I stood at the balcony of my chambers gazing out the capital as the distant tolling of the capital's bells echoed through. Down below, the streets bustled with life, a lively scene threaded with the laughter of children that occasionally reached my ears. An aching heaviness gripped my chest, and a solitary tear traced its path down my cheek as I stood there, a silent witness to the vibrant life below. I did this. I made them happy, I made them successful, but it seems I won't be around to enjoy it.
I have been found out.
After my dinner with the druids, about a dozen knights came in and arrested me on orders of the old mage on accusation of been an imposter. It caused quite an uproar that almost led to an outbreak of intense battle. Seven knights died in the clash and it would have been more if the old mage didn't interfere. They came to a compromise with the knights on my side, led by the Knight chief. They agreed I should be restrained and kept under house arrest until the morrow's morning 'when the goddess of truth will be awake.' A spell was placed over my chambers and twelve knights posted outside. I can't leave the room, and no one can come in as I await a verdict I already know.
Should I just come clean? It's not like I did it intentionally, but would they care? These are hungry wolves with a pound of meat finally in their jaws and their tongues wet with raw blood. Do I really expect them to let go? I could find a compromise? Tell them I'm from another world, and I can save their kingdom with my world's ideas?
I felt pathetic considering it. They won't let me be king. Even if the citizens want it, there's no way the higher ups would. They will just make me a tool, a slave and it will be Robert Barnes all over again.
But you will still be alive.
┌─────── ⇦♕⇨ ───────┐
The news of the king of Drakoria must have spread across the continent during the night, as evidenced by the massive crowd.
The once-sleepy streets leading to the revered temple of Istina, the goddess of truth and justice, had transformed into a bustling sea of humanity. The air hung heavy with an almost tangible desperation, each heartbeat seemingly magnified by the weight of anticipation. The atmosphere, once vibrant with life, now resonated with an electric undercurrent of anxiety, like the calm before an impending storm. The very stones of the temple seemed to bear witness, their ancient façade a silent observer of the scene unfolding before them.
A palpable yearning hung in the air, a collective desire for the scales of truth to tip in favor of the king. Yet, beneath the surface, a silent understanding whispered through the hearts of the gathered multitude, acknowledging the painful truth that such a hope was but a fragile dream.
A hushed stillness settled over the surroundings as the young king stepped into view. His countenance bore a rugged handsomeness, his chiseled features accentuated by a strong jawline and tousled chestnut hair. His gaze, a piercing shade of azure blue. With each step he took, a sense of reverence seemed to ripple through the onlookers, an unspoken acknowledgment of his authority and significance. He was accompanied by the Drakorian knights as they escorted him through the massive crowd into the temple.
Within the soaring temple walls, a majestic dome crowned the sacred space, its ornate lattice allowing slivers of daylight to dance upon the mosaic floors. The air grew thick with warmth as the multitude filled every crevice, their collective breaths raising the temperature within. Amidst the throng, the royal knights, their armor clinking with each determined step, forged a path as they guided the king toward the heart of the temple. The altar of Istina, adorned with delicate carvings and draped in shimmering fabrics, beckoned with an air of solemnity. At its center, a small pool of water, pristine and glistening like a liquid jewel, reflected the flickering candlelight, casting a serene ambiance that held the weight of ages.
The priestess lowered her head in a respectful bow, but the King's silence remained unbroken. Throughout the procession, a composed demeanor adorned him, an unyielding mask that seemed to hide his emotions. His eyes held a glint of defiance as they rested upon the assembly of the royal court, a fleeting challenge that lingered before sweeping over the crowd. A subtle gesture from the priestess directed his attention to the platform ahead—a creation resembling the palm of a goddess, meticulously hewn from smooth rock. The King's hesitation was palpable, a momentary pause that hung in the air. With a quiet resolve, he ascended the platform, his movements deliberate, as if stepping onto a stage where the fate of a kingdom awaited its verdict.
The temple maidens, their attire reminiscent of ethereal sefere dresses, moved in a graceful procession, bearing a young lamb with a pristine, snowy coat that radiated purity. Guiding the lamb's journey, they approached the priestess, who held herself with an air of practiced reverence. With skilled hands, she accepted the lamb from their grasp, her fingers sure and unwavering. A blade adorned with intricate gold filigree was passed to her by one of the maidens, a symbol of solemn purpose. As the teen priestess knelt beside the sacred pool, the lamb's bleating voice filled the air, a haunting blend of fear and innocence. Her movements were swift and precise, as if choreographed by ancient rhythms. With a deft motion, she extended the lamb's delicate neck over the water's surface, her grip unyielding as the blade met its mark. A rush of crimson erupted, painting the air with a visceral splash, and the lamb's bleating reached a crescendo, a heart-wrenching symphony that reverberated through the sacred space. The priestess held firm, her hands steady as the lamb's life essence flowed into the pool, mingling with the clear waters and transforming them into a dark, swirling canvas. The spreading red tendrils wove through the water, a vivid testament to sacrifice and the delicate balance between mortality and the divine.
Abruptly, morning's vibrant sky surrendered to an ominous shadow, casting an eerie darkness upon the castle. As if at the command of an unseen force, the windows of the temple slammed shut, their crystal panes remaining unblemished by even the slightest fracture. A celestial radiance enveloped the king, a gentle illumination that seemed to linger solely upon his figure.
Amidst the enigma, a whispered breath of wind ghosted through the temple's hallowed space, its touch evading all sensation. The stifling warmth that had once permeated the air yielded to an alien coolness, as though an enigmatic presence had ventured forth, its unseen influence tangibly altering the very essence of the room.
"The goddess is amongst us," the voice of the priestess resonated, carrying an air of reverence. "Lay your claims."
Footsteps reverberated through the shrouded chamber, an approaching presence in the obscurity. Emerging from the shadows, a figure materialized—a wind mage named Sigrid Von Rüzgar. He halted several paces from the king, illuminated by the ethereal glow.
"He is not Daran Dragonhart," Sigrid's voice rang out, a declaration directed at the sacred altar.
A profound stillness lingered, a moment of suspense, before a voice, as if whispered by the very cosmos, responded. It held an essence of ancient wisdom and unearthly power, its resonance stirring the soul. "...False."