The hand of the king, Brandon, walked some distance behind Ragaleon as they trailed along the long hallway.
The silence was quite deafening, and an unknown tension hovered in the air, mostly due to Ragaleon's cold demeanor.
"I heard two of your wives engaged in a game of chess," Brandon said eventually, trying to begin a conversation that might lighten the King's mood.
"Jazell was declared the winner."
He continued.
"Racheal permitted her victory," Ragaleon replied, sounding utterly unconcerned.
Brandon stepped closer.
"And what makes you so certain?"
"Women are complicated, Brandon."
Ragaleon said lightly. "You will understand when you finally decide to encounter one, if ever such a day comes."
The last sentence was simply out of spite.
"I have no such plans for now," Brandon answered, a trace of stubbornness in his voice.
Ragaleon slowed and then spoke again.
"What are your thoughts about my wives?"
Ragaleon questioned as he walked; his long black royal attire enhanced his imposing presence.
His shoulder-length dark hair framed a face that was both sharp and striking, while his brown eyes held a steady, unsettling calm.
His broad frame gave him a commanding height, and his voice carried a deep, captivating resonance.
"That is not a suitable question, my Lord."
Brandon replied carefully.
"Are you the one to decide that?" Ragaleon said coolly.
"I know you do not have any intention towards my wives, Brandon; the question I asked is not born out of malice."
He continued before pushing open a door that led into a courtyard.
They seated themselves beneath the open sky. Tall palm trees swayed gently, and clusters of bright flowers softened the stern elegance of the palace surroundings.
"You were wise to pick your wives from different states across the nation."
Brandon began after a pause. "Each of your wives holds political value. They come from influential kingdoms."
"Tell me something unfamiliar," Ragaleon said flatly.
Brandon hesitated, unsure of what answer Ragaleon desired to hear.
"What exactly do you wish to hear, my Lord?" he asked.
"Do not weary me," Ragaleon said, pouring wine into a silver cup. He took his seat on a chair set arranged in a semicircle in the middle of the courtyard.
On a table, in the middle of the chairs, were a jug of wine and three silver cups.
"I am asking about their appearance and uniqueness.
Brandon shifted uncomfortably, a faint sheen of sweat forming on his brow.
"They are all… remarkably beautiful," he said at last. "You chose well."
So you do think they are beautiful?"
Ragaleon shot back immediately; Brandon was frightened to death.
"My lord, I...I did not mean it that way."
He quickly said, and Ragaleon nodded curtly, a playful smile playing at his lips.
"I am aware of that; I only meant to tease you. You are too serious; loosen up a bit. Talk to me not as a king, but as a brother would; we are not in court."
He said before topping his wine.
"I did not choose Racheal for beauty."
He continued, taking a slow sip. "I chose her because she can wield a sword. Few princesses can even control a horse, let alone fight."
"I have heard she is known as the Queen of Wisdom," Brandon said, filling his own cup.
Ragaleon regarded him thoughtfully.
"As have I; it is a confirmed title born out of truth. Racheal is indeed full of wisdom. I am yet to discover what title your sister holds; she is quite…unpredictable."
"Jazell has always been that way."
Brandon said quietly, his gaze drifting.
"She is cunning. Her words often carry hidden intent. And she is deeply unhappy."
"How did you endure living with her?" Ragaleon asked.
"We hardly spent time together," Brandon admitted. "She was always occupied. She was meant to ascend the throne of Vandamonth… until you appeared and claimed her as your second wife."
He emptied his cup and set it down heavily.
"And your father, the so-called Greedy King Jarob, did he truly intend to leave his empire to a woman?" Ragaleon asked, earning a dry smile from Brandon.
"So that is the name people use for him, 'greedy king Jarob'; it has a likeness to it.
He is selfish, ruthless, and forever dissatisfied. As though that were not enough, he married a woman just as self-absorbed, my mother, Kora."
He began to pour himself more wine, already intoxicated by the exotic taste of the wine.
"You must have had a terrible childhood."
Ragaleon remarked without sympathy.
"Not terrible," Brandon replied slowly.
"Frightening. My father has countless enemies. If I were taken one day, he might not even notice. My mother showed us little concern. Jazell ensured I survived, but she never allowed herself to grow attached. If forced to choose, she would always choose herself."
Ragaleon leaned back in his chair.
"Do you think I acted impulsively in executing Katie?"
A faint smirk touched Brandon's lips.
"I suspected that was the reason you summoned me."
Ragaleon's eyes darkened.
"You grow increasingly bold," he said.
"Perhaps," Brandon replied calmly. "Katie deserved her fate. Still, returning her body to her homeland sends a powerful message. You should prepare for war. The Kingdom of Canna will seek revenge."
"I showed restraint," Ragaleon said coldly.
"I considered tearing her apart and burning what remained. I wanted to hear her screams fade into nothing."
His gaze turned icy.
"You gave the household of Jesophath the privilege to bury their daughter," Brandon said carefully. "That was merciful. Yet it will not prevent what is to come."
Ragaleon nodded slightly.
