《The Weeping Witch》 Prolouge: The Blood-Soaked Dawn The night was cold for early autumn. A large, foreboding man¡ªKing Basque¡ªstood at the edge of the alchemist encampment, his breath fogging the air as his piercing cognac eyes scouted the battlefield. The once serene valley, now bore the scars of war¡ªcharred earth, smoldering fires, and the acrid stench of death. His heart, once steadfast and resolute, trembled under the magnitude of his actions. The war he had brought to these peaceful lands, the atrocities he had sanctioned in the name of his people¡ªthey gnawed at him like a festering wound. A venomous voice whispered in his ear, its virulent words contorting and distorting the king¡¯s mind, like a snake coiling around his heart. Loppe Auclair, royal advisor and the king¡¯s most trusted confidant, began to approach him. Loppe¡¯s truths were sharp, unclouded by doubt, but above all, they were convenient. The king¡¯s army would have been quickly dispatched by the alchemists, but Loppe had devised an ingenious solution¡ªdark, clear crystals, synthesized by the capital¡¯s foremost alchemists, with the ability to drain the mana of even the most powerful alchemist. Equipped with such tools, the knights stood a fighting chance, and after hours of brutal resistance, they finally subjugated the nomads. By midnight, all that remained was a blaze of hellfire and a river of blood. Basque rode through the ruins, his sword still gleaming with the blood of the fallen. His chest heaved, his veins burning from the sweltering heat. Yet, as he surveyed the carnage, a shadow of chilling doubt crept into his mind. He gripped his chest, attempting to recompose himself, when Loppe¡¯s face finally entered the light¡ªbloodied but unharmed.
¡°Your Majesty! Our mission was a great success! Only one threat remains. It seems only right that you should be the one to take care of it.¡±
Basque nodded, tightening his grip around his sword hilt, ready to dispatch whatever threat had been foolish enough to linger. He followed Loppe through the remains of the camp, past the bodies of the men, women, and children they had slaughtered that night. The king¡¯s stomach turned, and the guilt violently clawed at his throat. He could feel his sword growing heavier and heavier as the night went on. At last, they arrived at a large tent hidden among trees and shrubbery, untouched by the flames. Basque stepped inside, his heart slowing in relief. One more life, and this nightmare would be over. He could finally return to his family¡ªto his wife, to his son. He unsheathed his sword, ready to strike down the last foe. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, his heart froze.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. There, swaddled in white sheets, lay an infant¡ªno more than a few weeks old. The child gazed up at him with wide, innocent eyes, untainted and faultless. Basque¡¯s stomach churned, and he gagged. This¡ªthis helpless child¡ªwas the final threat, the final life he would have to take. For a moment, his resolve faltered. The sword in his hand felt unbearably heavy. The child¡¯s gaze pierced his hardened heart, carving a single word into his soul: Mercy. Could he spare this one life? Could he defy the duty that demanded such a monstrous act? Loppe¡¯s voice cut through the fog in his mind.
¡°If you let this boy live, he will surely grow up with vengeance in his heart. He will bring death and destruction to your doorstep, and in your old age, you will be powerless to stop him.¡±
Basque¡¯s voice came out in a whisper, trembling with disgust and anger.
¡°Your words go too far, Loppe¡­ how could you possibly ask me to do such a thing?¡± ¡°He is the offspring of the very devils we came here to purge. How can you come this far, then turn away? Do you wish to see everything you fought for be undone?¡±
Loppe spoke firmly, with impatience.
¡°This child is not one of them,¡±
The king snapped, his voice rising.
¡°I will not take the life of an innocent child!¡±
Loppe¡¯s eyes narrowed.
¡°He will hunt you to the ends of the Earth. Spare him, and you risk everything¡ªyour kingdom, your family.¡±
The infant began to cry, startled by the shouting. Basque¡¯s heart ached. He wanted to save the child, to defy his duty. But Loppe¡¯s words coiled around his neck, tightening like a noose. Images flooded his mind¡ªhis son¡¯s fragile smile, his wife¡¯s gentle touch. Could he risk their lives for the sake of mercy? Could he afford to be kind when kindness was so costly? Torn between duty and conscience, he hesitated. But the weight of his crown pressed down on his blade, and he did not stop himself. He was a king¡ªa protector. If becoming a monster was the price of his people¡¯s safety, so be it. With a shuddering breath, he steeled himself. The blade fell. The crying ceased. He stood over the lifeless form, the horror of his actions settling over him like a shroud. His knees buckled, and he retched, the bile burning his throat.
¡°You have ensured your kingdom¡¯s safety,¡±
Loppe said, his grin wide and triumphant.
