“But you’re telling me all of this now.”
“Don’t interrupt me, my Prince, I haven’t finished my story.”
Atikus had still been wandering through the labyrinths of his mind when the discussion reached a dead end.
“You want to bury your nose in the sand, brother!” Primus slammed his hands down on the table and rose from his seat. Many of the people there agreed with him.
“What do you suggest we do instead?” Haver’s voice was calm, but his eyes shone with anger. “Go to war again? Which war will this? We’ve had what, 17 of them in the past three years?”
“That doesn’t matter! You know perfectly well that only the strongest survive in this world!”
“Are you trying to get into a useless argument about whether the best sword created by the best blacksmith can split his best shield that he also made? We don’t need to rely on the sword alone to become stronger! ”
Atikus knew a bit about the ancient tale: A god had once approached the best mortal blacksmith. He’d asked him to forge two things — a sword capable of splitting any shield in half and a shield capable of withstanding the attack of any sword. The General didn’t quite remember how that story ended. The blacksmith had been a young, brilliant man. He’d loved the same girl that the god had loved. Because of this, the god had chosen to give him an impossible task. When the man failed, the god turned the girl to stone and banished the blacksmith to distant lands. From that day onward, nothing was known about the young man, the girl, or the god. The question of whether the sword or the shield would be better remained a mystery.
“We don’t live in fairytales, Haver!” Primus’ tone of voice reflected his fury. “There are no impregnable fortresses! Our people can’t hide behind walls forever, trembling in fear at every step an enemy takes near our borders! The best defense is to attack. Don’t forget what our father taught us!”
“Our father could’ve been wrong,” Haver said. “Maybe instead of winning the fight and striking first, it is better to avoid the fight altogether.”
“That’s what a coward would say!”
Haver became angry. He rose, and the air around him was suddenly so heavy that the weakest among those present found it difficult to breathe.
“Don’t forget, brother, that you’re talking to the King!”
“I remember, brother!” Primus struck his fist against the wall, which made deep cracks ripple across the ancient masonry. “You condemn us all to death! Your people! The whole country that our ancestors died for! Our enemies will tear us apart if we show them any weakness!”
“This council is over!” The King shouted. “I order you to build new fortresses and forts! We won’t fight!”
“You’ve doomed us all,” Primus shook his head. “But you’re used to that, aren’t you? Sending other people to their deaths?”
“Shut up, Primus,” Haver almost whispered, “before you say something that you’ll later regret.”
“Regret? The only thing I regret is that I carried Leonora in my arms, instead of you carrying Elizabeth! Or did you perhaps listen to me, brother, and have begun to investigate? Maybe you’ve visited the Empire? Or did you just decide to forget all about it? Forget how you betrayed your own brother and his bride?”
Atikus didn’t remember what happened next. He’d tried to shout, say something, anything, about the fairy and her curse, but then the world once again plunged into that familiar fog. This time, it lasted longer than five minutes.
The General only awoke once he was back in his chambers. Primus stood before him and was telling him about his plan. It was sneaky, bloody, and full of the sort of blind rage that a person could only feel for those closest to them.
Primus had found a vein of Solar ore. He wanted to use it to secure the patronage of the Empire. He wanted to leverage it to strengthen Lidus, make it the strongest in the region, turn it into such a powerful country that it would never have to fight again simply because no one would ever dare to even look toward their borders. No one else would ever again have to carry their beloved to the funeral pyres in their arms. However, for this to work, the King had to die, and that meant he needed Atikus’ help.
“You owe me, Atikus. Don’t forget that.”
Primus left the room and the General was now alone. The moon shone through the window. Its light seemed to shine like an executioner’s blade. Atikus understood Primus’ motives perfectly. He could see the mistakes that Haver had made over the past month. Fatal mistakes, ones that could cost them millions of lives. Even then, he was still his best friend. Just like Elizabeth. Like Primus. He couldn’t imagine himself killing any of them, even if things had changed.
And then there was the little Prince — reckless, innocent, and amiable to everyone. He was a small bundle of light in this bloody sea woven from the crimson darkness. If they killed the King, they would have to kill Hadjar as well.
Leonora and Primus hadn’t had the time to get married, and their son, about whom only a few people knew, was nothing more than a bastard in the eyes of the law. He could never take the throne...
Atikus looked at the moon one last time and unsheathed the dagger that he hadn’t given to
