The Silver Rose

02 | The General

"Go inside," the wind whispered. She whipped her head to the side, wondering if she'd imagined the chilling whistle in her ear. A deep emerald forest stared back at her, frigid breeze rustling through the towering trees. Was it—

Wil tugged at her elbow. "He's not the one to wait." She looked back to see the four guards keeping their eyes on her, hands still on their pommels. Why were they so cautious of her?

A shivery sigh escaped her. There was no way of escape without going through this wretched tent and that General. She entered.

     Her dirty boots squished on the luxurious rug that was spread about into the tent, the hem of her mud-stained gown dripping upon the floor. She did not try to feel more disgusted than she already was.

     The tent on the inside was dimly lit and dry. Brass candle holders hung from the poles and gossamer curtains were twisted around the metal alongside heavy cotton walls to keep the interior warm. A low table was kept to her right, over which rested a pair of snuffed candles, ink and parchment and a plate half filled with biscuits.

     Her stomach grumbled at the sight of fresh food, but Wil did not spare her another moment and pulled her through the tent. She did not catch what was to her left, thanks to the wave of dizziness that passed through her at his rough movement. It had been terribly long since she'd had a decent warm meal and some rest. The fear and the highs and the lows of her emotions had wrecked her internally.

      The soldier pulled her ahead. He flipped over another flap and they walked into a new chamber. Pleasant citrus welcomed her, tinged with the scent of leather and steel. This part was bigger, more brass candles and dark curtains. Her legs trembled, but she managed to hold herself as she surveyed the room with curious, scared eyes.

     The ground was hard and dry, a thin maroon carpet adorning the earth, above which was another rich onyx rug. Her feet ached to remove her wet, rough leathers that cut into her feet and feel the softness of the rug, feel it's warmth.

     Then her eyes fixed to the centre and the rest of the chamber blurred into the corners. A luxurious table and chairs with curved legs and arms, made of obsidian velvet and beautifully carved wood rested over another carpet of soft, dark brown fur. The head chair looked different. Not in making, but in its aura.

     It looked like a throne.

     And upon it sat, if not a king, but likely his closest equivalent, the General.

     His head was bowed, eyes upon a compilation of parchment that lay in front of him. He seemed quite comfortable, then he looked up, discarding the clipped papers and fixed her attention on them. It was a council room, Rosaline realised.

     When she'd escaped the city and joined the survivors, she'd heard people sing tales of a fearless man who'd led an army of shadows across the unforgiving Illathian mountains and won his king another realm of unbound riches. A realm that had been deemed unconquerable.

     And there he was, in front of her eyes, glimmering in the glory of victory.

     She felt the disquieting sensation of being studied and resisted the urge to shift on her feet as she stared back at his silent face, in both fear and fascination.

     He was so young and appeared nothing like her horrid expectations when her eyes drank in his perfect, porcelain face. A captivating pair of hazel eyes stared back.

     The man wore no armour over his silver tunic and didn't seem to have any weapon by his side. A leather belt at his waist peeked out of his huge—and seemingly very warm and dry—ebony cloak.