¡°Well done, Your Majesty.¡±
Basque rose unsteadily, his back to the tent, unable to face what he had done.
¡°I have done the right thing,¡±
He whispered, more to himself than to Loppe.
¡°I have made the right decision.¡±
He mounted his steed and rode into the morning light. The chapter had turned, and his nightmare was over. Chapter 1: When The Crown Falls The sun dipped low in the mid-afternoon sky, covering the palace courtyard in a warm golden glow. Prince Marcel stood in the training ground, breathing steadily. Sweat beaded on his brow, yet his grip remained firm around the hilt of his sword. King Basque stood on the nearby balcony, his gaze steady and inscrutable. Sir Acheron Martin¡ªa knight of the king¡¯s guard¡ªlunged forward, his blade piercing the air. But the prince was quicker, pivoting at the last moment, the blade barely grazing his armor. He responded with a strike of his own, cutting with power and precision. The knight blocked the blow, but the force knocked him off balance. With one fluid motion, Acheron was on his knees, Marcel¡¯s blade at his throat. A quiet murmur of shock rippled through the audience of courtiers and guards. Marcel lowered his sword, his chest heaving with exhaustion, but his eyes darted around, searching for his father. The king remained impassive, his face cold and stoic, giving his son a small nod of approval.
¡°Well fought, young master. Your swordplay is truly magnificent,¡±
Sir Acheron said as the prince helped him to his feet.
¡°I could say the same for you, Sir Acheron. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve fought so hard in my life!¡±
Marcel replied, a grin peeking through his fatigue.
¡°You flatter me, young master,¡±
the knight chuckled.
¡°That is enough for today. You may all return to your tasks,¡±
the king¡¯s voice echoed across the courtyard, and with the wave of his hand, the attendees began to disperse. The men sheathed their blades and stepped towards the balcony, wiping the sweat from their brows.
¡°You did well, Marcel,¡±
the king said as he began to descend the stairs, his expression softening as he drew closer. Towering and broad, with thick brown hair framing his stern features, the king resembled a bear in both stature and presence.
¡°Thank you, Father. I owe it all to your guidance,¡±
He replied, eagerly anticipating his father¡¯s praise.
¡°Your progress is truly remarkable. Sir Acheron has proven to be a worthy mentor,¡±
The king said, placing a hand on his son¡¯s shoulder.
¡°It is an honor to instruct the young master, and as you were my mentor, it is only natural that the credit is all yours, Your Majesty,¡±
Sir Acheron said with a bow.
¡°Soon, you will be ready for real battle,¡±
the king said, his voice brimming with stoic pride.
¡°Sir Acheron, you may leave us. I believe my son wishes to speak with me in private.¡±
The prince gave a small nod, and the knight bowed again before exiting the courtyard.
¡°Father¡­¡±
Marcel¡¯s voice faltered, his words lined with hesitation.
¡°Do you ever doubt yourself?¡±
Silence hung in the air for a moment before the king replied, his tone solemn.
¡°Doubt is a burden every ruler must bear. It is a specter, one that shadows every choice¡ªa constant reminder of your shortcomings and mistakes. It haunts your days and whispers in your nights. But how you wield that doubt¡ªwhether it bends you or fortifies you¡ªwill shape your future. I have faced doubt countless times, haunted by choices I¡¯ve made, regrets I carry to this day. Yet I refuse to let it overcome me. What we do as rulers is far greater, far more vital than our personal peace of mind.¡±
The prince tapped his thumb against his chin, deep in thought.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
¡°When I ascend the throne, I wish to be strong¡ªbut above all, I wish to be just. Someone whom our people can trust and of whom you can be proud.¡±
The king¡¯s face softened, a rare smile forming across his face.
¡°You already are, Marcel. You¡¯ll grow into twice the man I ever was, and in that, I will take the greatest pride.¡±
He met his father¡¯s gaze, savoring the brief moment of warmth.
¡°Thank you, Father.¡±
Basque gave a brief nod before turning to the palace. Marcel remained in the empty courtyard, the cool evening breeze brushing against his face. He glanced at the sword on his side, then towards the empty training ground. Tomorrow, he thought. There would be more battles¡ªon the field and within his heart¡ªbut for tonight, he would rest. He sheathed his blade and began to follow his father¡¯s footsteps as the last golden rays vanished over the horizon. * * * As the day waned, the soft glow of torchlight flickered through the halls of the palace. Prince Marcel made his way to the royal gardens, a sanctuary where he often sought refuge from the pressures of courtly duties. Tonight, however, the gardens were not his alone. His footsteps echoed across the stone-paved courtyard, its expanse framed by tall hedges. Glimmering lilies caught his eye, their petals glowing faintly in the moonlight, while the rich fragrance of salvia blooms filled the air. The soft, melodic notes of a harp drifted through the night, as if the flowers themselves were singing for him. Beneath the canopy of a blooming hawthorn tree sat Celine Auclair, her fingers dancing across the strings of the harp. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her deep green eyes reflected the moonlight. She looked up as Marcel approached, a smile touching her lips.
