Arcanae

Chpt. 06 // Crimson Nocturne

A wailing cacophony of torment echoed through the night.

Some cried a desperate plea before succumbing to the cold embrace of finality.

I had shivers down my spine; goosebumps were scattered across my skin at the eery thought.

A part of me, deep down, still firmly held onto the belief that the unfolding events were no more than a sickly twisted play. But at this point, all was certain; our era of peace had reached an abrupt ending.

With a burdened heart, I paced through the hallways, trying to make sense of Father's decision.

But nought came to mind.

Had Father lost his mind-- No, I ought not to speak ill of him. There had to be a reason, one that was not within my grasp to realise.

I heard a bickering voice grow louder with each step I took. I was able to recognise it quite easily as my Father's voice. He spoke without his usual clarity; stress had left its mark on his vocals, so much was clear.

A shriek unlike any I had heard before resonated through the walls. It was high-pitched, seemingly inhuman, too.

It startled me dead in my tracks.

"Leo," a meek, hurt voice called out softly, followed thereafter by the echoes of a sudden thud.

It was Mother.

My heart skipped a beat.

The revelation dawned upon me as my face contorted into a grimace.

What had happened?

I hastened my pace once more as another ear-piercing scream met me halfway across the hallway.

Adrenaline rushed through my veins as I forced myself to run as fast as my feet would carry me.

I was close to the armoury.

Cusses and bickering filled the air betwixt.

I forcefully shoved the door wide open, then scurried inside, merely to meet Father hunched over the Arkyrian Wartable in the centre of the room. At first, the table top's iridescent glow obscured a bloodstained smear across Father's face, partially over his peppered beard. His usual stoic demeanour had been washed away, replaced solely with a deluge of sorrow and lament.

"Father? What happened?"

He looked up, his hands a bloody mess.

As I drew closer, I noticed he was unharmed -  bar a few bruises.

The blood was not his.

I grabbed hold of his sticky hands, demanding to know what had occurred as my eyes fell upon dots and specks of scarlet sprinkled throughout the place.

"Tell me,"

In that instance, Father did not come across as the acclaimed tactician he was known to be. No, in lieu of his regular appearance, he struck me as a frail, senile man ridden with a deeply rooted fear.

Father opened his mouth, but stillborn words had long died before they had left his throat; he tried anew, "It's your mother, Cynthia."

Akin to his posture, even his trembling voice was brittle. It cracked at the mention of my mother.

"What about her?"

Father's lips quivered, his body shaking as only a single word bled out, "Shot."

I felt overcome by an all-consuming wave of dread.

The very air around my airpipe tightened as though an invisible hand clutched me by the throat.

The ground beneath my feet was spinning.