyar, which had ruled over them for so long. The villagers swarmed the Deathsinger and the woman, cheering for them. 

“I have returned,” Akrat said, looking down at Bili. 

“I stayed here to fight,” Bili said. “Soldiers came and I fought them.”

“You did well,” Akrat said, handing the shortsword back. “The blade struck Daegyar.”

“Did you kill him?” Bili asked.

“No,” he said. “John did.”

Bili nodded his head, holding the other sword to Akrat, who stared at it for a long moment.

“The sword is yours now, Bili,” he said. 

Bili smiled. 

The tale was told, and the songs were sung.

Timothy and Akrat remained at the village for some time, assisting in forming a cohesive fighting unit, as well as a way to manage various different villages under a single leader. 

Akrat revealed a few of the Iyrman’s techniques to the villagers, allowing them to adopt some of the way the Iyrmen, the Deathsingers, structured their people and daily lives.

A banner was made, a fiery red sword, based on the sword which had slain Daegyar, on a background of black, the colour of Daegyar’s scales.

It was about that time, the moon shone over the Iyr as four Iyrmen returned, bringing gold, jewels, magical weapons, and more importantly, a tale.

“You’ve returned, young Tamin,” the Chief said, looking to Tamin and the three others. 

“Chief, I have returned with glory!” Tamin declared. “I have another tale to tell, a greater tale than my own!”

The Chief sat, intrigued by the young Tamin’s words. “Who was it that brings about a greater story than yours?” 

“You’ve heard?” Tamin joked. Of course the Chief had, for the tale had travelled as quickly as they did. “Well, let me tell you who I met!”

Tamin spoke about his tale, and how he had met with Akrat, revealing what the young Iyrman had been up to.

“The two of you have worked hard,” the Chief said, his lips forming the widest of smile. “We will need to bring back those who had been adopted into the Rat family.”

“I can’t wait for his return!” Tamin said. “I wish to hear the tale from his lips, of how he slew Daegyar!” 

The Chief smiled. Even though the pair had fought since their birth, they were also like this, and he could only be glad that such youngsters were born in the latest generation. “With the two of you leading the helm the Iyr’s future will be secure.”

Tamin, who had brought back so much glory, including half a hoard and three favours of a dragon, had been given the right to contest for the main family position for his offspring. ‘Hurry back quickly, Akrat!’

Months passed as Akrat and Timothy made their way south, passing North Fort, and then made their way along the mountain to the nearby town. They told their tale, and then travelled along the river system, spreading news of their tale where they went.

“Did you hear that, Kasomin?” Shakrat asked. “Daegyar! My little brother slew Daegyar!” He drank down the piss they called ale at the capital city.

“It seems our little brothers are more impressive than we,” Kasomin said, biting into some bread. Compared to the Iyr, the food tasted terrible, but there was a novelty to it. 

“Isn’t my little brother more amazing?” Shakrat snickered, smirking wide at Kasomin.

“Didn’t he take more men with him?”

“The final tale was that there were four, three of them not of our kin!”

“They were adopted into your family, weren’t they?” Kasomin replied, raising his brow.

“That they were!” Shakrat roared with laughter.

“So isn’t it equally as impressive?” Kasomin paused, before rubbing his forehead. “Don’t say it!” Akrat was also there to assist his younger brother, whereas Akrat slew the dragon with only four, and had also helped the drakken with their independence. 

“Whilst we went around chasing that silver dragon, our younger brothers drove back one and slew another.” Shakrat sighed. “How those little brats grew up so fast.” Shakrat recalled his brother reaching for his finger, squeezing it when he was a few months old. 

“Looks like we’ll have to step aside for them.” Kasomin smiled. “I guess one of them will become the Chief, and the other, a Great Elder?”

“Your brother will be Chief, no doubt,” Shakrat said, nodding his head. “He has the charisma for it, and he’s a lot wiser than we Rats.”

“Your brother would be Elder Teacher? Elder Peace? Elder Wrath?” Kasomin wondered, knowing how eager Akrat was to fight, but since he also helped liberate a few people, he’d know about peace. “Maybe not Elder Peace.” It wasn’t the Iyr kind of peace which Akrat was suited for.

“He will be whatever he wants to be!” Shakrat declared, raising a glass for a toast.

“Iyrmen are always so noisy, huh?” a patron said, chuckling. “I never thought a tusked one would be allowed to walk freely in the capital.”

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“Are you going to stop him?” his companion asked.

“Are you fucking stupid?” The patron returned to his drink. He just wanted some attention.

