The Heirs of Death

5.2 Taloan

TALOAN

My blood ran like surges of icy water in my core, the thoughts swirling in my mind chanting and hissing with a song of dread and fear and uneasiness.

Nothing. Not even a single crack.

The barrier protecting us was unscratched and powerful like the first days of its existence. But the flacon had arrived to this shore, had been found by the child, and had killed every single innocent soul partying through the night.

There were little options to consider, and as I stared at my father, as my thoughts ran with his in a maze of twisting and twirling ideas and schemes, we knew.

Today's doing was the result of an intern traitor.

The idea hadn't been strange or as heavy as we feared when we explained everything to our court; after Blake's appearance, the White Troopers were able to capture nests and nests of apostates growing and rooting in Cantelot's streets and inns and undergrounds. Most of them were original Mages from poor cities that saw it better for their interests to sell themselves in fake promises of wealth and fortune. They had only lied to themselves. Each time we captured a nest, we found as much alive people than corpses attached to columns and skinned till death.

But tonight, the act hit hard. Our guards were loftily raised, Troopers scattered every few inches, watching and noting. Siltheres's eyes watched restlessly, observing and protecting every bit of Cantelot, unveiling more traitors as days went.

The flacon hadn't been sent this night, hadn't been escorted by a traitor during the ball. No, it was already there, already infiltrated and only waiting for the right time to surge out of the water. All borders were already checked each day and night before the ball, only noble authorities capable of accessing the farthest lands of the continent.

The traitor had to be from the castle, or at least one soldiers under his or her lead.

The conclusion didn't make anything better.

For heavy moments, silence glommed us, tying our tongues and weighting on our shoulders.

And thank the Gods Luthian spoke, his words piercing through that deafness and shattering it like splitting and breaking glass, "We cannot leave the bodies here, Your Excellencies. We kept the area clear as possible, but the smell will spread and the curious eyes will wander."

"He speaks truth," commented Claurod, his eyes turning to us. "But we can't just go around carrying masses of dead bodies."

"No, we truly can't." Ramos turned to the King, fingering his long, trimmed beard that glowed silver under moonlight. "We must take them to the cemetery and make sure they receive a temporary burial under the dirt. Few days from now, we'll let the people know some of what they need to and give them the proper burial they deserve."