The carriages stopped, the convoy shuddering to stillness as the sound of hooves stilled and banners swayed in the uneasy wind.
A guard sprinted ahead, armor clattering, already shouting toward the window where nobles watched. A fight had broken out.
Murmurs rippled through the knights, through the servants clutching reins, through so commoners forced to wait at the roadside. Tension clung to the morning air like frost.
And then they all saw it.
The ss.
A body on the dirt, headless, its armor twitching in the spasms of death.
The son of Baron lodias lay crumpled in a grotesque heap, crimson soaking into the soil.
His head, still crowned with the faint arrogance of youth, rolled several feet away, its eyes glassy with disbelief, lips parted as if to form one final denial.
The sll of blood carried sharp and tallic on the air, mingling with dust, sweat, and horsehide. So knights turned their heads, grimacing.
Others stared without sha, morizing every detail to repeat later in hushed tavern gossip.
Aiden dissolved into the background, slipping like a shadow between gazes. His helm masked his smirk, his stillness drawing no suspicion. He had played his role, and now he let silence cloak him.
Baron lodias himself staggered forward from his carriage, his velvet robes dragging in the dirt as he fell to his knees.
His trembling hands reached for the severed head, lifting it with the fragile reverence of a priest handling a holy relic.
His cry cracked the air—a sound no father should ever make. A keening of grief, raw and jagged, that silenced even the birds above.
"No... no, my son. My only son!" His voice broke as he cradled the head against his chest, rocking as though the corpse could be soothed back to breath. "You were to be anointed, raised into knighthood today. And now—" His words died in sobs, his tears streaking down his lined cheeks to fall on his boy’s still face.
The crowd shifted uneasily. Knights glanced at one another, unsure if sympathy or scorn would be the safer mask.
Then, with sudden fury, lodias rose, his grief hardening into rage. He pointed a trembling finger at the towering knight in crimson and black—at the Blood Harbinger.
"You! Murderer!" he roared, voice shuddering but sharp. "You cut down my son like a dog in the street! You will answer for this outrage!"
All eyes swung to the commander, to the giant astride his warhorse, armor slick with blood that glead like rubies under the sun.
The Blood Harbinger t the accusation with calm iron. His voice carried like a bell struck in a cathedral, steady and undeniable.
"Your son defiled his tongue with talk of Lady Flora," he said. "He spoke of her in a manner unfit for noble lips. His words were treachery. His death was not murder—it was justice."
Gasps shivered through the line of knights. So clutched hilts. So bowed their heads in reverence. Others swallowed hard, uncertain where loyalty demanded their belief.
Baron lodias’s face blanched, then flushed scarlet. "Lies!" he spat. "He was but a boy, proud perhaps, but not wicked! You seek to excuse your bloodlust by staining his honor. I demand justice!"
The na of Flora—Lady Flora—carried weight. Even the ntion of her drew murmurs, her beauty, her mystery, her closeness to Augustus whispered in countless corridors. To slander her was to spit upon the viscount’s household itself.
And Augustus, Viscount of Leonidus, stepped forward now, his golden hair catching the sunlight, his presence pulling every gaze to him like iron filings to a magnet. His jaw was set, his eyes hard as tempered steel.
"What the Harbinger of Blood has done..." Augustus’s voice rolled, controlled fury held in its depths, "is comndable."
The words fell like hamr blows.
Comndable.
He turned his gaze on Baron lodias, the air between them crackling with unspoken command. "Your son’s mouth shad my house, shad my daughter. His end was just. And for this, my commander shall be rewarded."
Gasps again. So knights dared not breathe.
Baron lodias staggered as though struck. His hand still clutched the severed head, his robes now drenched with blood. His voice cracked, desperate, clawing at reason. "My lord Augustus! He was my heir. My blood! You cannot—"
"Enough." Augustus’s word cut sharper than any blade. "We march ahead. The anointnt ceremony awaits. Delay dishonors us all."
He turned, his cloak snapping in the breeze, and strode back toward his carriage. At once, like ripples after a stone falls in water, the convoy began to move again.
Knights pulled at reins, carriages lurched forward, boots struck dirt in rhythm. The world, as always, bent to Augustus’s decree.
Baron lodias remained frozen, his grief ignored, his pleas dismissed. He sank to his knees again, clutching his son’s head, tears streaking down his face, his body trembling with fury and despair.
And in that mont of despair, a shadow fell beside him.
Aiden.
He knelt just out of sight of the main procession, his armor still gleaming faintly with spattered blood, his helm hiding the sharp twist of his smile. His voice ca low, a whisper curling like smoke into lodias’s ear.
"Do you see how swiftly he cast aside your son?" Aiden murmured. "Do you see how little Augustus cares for the blood you’ve lost?"
lodias stiffened, turning tear-streaked eyes toward him.
"My lord—" he began, but Aiden cut across him, soft, conspiratorial.
"I heard his words. Your son was no villain. He was drunk on pride, perhaps, but innocent of the filth they claim.
Augustus wanted a spectacle, and the Harbinger gave him one. Now they call it justice, but you and I... we know what this truly is."
lodias’s lips parted, but no sound ca.
Aiden leaned closer still, his whisper a serpent’s hiss. "This was not about your son. This was about power. Augustus strengthens the leash around us all, one corpse at a ti. And today, it was your boy’s neck beneath the blade."
The baron trembled, torn between fury and grief. His hands shook against the cold steel of his son’s armor.
"Justice," Aiden breathed, almost tender, "is not given, Baron. It is taken. And when the day cos, I will stand with you to see it done."
For a mont, the world seed to hold still. Only the creak of wagon wheels, the distant clatter of armor, the low murmur of knights carried across the air.
lodias’s breath hitched. His eyes, red-rimd with tears, burned now with a different fire. A seed planted, watered by grief, cloaked in shadow.
Aiden stood, stepping back into the throng, letting the procession carry him once more into anonymity. His heart beat steady beneath his armor, his lips curling into a hidden smile.
’One corpse. One lie. One whisper,’ he thought. ’That is how kingdoms fall.’
The convoy marched on, banners swaying, hooves pounding in rhythm. Behind them, Baron lodias clutched his son’s head to his chest, his tears dripping onto bloodstained soil.
And within him, vengeance took root.
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