Akrat and Timothy stood to see the gates of the capital city, the large walls around it which protected it. The capital was set up against the hills, with the palace at the highest point. It was a large city, slightly larger than the Iyr, and about as defensible, save for the over a hundred miles of plains which led up to its doorstep, right from the Iyr.

“State your business,” the guards said as the pair approached. They both wore blades at their sides, with a cloak made of black scales. The guards were used to welcoming strangers with weapons, though they had to be careful still.

Akrat undid his hood, revealing his orcish tusks to them, causing them to reach for their blades, before they noted his tattoo.

“Iyrman,” the guards gasped. 

“I am Akrat, son of Ikrat, who has driven back Rogryaen and slew Daegyar!” Akrat declared. “This is my wife, Timothy, of the Royal Guard!”

“Akrat? The Akrat?”

“The slayer of Daegyar, he said!” The guards glanced between one another. 

“Royal Guard?”

“We will send word to the King!” The guard quickly nodded his head to another guard, who quickly ran with the message, heading up the steps. He would make his way towards the inner city, dropping his weapons at the gate before he stepped inside.

“We will meet him,” Akrat said, smiling wide, marching his way inside, following the main road forward, towards the looming palace. 

As they approached the inner city, the guards outside held out their hands. “Disarm!”

“I am Akrat, son of Ikrat! I have come to meet with the King!” He pressed forward.

The guards glanced between one another. “The dragon slayer.”

“You cannot press forward until you disarm!”

“Disarm?” Akrat raised his brows, reaching for his sword. “You would ask an Iyrman to disarm?” He glared at the guards.

“We cannot allow you to step inside.”

“I have come for my reward!” Akrat declared. “Now step aside!” He didn’t trust these guards, in case they were to delay his meeting with the King.

The guards held their hands out still, as Akrat had yet to step inside or draw his blade. Akrat pressed forward, still not yet drawing his sword, stepping towards the boundary of the inner city.

‘Can we attack an Iyrman?’ The message was sent between guards through a look.

‘I have no fucking clue.’

Timothy grabbed Akrat’s shoulder, before shaking her head at him. It was the law. None could step into the inner city with a weapon, not unless they were given permission to by the King. Even she would need to be given permission, and since she hadn’t been given any new orders, she wouldn’t be able to.

Akrat grabbed onto her wrist, pulling her inside to his embrace gently. “No one will dare lay a hand on you now that I am here,” he said, pulling her towards the inner city. Akrat stepped back, his heel striking the floor of the inner city, a blade strapped to his side. Timothy half fell against his front, blushing up at him from their public embrace, stepping into the inner city, also with a blade at her side.

It has all been so quick. The guards turned, drawing their blades. “Iyrman! Woman! Surrender, or we will have to force you to submit.”

Akrat noted the swords pointed at the back of Timothy. His forehead pulsed, and he furrowed his brows. “You have drawn your swords,” he said to the guards. “It is too late now.” 

“Oi! Oi!” called a fellow who stumbled into the nearby inn. “An Iyrman’s come! The slayer of Daegyar!”

Shakrat and Kasomin turned to face him, each holding the leg of a cooked chicken to their lips. 

“They say he’s going to meet the King! I saw him, I did, with his cloak made of shadow! He-”

The Iyrmen threw one another a glance before they quickly stormed out, dropping gold coins onto the table as they washed down the food with their drinks, tossing aside the mugs. 

Shakrat couldn’t help but let out a roar of a laugh. “That little brat brother of mine! I knew he’d come here!”

“How long did you force me to stay here?” Kasomin laughed. “Finally! I want to hear it from his lips!”

As they approached the centre of the city, a large number of guards were forcing people back. A scream pierced through the air, and the Iyrmen’s eyes fell to the figures in the distance. 

“Akrat!” Shakrat exclaimed, reaching for his sword, his eyes wide in utter shock. He watched as his brother was cut down by a man in a white cloak, that of the Royal Guard.

Kasomin placed a hand on Shakrat’s shoulder. “Wait,” he said, stepping forward quickly, leading Shakrat forward before he could protest.

As they approached the front, pushing aside the crowd, they saw the scene before them. Four guards, each dead, with Akrat being dragged away, and an unconscious pregnant woman being dragged away too.

“What is-“ Kasomin began.

“Unhand them!” Shakrat roared, drawing his sword high before stepping towards the inner city.

By this point, a dozen guards had arrived, as well as an additional ten Royal Guard. As they saw the approaching Iyrmen, they drew their weapons and stepped forward to meet them.

‘Damn it, Shakrat.’ However, Kasomin couldn’t blame him, after all, his brother was currently being dragged away, bleeding profusely.