"Be vigilant; these are perilous times. I have always known Gotham to be a reserved man, but his wife, Yumi… So many words I cannot tell with my mouth about her, but she is not one to be easily reckoned with."
"Do you still intend to take a new wife?"
Brandon had been harboring this question in his heart and chose the perfect time to say it.
Ragaleon smiled furtively before settling his cup down.
"Tell me, Brandon, why have you decided to remain alone your whole life?"
Brandon did not expect to hear that; he was short of words.
"Soon your manhood shall be slayed from its root and put to better use, because it will have no use. Do well to give it the pleasures it deserves."
Ragaleon had just dealt with Brandon without raising a finger, and Brandon had not seen this coming. With a reluctant sigh, he said,
"You are not called the Scorpion without reason."
.....
East of Decreash
A long, weather-worn house stood at the edge of the village like a silent watcher of passing seasons. Its sloping thatched roof, patched in places with uneven bundles of straw, dipped low over mud-plastered walls that had long since faded from their original color.
Wooden beams, darkened by years of smoke and rain, jutted out beneath the eaves, giving the structure a sturdy yet lonely presence.
Around the house, hens clucked restlessly, scratching at the earth with quick, determined movements. Feathers fluttered in the warm breeze as they darted between scattered baskets and broken clay pots, pecking at whatever grains they could find.
Nearby, a row of crude wooden sheds sheltered thin cattle, their hides twitching as they lazily swished their tails to drive away persistent flies.
The animals' heads were bent low to chew on dry fibers piled before them.
It was early in the morning, and the sun had only begun to peek through drifting clouds, and humid air clung to the earth like a thin veil.
Only a few women had stepped onto the narrow village paths at that hour. Some carried wooden buckets in their hands as they made their way toward the well, while others walked slowly with clay pots balanced carefully on their heads, the vessels heavy with freshly drawn water.
Their quiet footsteps and low morning chatter blended with the distant clucking of hens and the sleepy stirring of cattle.
Inside the lone house at the edge of the village, in a cramped and dim room, a young girl stood before a shattered mirror fixed unevenly to the wall.
Her fingers worked patiently through her wavy dark hair, rolling the thick strands together as she tried to gather them into a bun.
Her plump lips pressed into a thin line as she concentrated, carefully securing the rough knot with a pin before adjusting the sleeves of her worn, faded gown.
Through the open window, slender rays of early sunlight slipped into the room, brushing gently across her face and illuminating the quiet determination in her eyes.
She exhaled softly, her lips rounding as the tired breath escaped her.
For a moment, she stared at her reflection in the fractured mirror, at the girl staring back from between the cracks, before slowly turning her gaze away.
She slipped her feet into her old sandals and stepped into the narrow hallway. The earthen floor felt cool beneath her soles as she moved toward the central room, a cramped room next to the kitchen.
She meant to pass unnoticed, but the fragile stillness broke all the same.
"Micah?"
The faint call halted her instantly. Her eyes closed for a brief moment, as though bracing herself.
She lowered the foot she had half raised and turned back, resignation settling over her features.
"Father," she answered softly, changing the direction of her footsteps. She stepped into his room with her hand clasped before her, her big brown eyes trailing to the corner of the room.
"You need not go," he pleaded, his voice worn thin by weakness.
"Stay in for today."
Morning light filtered through the wooden window, falling in pale ribbons across his face and catching the silver threads scattered through his hair.
"I must go," Micah replied gently. "There is nothing left for us to eat. It is my duty to care for you… and for Berth."
She lowered herself beside him on the small bed. A rough blanket lay drawn over his frail body, rising and falling with each labored breath. He reached for her hand, his fingers trembling as they closed around hers.
"Do not leave," he murmured. "Your mother left one morning… and never returned."
"There is nothing to fear," Micah said, smoothing back the thinning strands of his hair with quiet tenderness.
"I will come back. I promise."
Once upon a time, he had been strong enough to shield his daughters from every hardship.
Now he could only watch as his strength deserted him, day by day.
"Then I shall come with you," he insisted, forcing himself to sit up, only for a fleeting moment before a harsh cough seized his chest.
"Please lie down," Micah urged, her brows knitting in worry.
"You are too weak. Your body cannot endure any stress. Rest. I will return before noon."
She glanced toward the window; dawn was only beginning to unfold across the sky.
"Be careful," he whispered. "Do not stray far from the farm. Take Berth with you… and return before sunset."
"I will," she assured him. "If you need me, ring the bell. Mrs. Crimmon's son, Tyre, will come to fetch me."
She gestured to the thin rope fastened beside his bed, disappearing through a small hole in the wall to the bell hung outside.
A simple contrivance born of necessity.
One pull would send its clear sound drifting across the yard, summoning help. I
Micah bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before rising to leave.
Outside, she quickened her steps, brushing away the tear that gathered at the corner of her eye.
Every passing day, she could feel his strength failing him. He would die, surely; it was inevitable.
As she went in search of her sister, she paused only once, closing her eyes while taking in a deep breath.
"The gods have already left me without a mother; must they also snatch my father from me?"