Moonlust

Chapter Twenty Four, Poisonous Whispers.

I. The king.

The wind raged through the bitterly cold night as the residents gathered in the city's square in a strange union, a protest.

Soldiers couldn't keep the secret asleep, and the grieving families of the abducted were in disbelief that the legions lied about their kins' death. The legions reputation was once smudged leading to the overthrowing of the previous king, Edmond. If the cycle were to repeat itself, and the current king would be led into his beloved dungeons, there would be no coming back from this chaos.

Whispers of these incidents have reached a dozen ears but not only by the faithful yet confused soldiers, it was tossed around by the vindictive surviving white sect members, the ones that refuse to go down no matter what.

I. Dark motives.

In the crowded city Square, a pat on a protestor's shoulder followed by a whisper was enough to fuel this supposedly peaceful protest. The pitchforks had risen and the torches were lit, anger was fueling through the rusty veins of Boneclad.

"The king has failed us!" They whispered, "Our sons and daughters were betrayed!" They claimed. Those words were enough to enrage the protestors as they realized the legions had no plans of retrieving the abducted soldiers from the Mooncallers nest, assuming they were alive.

They were unreasonable demands planted in the minds of sorrowful grievers, floating like a cloud above their heads, sucked in by their skeptical ears. The plan was working and the bomb had been planted, all that was left was the king's excuse.

The White Sect was vengeful, yet still unaware of what happened that night in the chapel. Luther was nowhere to be found as well as Abigail, it was believed that Abigail had rebelled and slain all those who captured her but the lack of remains for both Luther and Eman puzzled them. While their ongoing search went on, the legions' eyes were wide opened on the look for any suspicious activity or individual, fully aware that the Mooncallers had long infiltrated the city.

"Look! It's him, he showed his face!" Shouted the mob as the king and his disciples exited the council's grand balcony. The sight of the king's frowned face sent panic across the wounded hearts but the tongues had already spoken. The owls had recorded it all, would it treachery or public disturbance? They thought.

The brave were few. Their voices rivaled the disciples' call for silence. "How dare you show your face after abandoning our kin?" Cried a father, the nodding and humming rippled across the masses yet there were only a few who muttered the word "Yes.".

The king's wrinkled red eyes darted across the mob as if he was registering all those faces and their expressions, he turned to his disciple and whispered a single word. The disciple's voice strengthened by the microphone he had acquired shut down all the protest's tangled screams. It seemed that his disciples were annoyed, their presence alarmed the masses that there may be violence.

The king was rotting beneath that large red cape he wore, decorated by bone shards he collected during his time in the legions. He was no longer young and hopeful, he was old and bitter. He was in disbelief that his life was ending before he could see the world again, and that set his heart on fire. He was rushing to pour his knowledge into the elite group of four disciples of which two were his twin daughters. His actions were unspeakably tyrannical, it was no secret that his dungeons were ridden with skeletons.

"The king orders you to listen." Spoke the first disciple on the left of the king, dressed in a red double buttoned coat striped with white lines. He was no older than thirty and wore a hood that attached to his coat yet his face was no mystery. The mob was furious, not wanting to be ordered but the appearance of the local police made their voices die enough for the disciples to be heard. At that time, the white sect had planted the seed of chaos and dissolved into thin air.