The Witch's Cursed Daughter

73. Bad News

While this will be hard for you to learn, it was essential that I bring this matter to light before your return to Kenellor. The Chancellor, Lucienne Ad Henos, has been executed for treason. I understand that you were close with him, and I pass you my condolences. - W

Julian's frame was rigid to the eye, as though time had frozen him, caging him in the moment that the message from Wen had sunk into his mind. The words were simple, their intent clear, yet they brought an agony with them that immersed Julian in a despair from which he could not move.

Hours came and went as he stood in his tent; letter in hand, the glow from outside shifting continuously as the day carried on, ignorant of the news. At some point, the dark ink blurred, and the words seemed like nothing more than one terrorising smudge. His tears had erased the message, melted the writing until it was illegible, but the facts had not changed.

A fire raged like an explosion inside Julian; his aura poured from him without control, devouring everything around him. Never had such power amassed from his emotions. Governed by his pain, Julian's silver eyes branded anything in his sight with his fury. Reaching for his sword, the blade sang hungrily as he tore it from its sheath, he stormed from the mortal remains of his tent. The soldiers, who had been bustling in preparation for the upcoming final battle before returning home, halted like deer before Julian.

Julian regarded them all with tears streaming tracks down his puffing cheeks and his aura curling and stabbing at anything it consciously desired. Julian saw nothing but black; his black aura, the black on the uniforms, the scorched ground from the burning of forests in warfare, the remains of campfires and coal. No speech emitting from his lips, the grieving prince began to walk towards the battlefield through the parting soldiers and cowering war-beasts.

***

Romile had been resting in his tent, dozing tentatively as his eyes fluttered open and closed freely. With only the last battle against Bulen set in a few days, he wanted to spend his free time doing whatever he wanted. Hushed murmurs and the battering of manic feet against the ground disturbed his rest. Perturbed by the incessant grumblings outside, Romile grouchily reached over the edge of his cot, searching until his hand landed on what he had been looking for. The soft leather and cold buckle were familiar; without opening his eyes, Romile lifted the boot above his head and launched the footwear at the entrance of his tent.

A low and breathy grunt reminded Romile that his aim had not worsened after years of war without a moment for traditional swordsmanship practice. Aware that the presence outside was not taking their leave, Romile sighed in frustration, wrapping his arms around his face, blocking out the yellow-tinted light that filled the space.

"What?" Romile barked sharply.

In return, a relatively young-sounding voice stuttered loudly, panic evident in his tone, "V... Vice Commander, there is an emergency!"

"Has the enemy attacked?"

"No, Sir," the voice squeaked.

Irritation proliferating, Romile sat up glaring at the invisible person outside, "Then what is it?"

"It's the Commander! He's gone to the battlefield with his aura on display!"

"What? When?" Romile threw himself at the curtain, which functioned as a door, cursing as the afternoon sunlight blinded him cruelly as he emerged from the tent.

"Almost five minutes ago, Sir," the young soldier squealed as Romile grabbed his shirt, bringing his face close enough that an onlooker might think as if they were engaging in an affair.

"Why did it take so long for someone to alert me?" Romile snarled.

"My apologies, Sir, everything has been in chaos since the Commander left his tent."

Pushing back the boy so harshly that his legs gave way, Romile disappeared back into his tent for his sword. Kicking about abandoned items of clothing and papers which littered the floor, he called back, "Why?"

"He looked like he was crying," the young soldier answered as he shakily rose to his feet. As soon as Romile's eyes settled on his blade, he felt his aura buzz with excitement; the war had been taxing in many ways, but the most troubling was that both Julian and Romile's aura had grown more prominent and required much more strength to control.

Bursting from the tent again, Romile dashed across the thick, mud-laden ground to where his horse was waiting for him. From a quick survey of the surroundings, Romile could see the panic in the soldiers and animals.

"Find Voster, the Imperial Mage! Send him my way when you find him," Romile shouted at the young soldiers as he mounted the horse's back without a saddle.

"Would you like assistance, Sir?" the soldier asked, swivelling his head manically, searching through the sparse crowd of uniforms.

Grabbing the reins, Romile narrowed his eyes as sunlight glared crudely in his vision, "If anyone else goes, you'll just get yourselves killed."

Without allowing the soldier to reply, Romile cracked the reins, and his horse sped into a gallop, barely giving those in the way time to move as his strong legs raced towards the frontline.