The Royal Guards remained focused as the two Iyrmen approached, a tusked one enraged, with his sword drawn. Of course it was a tusked one who was causing issues. The other guards looked at the Royal Guards to see if they were going to engage.

“What is the meaning of this,” Kasomin asked, eventually drawing his sword. 

“Enough!” The King stepped forward onto the scene, surrounded by ten Royal Guard, looking out to the scene. “You will sheath your weapons, all of you!” He threw out a hand towards his guards, who did as he commanded.

Master Whiteheart appeared, watching the scene unfold. ‘What a delicious feast.’ He almost smiled. 

“Explain what happened immediately!” The King demanded.

“The Iyrman stepped into the inner city with his weapon, and he had brought back a traitor,” Commander Roger said, “so I cut him down.”

“A traitor?” the King asked, before realising he had just said he had cut down an Iyrman. ‘I told you to subdue the Iyrman, not cut him down!’

“Timothy came with her blade into the inner city,” the Commander said. 

The King inhaled deeply. That was not something which could be forgiven so easily. A Royal Guard who had, without permission, walked into the inner city with her blade at her side. The Royal Guard could not break this rule, not unless they had been given permission. This would be used against him by the others, no doubt.

“The punishment for treason is execution,” Master Whiteheart said, standing tall, his hands behind his back.

The King narrowed his eyes. “They are heroes of our country, and you ask for me to execute them?”

“The laws must be obeyed, hero or otherwise.”

“You would execute an Iyrman?” Kasomin shouted towards the King, his brow pulsing too.

“Do not stop me, Kasomin! I won’t allow them to shame my brother like this.” Shakrat’s rage threatened to consume him.

“He won’t d-“

“You dare to speak your tongue in front of the King?” Whiteheart shook his head. “Your Grace, they could be planning to attack you.”

‘Damn it, Iyrmen. Why are you making this so difficult for me?’ The King inhaled deeply. “You two are no longer welcomed within the capital! I do not know of what you spoke, but I hold you Iyrmen in high regard, so I will only ask that you leave, peacefully. Guards, escort them out at once!” This is all he could do. Any more, and there could be a greater tension.

“You!” Shakrat gripped his blade tighter, but Kasomin pulled him back. 

“Word will be sent to the Iyr about this matter!” Kasomin declared. “We walked in to see one of ours wounded by a Royal Guard! When the King was-“

“Enough!” Whiteheart shouted. “Do you believe this is the Iyr, where you may do as you please? The King has ordered for your removal! If you do not wish to go peacefully, we will force you out by spear tip!”

The guards stepped forward, their spears at the ready. Two of the Royal Guard stepped forward, taking command of the guards. 

Kasomin pulled Shakrat back, seeing the rage about to boil over. “Come, Shakrat. We must send word back to the Iyr. I do not believe the King would be foolish enough to execute your brother.” 

Shakrat barely managed to keep himself calm, but he nodded his head, sheathing his sword.

“Do you see how blatantly they challenge your authority?” Whiteheart said. “The Iyrmen come with no respect! They stepped into the inner city with their weapons. Now they dare declare what you can and cannot do.”

The King grit his teeth. If only they had allowed him to save face. “The laws are clear, Iyrmen! Those who break the laws must be held accountable! The Iyrman will be executed immediately!” 

Shakrat turned, glaring at the King, reaching for his sword, but Kasomin grabbed onto his elbow quickly.

“You cannot do this!” Kasomin shouted at the King. “The treaty is clear! The Iyrmen must be tried in the courts of their home!”

“The Iyrman committed treason! He has broken one of our sacred laws! He should be held accountable!”

“Akrat is an Iyrman! The treaty is clear!” Kasomin shouted, hoping the King would listen.

“I have the greatest respect for Iyrmen, but there are limits you cannot cross!” Solomon understood he couldn’t fight the Iyrmen. “I will ask you to leave this city immediately! Inform your Chief of the matter, and tell him I will grant him an audience to discuss the matter!”

Kasomin grit his teeth. “I will watch your brother’s death,” Kasomin said, placing a hand on Shakrat’s shoulder, who was seconds away from paving the streets red. 

The King grit his teeth again. “You will leave immediately, Iyrmen! Guards! Escort them out! If they do not obey, you have my permission to subdue them!”

The pair of Iyrmen almost snap. To think he wouldn’t allow them to see the last moment, to hear the last words. ‘He wants to declare war this badly?’

Shakrat roared, grabbing at his sword, but Kasomin grabbed the man. 

“If you draw your sword now, who will inform the Iyr?” Kasomin asked, feeling his own rage crash through his body. “We must return, Shakrat.” As he dragged Shakrat away, who was unable to even think, he found one of the associates in the crowd of people, and brushed his cheek with two fingers. 

