thief of fate-Chapter 62: The beginning of the union

The hall was unusually quiet. Sunlight streaming through the high windows made the marble floor seem to shine, but there was no sign of life in the place except for King Tarel, seated on his throne, staring at the letter in his hands.

He didn’t read it word for word. His eyes passed over the words, but his mind was elsewhere. His fingers moved slowly across the paper. A letter from the Kingdom of Ozria, asking for aid.

He let out a long sigh and looked at the paper again, then slowly folded it and placed it on his armrest. A heavy feeling overtook him.

Ozria had always been a strong kingdom. But the letter wasn’t just a cry for help. It was... an admission of defeat. A threat gnawing at them, unknown and incomprehensible. Unknown. And Tarel... did not like the unknown.

Soft footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He turned and saw his advisor, Jenos, approaching quietly, as he always did.

"Have you made a decision about the letter?" Jenos asked, his tone cautious.

Tarel tilted his head slightly and answered after a moment: "I’m still thinking. This is not something you decide in a day."

He paused, then added: "I feel like something is wrong..."

Jenos remained silent, as if he didn’t want to interrupt.

"If we were in their position, would we have sent a similar request?" Tarel continued in a low voice. "Maybe. Or maybe we would’ve died."

"My lord, the real danger might not be in Ozria alone."

Tarel raised his eyes toward him: "You mean... it could come here?"

"Danger does not recognize borders, my lord."

The king went silent and sank back into his thoughts. His mind returned to his youth, the day his father brought him the news: "You must lead." And he was young, without any strength, but he did it. He had no choice.

He stood for a moment and looked at the ceiling of the hall. The ancient ornaments, the carvings etched centuries ago, all told stories of kings who made fateful decisions. Some saved the kingdom. Some destroyed it.

"I don’t want to be one of those who destroyed it," he whispered.

Suddenly, screams. Distant, but genuine. Their echo bounced off the walls. Jenos turned, his eyes wide. The guards at the door looked at each other.

"Did you hear that?" asked Jenos.

"I heard."

Then the guard entered. His face was pale, his breath uneven.

"My lord... there’s something... a monster... blood..."

"Speak."

But the guard couldn’t. He just looked back. Then... the door thundered.

It was pushed open with force. The sound of the wood slamming into the air echoed. Everyone in the hall stopped breathing.

At the entrance stood Gulerath.

Massive. Deformed. And in his hand... something dangling.

Bodies.

Four, five? No, more. All mutilated. Their faces no longer recognizable, their bodies soaked in blood.

He stood in the center, saying nothing. His gaze was empty, but his mouth... wore something resembling a smile.

The king’s throat dried. He didn’t feel cold, but something worse. As if his chest could no longer hold air.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Gulerath did not reply.

The guard still standing by the door whispered: "They’re... your sons."

The king shook his head as if he didn’t understand.

"Sons? What...?"

"Didn’t you hear him well? He said your sons."

Gulerath advanced slowly. The bodies still dangled from his hand. Blood dripped, leaving a trail on the floor.

No one moved.

Even Jenos, usually the quickest to react, was paralyzed.

Then, in a quiet voice:

"Why?" said the king.

As if Gulerath heard. He turned to him, but didn’t answer. He simply dropped the bodies.

The king sat slowly. He no longer felt the weight in his legs, but in his chest.

He gripped the arms of the throne and wondered:

How did he get here? Why is he here?

Then he thought of his children. His people. The hundreds who knew nothing of this, now living their day in the market, in the fields, unaware that death had come.

"You..." he said, trying to sound calm. "Why did you come?"

Finally, Gulerath replied, in a deep, growling voice:

"For food."

A heavy silence followed Gulerath’s words.

The king felt heat rise from his neck to his face. His breathing grew heavier. He looked at the bodies before him... his sons. They were young men, his children whom he had vowed to protect.

Gulerath leaned slightly toward the corpses, sniffed one as if smelling roasted meat.

"They tasted... good. The best was the one with red hair. He screamed a lot." Then he smiled, with lips that barely resembled anything human.

"Silence," said the king quietly.

But Gulerath did not fall silent. Instead, he walked over one of the bodies as if it were a stone.

"I thought you’d send your guards... I didn’t expect your sons. A lovely gift."

Tarel stepped forward. His hand moved slowly toward the axe hanging behind the throne.

"Enough," he said as he pulled the axe.

Gulerath laughed.

Laughed with a broken, sick sound.

"Will you kill me for my food?"

Tarel advanced.

Then he lunged.

A strike of the axe toward Gulerath’s chest. But the latter retreated with a lightness unfit for his massive body. The king stepped back, then attacked again, a sideways strike. Gulerath blocked it with his bloodied arm, and the first spark flew.

