Telling of catastrophe is thankless business. Especially when you know: your words will destroy last illusions.
"Twelve days ago Kriver troops attacked the castle," each word came hard, like stones from earth. "Killed the king, queen, Sir Loyent and most of the servants."
I paused, letting words settle.
"From interrogating survivors learned: Loyn's son and the princess are alive. Kriver troops don't know yet. Your brother took a thousand soldiers and disappeared. The Storm sword with the mythical stone is missing. Though about the stone... maybe a beautiful fairy tale."
Lucian whistled:
"No wonder our teacher was de Mortvel. Strong man. Even in such a battle struck the enemy."
"Decided to negotiate with Kriver? Hush it up?" bewilderment in my voice.
Brandt slammed his fist on the table. The inkwell splashed dark drops on Monalia's map—new mourning marks.
"This bastard gave an ultimatum!" he exploded. "Refuse to fight or start against them— they'll destroy the civilian population! Threaten total cleansing of all territories, including those who might harbor heirs!"
Words hung like lead ingots. In the tent fell silence—that special one when you realize: cornered without a good exit.
Each thought of his own: what is honor when innocent lives are at stake; what is betrayal when alternative is genocide; how quickly the world crumbles that seemed unshakable.
Most of all—that there's no choice. And that's the heaviest of freedoms.
The meeting ended, leaving echo of words and bitter aftertaste. Ahead trials, but I felt alive—free in choice, responsible for those nearby. Even if life became pure absurdity mixed with blood and betrayal, you can't brush it off.
The night promised to be long. Somewhere deep in the soul hope flickered—fragile but alive, able to illuminate even the darkest heart.