¡°Marcel!¡±
she exclaimed joyously. The prince knelt, gently guiding her hand closer and laying a delicate kiss upon it.
¡°I was hoping you¡¯d come,¡±
she said, her smile widening.
¡°And I was hoping you would be here,¡±
he replied, returning the smile, letting a wave of calm wash over him as he settled next to her.
¡°After a day¡¯s trials, your presence is the greatest relief.¡±
Celine rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers gently caressing his calloused hands.
¡°My father¡¯s expectations are as high as ever, and so are his praises,¡± he murmured. ¡°I fear that both may be higher than my own capabilities.¡± ¡°He has faith in you,¡±
Celine said gently.
¡°The whole kingdom does. We see your potential. You don¡¯t need to bear the pressure alone. You have many who would stand by your side, no matter the circumstance. Strength can be found in relying on others.¡±
Marcel¡¯s mind relaxed a little, listening to her encouragement.
¡°It seems I¡¯ll have to rely on you more often than not.¡±
His gaze drifted toward the stars, his expression thoughtful.
¡°But sometimes, I wonder if I will ever be able to live up to his legacy.¡±
Celine¡¯s fingers tightened around his hand, offering him strength.
¡°You have something special, Marcel. Something many rulers lack: a heart. A heart much bigger than our fathers¡¯. That is what will make you a great king.¡± ¡°I truly do not know what blessings I have to have been gifted you,¡± he sighed softly. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯d still be all there if not for your words of affirmation.¡±
They sat in silence for a moment, the melody of the harp weaving its way through the night. As the moonlight bathed Celine¡¯s face, her sharp green eyes were outlined¡ªeyes like her father¡¯s, he thought to himself. Celine Auclair¡¯s father, Loppe, had always been a man of many complexities¡ªunyielding and speaking with absolute certainty, much like Marcel¡¯s own father. Although he respected Loppe a great deal, there had always been a distance between them that he could never quite bridge.
¡°Do you think your father is still upset?¡± he asked gently, turning the conversation toward Celine¡¯s burdens.
Her smile faltered, and she let out a sigh.
¡°My father means well, but he is a proud man. He has always seen me as someone to protect, to shield from the world. He would sooner have me locked away in a gilded cage than let anyone have my hand. To him, our elopement is akin to theft.¡± ¡°I hope that one day he will see that I am worthy of his trust as well as yours.¡±
Celine¡¯s smile returned.
¡°He will. I know he will. And no matter our fathers¡¯ objections, I will never leave your side.¡±
The moon rose higher in the sky, casting silver rays across the garden. They sat basking in the moonlight as the melody of the harp whispered promises only they could hear. * * * Candlelight flickered throughout the palace¡¯s opulent halls, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. A rich aroma of spiced wine and roasted meats permeated the winter air, mingling with the faint scent of burning wax. Loppe Auclair, lurked unseen in the shadows of the banquet hall. From within his dark blue silken robes, he drew forth an ornate red vial, carefully pouring the viscous liquid into the king¡¯s goblet King Basque sat at the head of the table, his voice booming as he raised his cup in a toast. Unaware of the treachery that laced his wine, he drank deeply, the golden liquid disappearing down his throat. The palace settled into a somber stillness as the king, unknowing, retired to his quarters. Moonlight poured through the window, casting a silver veil over his tranquil visage¡ªa peaceful mask for what would be his last breaths. He lay nestled in satin sheets, the fabric cool against his skin, unaware of the poison spreading through his veins. The room was adorned with tapestries depicting his triumphs and heirlooms of his lineage, silent witnesses to his final moments. His breathing grew shallow, each exhale a labored whisper against the silence. The poison worked swiftly, lulling his heart to sleep, as his blood slowed and his veins narrowed. A faint tremor coursed through his body, and his mind began to cloud. In his final moments, a fleeting memory surfaced¡ªhis son¡¯s laughter, bright and carefree, echoing in the palace gardens and the vision of an infant, surrounded by a sea of hellfire. A pang of regret pierced his heart, but it was too late. The clock struck midnight. The king was dead.