Kindly edited by @CollinHarrison4
King Mansard Gregory walked down the stairs, pleased with himself. A report arrived detailing discord within his army. Many believed the Answer had come and the Goddess flies the sky. He dutifully corrected the captain who brought the news, sending him back out to make sure it was adequately explained. The more often, the better. It was an amusing ploy, one whose stink would hopefully not drift to the Brethren until the damage was done.
The candles in the hall sconces leading to the library were out, leaving the path in darkness. "Witch," Gregory sighed. He was sure it was Margarey. She had done it before, having the staff close off sections of the castle early knowing he would desire them later as he always did. A petty thing - almost as petty as when he had her horse running free after a rain, gathering mud before her ride. It was as if they were but five-winters-old and fighting over a toy. Loathing was a pitiful emotion for a king, and too weak for a husband who deserved true vengeance instead.
As expected, the library was unlit as well. The hearth still held the glow of embers, so he moved through the gloom to reset the wood. Gregory desired to be alone. To call someone would defeat that purpose and possibly allow his wife knowing gratification. Stir the fire, then ignite a few wicks. Simple labor now and again was good for the soul.
Gregory did not make it to the fire. A shadow grew from the wall and slammed into him, pushing him back into a chair. A well-placed blade against his neck silenced any call for help. The shock of it pumped fear into his core. He fought it with rising anger, his hands grasping at the wrist that held the knife.
"News has traveled." It was Striker's voice, and it was loaded with disgust. Odd he could not smell the man. "I will have the truth of it."
"Your blade may gain your desire, but you will hang for it," Gregory gasped. It was an idle threat. Striker had entered unseen, and could likely exit the same way, covered by the darkness he must have created. The staff would think the section closed; no one would enter until morning. Only Luran would miss him, and she would not risk visible concern. Striker held the blade and the King's secret of a son, granting him free access to Gregory's throat and whatever cooperation he desired.
"The Answer has killed and burned more," Striker said, his blade stiffening. The anger in his words seemed to struggle not to achieve rage. "There are words of a promise and what is done to the Chosen. Is it truth? Is this promise given to you?"
"He knows," Gregory said. Fear left him, and pride emerged. It was too soon, but better than never. There was so much more the boy needed, things he must understand. Time was running out. "What else is said?"
The blade's pressure increased. "Is this promise given to you?"
"End me, or not," Gregory said. "If you wish truth, then it is best you do not."
"I will have all of it."
"Aye," Gregory agreed, his hand pushing away the blade. Striker allowed it, though it did not go far. "Sit. I am no match for you, and that door is far from here."
Striker pulled a chair close. His eyes, reflecting the hearth's coals, never left Gregory. He sat less than an arm's length away, his knife relaxed yet still pointed at its target.
"The promise is mine by birth," Gregory said, "and the right of all Hold Lords. I shall never claim it now, for I will either fall with my son or die old in my bed. Your knife or your word will see it done sooner if you desire."
"It is true then," Striker said. "Your line lives in those temples."
"Aye."
"My sister and her daughter, you killed them," Striker growled, his blade moving closer.
