The Witch's Cursed Daughter

66. Strain

Under the realisation that the opposing power would be equal to their own when their assault arrived at the palace, the boys shuddered. The Grandmaster, Colt Di Darron, was a Duke and the only surviving member of his family. After his services to the crown, Darron earned the title of Grandmaster during the rule of Forden Havit Del Waldemar, the current King's grandfather. There had been no record of a man without the aura of a Blade Master holding the position before Duke Darron, yet he was such a monster that he had single-handedly crushed three enemy Blade Masters before help had arrived in a previous war.

The quiet shared the thoughts of all present. How could they face a beast such as that? After minutes of horrific imaginings of death at his hands, Voster turned the conversation to practical advancement.

"Going back to our earlier conversation, how do you suggest we move the entire army towards Kenellor without drawing the King's suspicion?"

Relieved by Voster's question, Wen replied while pushing thoughts of the Grandmaster from his mind, "This was the second piece of news I am here to deliver." Reaching into his pocket, Wen unravelled a scroll etched in black ink, an emerald seal decorating the reverse. Reading aloud, Wen angled his position to face Julian, "Second Prince Julian Dominic Oran Del Waldemar, you have been ordered to return to the palace once this battle has concluded for a celebration of your victories which have surpassed all expectations."

"Under that order, it wouldn't be unbelievable for soldiers to approach from different directions at the same time. Your Imperial Highness, is the King ceasing the war?" Voster inquired.

Walking over towards a dark-iron fire basket, which was lit keeping the tent warm, Wen dropped the paper into the hungry flames. "From what I know, he is satisfied for now with the current size of the empire Julian has provided him. That is not to say in the future he will not attempt to expand the territory once more."

"He won't have the chance," Julian grinned as he growled the words nastily, "After all, how can a dead man command an army?"

"You are right," Wen responded after a moment, taken aback by Julian's ever-more-evident change in attitude, "I'll be leaving now."

"Your Imperial Highness, you should rest," Voster quickly recommended, holding out his arm as he rose from his chair.

"I have another area to survey before returning to the palace. After all, the King wouldn't let me leave without reason."

Seeing that the first prince had no intention of staying, Voster nodded, "Well then, I wish you safe travels."

No further remarks were made as Wen left the camp. Voster had wanted to ask about Evianna; the only news they had had of her was that she was alive and tightly clutched within Illea's grasp. Taking his mind away from questions that would remain without answers, the Mage turned his attention towards Julian and Romile, who were staring at each other.

The air was thick with unspoken words and confrontation. Finally, Romile began, "Your Highness."

"I know what you're going to say," Julian replied, wishing to end the conversation before it even began.

"I don't think you do. How could you reveal your aura to the first prince so easily after hiding it for so many years? He did know of its existence but a demonstration only confirms his information."

"It didn't matter anymore," Julian snapped, bounding up from his seat and tilting up his chin slightly. In the last four years, Julian had become more mature; now fifteen years old, he was catching up to the twenty-one-year-old Romile. "The Void is so strong that I doubt even your Purge could stand against it."

"Please don't call it by that name," Romile retorted briskly.

Silence broke out between them, their eyes unblinking and unmoving as they searched each other for weakness.

"I'm going out for some air. You two calm yourselves before you blow down the tent," Voster called, unsurprised by their actions which had become much more frequent in the last year.

The confrontational pair caught Voster's image as his auburn hair disappeared through the lapping cloth doors of the tent, allowing unkind sunlight, not fit for war, to pour in through a crack left by the movement. Looking around, the pair noticed that their auras had leaked out of them as their emotions ruled their actions. Deep breaths and brief mediation drew their respective auras of deathly black and burning red back.

Romile sighed and began singing to himself as he picked up the papers that Voster had not replaced on his chair, "War is war, friends are friends, but they usually share the same end."

"I heard the soldiers singing that before. What does it mean?"

"It means, if we survive until the end, we will either be inseparable or be revolted by each other's presence," Romile explained, pausing intentionally before noting the second option.

Catching his meaning, Julian exclaimed, "That won't happen."

"I hope not, Your Highness."