The Legend of Lost Aulta

4. Decision, And Departure

FELIKS

The night was a blur through the white palace as the sickly Tsarevich rose from his bed and went to follow Tsar Vladomir. The moment he stood from the curtains of his ivory bed, he felt his knees buckle.

No. Not now.

Upon hearing his legs thud to the ground, the Izgnaniye Tsar turned and hurried back to his side, his breathing ragged.

"For the Gods' sake, child, get a hold of yourself!" he cried, before running for the brass crutches settled in the corner by the two windows. He took them and thrust them under the boy's arms: "now, we must hurry."

Feliks struggled to his feet, the cold brass pressing through his nightclothes, under his shaking arms. He hurried, unsteadily, behind Tsar Vladomir as they departed the room for two, and took down the seemingly endless marble staircase, descending into the darkness.

The Tsarevich was hit with an unnerving thought as he carefully manoeuvred himself and his crutches down each step. Why weren't his guards escorting him- most importantly, his father's most trusted guard, Stepan?

The Tsar's feet hurried across the marble hall and he pushed into the throne room. Unlike before, there were no guards to stand by the door, and Feliks began to feel slightly sick.

He followed Tsar Vladomir into the throne room, and suddenly, he was hit by the orange sting of candlelight, the dark murmur of voices.

All of his father's best men were here. Generals, advisors, allies. They were crowded around one long table, their eyes dark and faces darker.

"I fetched the boy," Tsar Vladomir called, "what is the news, Fredrick?"

"My soldiers are in Aramiye," explained the Tsar, and his face was dire, "they arrived too late. They could not hold off Vorig Sponik's troupes. I focused them on saving the people. Aramiye is no longer ours."

Feliks felt his heart in his throat. Aramiye was only a few hours walk away. It would be less by carriage, by horseback. By anything.

"We must decide. Now!" said Vladomir, "we stay and die for our country, or we leave to live another day."

"It is not that simple," argued Tsar Fredrick.

"It seems simple. I will not have my daughter be enslaved! I will not have our people be killed! Once Vorig takes Aulta, he has Aulitia in his hands. This is our last chance, Fredrick. We have no other hope. Who knows how much time we have left. A month? Two, at most?"

"We need more time."

"We don't have time," spat the Tsar Izgnaniye, "good men must make sacrifices, Fredrick. I know I did when I chose to evacuate my people from Usocow."

Feliks had not heard that name in a very long time.

"We could stand a fighting chance," Feliks' father's eyes were wild, desperate. The Tsarevich felt his chest strain, his legs weaken. He clutched onto his crutches, praying to never have to let go.

"We do not stand any chance!" Yelled Tsar Vladomir, "we have power, but the Olossians have magic. We had the blessing of our Gods, and now we do not. We have no upper hand. They may... they may have the Lost Tsarevich. If they have turned a boy with the hands of a God against us, we stand no chance at all."

The room quieted at the mention of Dimitri. A thick fog of tension hung in the air, and Feliks' vision began to cloud with darkness, all visions of golden hair in corn fields turning black, becoming corrupted.

"Father," he managed to choke out, "have we lost many? In Aramiye?"

Tsar Fredrick's eyes saddened, and suddenly the shape of Stepan and the other kind guards who had taken care of him vanished into the blackness. Feliks closed his eyes, willing the tears away. The room was silent.