The Kingdom of Belmar

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Air has never felt so stiff.

Not a single breath drawn between us, not so much as a word. He's heaving strongly, either in exhaustion or anger, though I can't really make out which as his chin points upward. The only thing his expression shows is power, confidence, as he gazes down on the imp prince through his cold hazy eyes.

It was astonishing, seeing him, and the command that he wields, the scene that he's come to play. Cole, dragging a limp Philip behind him through a bevy of guards that were slain outside the doors, leaves an undeniable trail of slaughter in his wake. His clothes were still regal, put together despite the blood stains, but his eyes held the makings of a monster.

It's a dazzling sight, nonetheless.

"Cole," I squeak out, not even realizing I had stopped crying. In fact, I'd even be smiling had my dead friend not been propped up on my lap, still warm with the life that was just recently drained.

He looks at me with that princely look that would make any maiden swoon, bloodthirst aside. No other man could pull off such a look, not without the risk of seeming completely unhinged and maniacal. No. This was a quality only a prince could have; only a quality a future king could have. Given the look on Tristen's face, it's clear he is no king.

He's a coward.

"Apologies for the delay, My Love," Cole says, holding my heart in his hands as though none of the bloodshed had even happened, nor would it ever happen. "I was delayed by a few pests."

"Accolodius," Rista stands. It's the first time this entire night that she had a reaction of any sort. Not only that, but she looks scared. Her voice wavers and raises with her decreasing confidence, her hands shaking as she braces the arm of her throne. She's scared of the man standing ahead of her; for what his presence in this room must mean for the legitimacy of her rule, for the aura of death that's currently surrounding him. No matter what it is, it's evident. "How are you here?"

He stares a thousand daggers into her, scowling at her in a way that makes a shiver run down my own spine. "You killed my mother. You killed my father. I was not going to sit idly by as you killed me."

Rista stammers a bit as she collects herself. "Guards!" she screams, backing away just a step. "Guards!"

"There's no use in calling for the dead, Rista," he curses, "My men are picking off those of you that are foolish enough to not surrender, and any man that makes the devastating decision to heed your cries for help will stumble on the bodies of their allies and drown in the river of blood that I've drawn. There is no leaving this room alive, not for you, and any hope of rescue should be stanched now as hope is a useless thing to bring to the afterlife."

"Impudent child," she hisses, anger in her voice. "Your words reek of arrogance, and arrogance is a losing man's folly."

"Confidence is a warrior's virtue." He laughs, throwing both Philip and Tristen to either side of him as he turns towards Rista. "The virtuous thing for me to do in this moment is to picture my sword slice cleanly across your throat, and allow my confidence to follow through."

Philip and Tristen's bodies fall to the ground in a thud. The second prince cries out a bit, holding his thigh as he brings his legs back under him, but Philip doesn't try to get up. No, Philip sees Geoffrey in my lap and crawls his battered body towards him. "Geoffrey," he pokes to no avail. The more time that passes, the more desperate he becomes until finally, Philip notices the wound in his stomach as blood soaks into his trousers. "Geoffrey!" he's shouting now, shaking his shoulders as though it would miraculously wake him up.