The king turned quickly, swinging the axe in a wide, powerful arc, but Gulerath dodged, then struck toward the king’s leg. Tarel leapt back.

"Oh, you’re better than the rest," Gulerath said as he attacked.

His hand launched in a straight line, and the king blocked it with the edge of his axe. They both stepped back, then clashed again.

Strike. Echo. Spark.

The fight wasn’t a show. It was real combat. Every movement from the king was calculated, but he was angry, and anger dulled precision. As for Gulerath, he fought like a beast...

"Are you thinking about them?" Gulerath asked, then turned toward the corpses. "Imagine them begging. They said: Please, don’t kill us. The sound was painful. I loved it."

Tarel screamed as he struck with a vertical blow, almost splitting Gulerath’s head, but the beast slid to the side and hit the axe with his fist. The king’s body jolted for a moment.

Then, with a reverse force, Gulerath raised his claws and struck the king’s shoulder.

Blood flowed.

But Tarel did not retreat.

He turned his axe and struck Gulerath’s side.

The beast groaned, then... laughed.

"Oh yes. Pain. That’s the real food."

The blows continued. Axe and hand. Man against monster.

Blood mixed with sweat. Their eyes met, filled with hatred.

Then suddenly, they both stopped.

Their breaths were ragged, heavy.

The king breathed through his mouth, drops of blood sliding from his arm.

Gulerath stood, panting, but he didn’t seem bothered. As if he was enjoying every second.

"You’re strong, King of Mirasca," he said, smiling. "I didn’t expect to enjoy this much. But..."

He stopped.

Looked at his hand.

"Time is up."

His body began to disintegrate.

The king looked at him in astonishment.

"What the...?"

"Don’t worry," said Gulerath in a calm tone, strangely unlike him.

"I won’t return... until this meal is fully digested."

Then he laughed a short laugh, and vanished.

The king remained standing. His breath was still heavy. The blood on the ground, the corpses, the axe in his hand... everything was real.

But Gulerath was not.

"My God..." whispered Genos from behind.

The king didn’t respond.

He was looking into the void where Gulerath had disappeared.

Then in a faint voice, he said:

"This is impossible..."

Then he looked at Genos:

"Declare a state of emergency. From this moment, all borders are to be closed. All kingdoms are to be summoned. That thing... it will return. And I won’t be absent when it does."

Finally, he looked ahead. The corpses were still lying there. Torn bodies, deformed, some with no recognizable features, and blood surrounding them.

He approached.

Step by step.

His knees gave out before the first body he reached, and he collapsed to the ground without caring for his wound, without removing the axe from his hand. He just... sat.

He slowly extended his hand and touched someone’s hair, messy, burned, but he knew it. He knew it well.

"Aeren..." he whispered in a trembling voice, his words barely escaping his mouth.

"My son... you were never meant to die like this..."

He leaned in closer, his forehead touching the corpse’s, his eyes closed, then a muffled sob escaped him.

A tear.

Then two.

Then it burst.

He wept.

And for the first time since his youth, King Tarel cried... loudly.

"I’m sorry... so sorry..." he said, trying to hold himself together, but the words broke between his sobs.

"I should have been there. I’m the one who promised to protect you. I always said nothing would harm you while I’m alive... where was I?"

He pulled the body into his chest, and the corpse held no warmth, but a piercing cold. That cold from which souls never return.

Minutes passed, uncounted.

No one approached him.

Even Genos stayed back. He knew this was a moment that must not be interrupted.

His eyes passed over the other corpses.

Each one of them had a laugh.

Had a dream.

Each one of them called him "father."

"Your deaths weren’t just because of my weakness..." he said in a broken voice, "but a punishment... a punishment for my weakness."

He buried his head in his hands, his face drowned in tears, anger, and shame.

But between sobs, a faint voice came from his heart:

"I can’t... I can’t let him do this without a response."

He raised his head slowly, his eyes red, but with a fire beginning to form in them.

"I can’t bring you back... but I can stop him. I can prevent others from falling."

He stood up.

Wobbling, but he stood.

He looked at Genos, who stepped forward hesitantly.

"Send a messenger to Ozria... and to Iphis as well." His voice was still broken, but clear.

"We will form an alliance. There’s no other way. If we don’t unite, we’ll be devoured one by one."

"And... will they agree?" Genos asked quietly.

"They will," Tarel answered, as he looked again at his fallen sons.

"Because they, like us, have lost more than they can bear."

Then he added in a deep voice:

"From today, I don’t want to hear the words ’external war.’ This war... belongs to all of us."

He stood alone for a moment, staring at the corpses.

Then he whispered words no one else could hear:

"Forgive me... this is all I can do now."

Then he turned, leaving his dead behind, and carrying the burden of the coming war on his shoulders.