“The matter of the execution, I will leave it to you, Master Whiteheart.” King Solomon exhaled, rubbing his forehead. He stepped back, heading to the palace. ‘I need a drink.’

‘Isn’t this the perfect moment?’ Whiteheart thought, seeing the entire crowd. “Execute them at the top of the hour,” he said to one of his workers.

Shakrat slammed his fists on the earth outside the capital city, alarming the guards nearby, who kept a close eye on the Iyrmen. “You would have me stand outside, unable to watch my brother’s last moments? Hear his last words?”

“Would you have me declare war? Who are we? Elder Peace?” Kasomin asked, crossing his arms, digging his fingers into his bicep and tricep. “Undoubtedly, your brother killed the four guards, and he wore his weapon around his hip. Undoubtedly, if your brother is executed, the King has broken the treaty. We must return to the Iyr.”

Shakrat slammed his head into the earth, clenching his fists. How could he just stand here? How could he not go in and fight? “Kasomin! My little brother!” He closed his eyes, slamming his head further against the earth. He recalled the first moments his brother walked. The first time he had swung his sword. The first kill. “Kasomin.” He continued to slam his head down on the earth, before standing, half dead. He roared, drawing his sword, ready to spill blood. 

Kasomin, having heard the request from the tone of Shakrat’s voice, drew his sword to beat the man unconscious. He would not be able to remain conscious and allow his brother to die. ‘How cruel of you, Shakrat. Why must I hear the news alone?’

“Akrat, I’m scared,” Timothy said to Akrat’s barely conscious body in the other cell. They had been dragged to the cells, so dark and dingy. Foreign sounds clattered against the walls. 

Akrat panted heavily, barely alive from the wound. It had been wrapped up in a hurry, and Akrat couldn’t help but feel enraged he had allowed someone to strike him down from behind. He struggled against the bindings on his feet and arms.

“Come with me, traitor!” A guard grabbed Timothy by her hair, dragging her away.  

“Akrat! Akrat!” Timothy called, sobbing as she was dragged away. What could she do? “Akrat, save me!”

Akrat snarled, tossing himself forward towards them, slamming his head against the bars, watching them drag her away. He could only hear her sob, recalling how confident he had been not a half hour ago. 

He could hear the sobbing for some ways, before there was nothing. He heard soft words from afar, but they were a mumble. The sound of his blood dripping down his forehead hit the floor. 

They came for him too, arms grabbing him, helping him up. They dragged him out, the evening sun falling down, and he could barely see the flickering fires which had been lit to illuminate him. The crowd was a blur, one he did not look towards. He searched for her body, but could not find it, save for the blood on the block.

He did not trust them to give him his last words, so he inhaled deeply, and shouted. “I am Akrat, son of Ikrat, and I have brought shame to my family! The blood of my unborn child shall be paid! They did not bring shame to their family!” He dropped down, his head in the block which would guide the sword. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking at the fresh blood, feeling it against his neck. It was so cold. 

Whiteheart gave a nod to the guard, who drew out his sword and stepped towards the Iyrman. 

“The blood of his unborn child?” The King had watched from atop the palace, and his stomach dropped. “St-“ he tried to shout as the guard swung the blade across, cutting the Iyrman’s head.

‘How did they not tell me she was pregnant? What did we do?’ He rubbed his forehead. He needed to at least show some good will, trying to salvage what little he could. “Take their weapons and send them back to the Iyr.”

In all his years, he had never felt this feeling which struck deep inside his core. He had used his gut to guide him this entire time, working on keeping the Kingdom together, but this time he felt as though he had committed the worst mistake. 

“Expand the guard,” the King said, “double it. Increase the Swordbearers as well.”

Kasomin remained sitting outside the city walls, the unconscious body of Shakrat behind him, and another five figures, dressed all in darkness, standing around him. 

He stared at the five pieces of papers in his hands. “Are you sure those were his last words?” he asked, not wanting to believe it. He revealed it to the shadows, who nodded their heads. 

Kasomin placed a hand on his forehead, covering his teary eyes. “I’m sorry, Shakrat. I shouldn’t have stopped you.” This was a betrayal he’d never be able to fix. He could have stepped back, to let Shakrat die the most honourable way, and he could have returned to the Iyr alone. ‘No, they could have killed me on the way back, then what kind of nonsense would they spread?’

“Spread the tale,” Kasomin said. “Tell all what truly happened. Tell them, the Iyr does not forget.”

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I'm sad.

Not because it still isn't done, but because, you know.

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