❝ when she looks into his eyes, she feels the gripping temptation to tell him all her darkest secrets; the names of the men she has killed, but she learned a long time ago that the only people who can keep secrets are resting in overgrown graveyards...
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9 YEARS LATER
In the town of Osbrot, pounding hooves can be heard from miles away. Each passing second beckons the small army closer, like a swelling storm rolling in from the West. A mass of whispering, concerned citizens huddles together outside the local tavern, awaiting someone brave enough to step inside. A terrifying, dark presence looms at the door. The wood almost looks scarred, as if touched by brutal magic, and no one has the courage to push it open on creaking hinges and investigate the massacre behind the steady, jarring crack of the wind pushing it open and closed, back and forth, taunting every onlooker. There aren't any boot prints on the mud, even though constant rain has turned the ground into nothing more than a branching system of thick, brown pools.
The tavern is frozen in time. Pricked and prodded by the stench of death and the divine powers which allowed such horrid acts to take place. This could be no act of God, not even heavenly punishment for sin. No, not even God could have controlled what lies behind that closed door. Every townsperson knows, in their gut, this is the work of the Devil.
The sea of individuals parts for the group of riders baring the dragon seal of Camelot. A holy red that makes them breathe in relief as the rustling chainmail and unsheathing of swords calms some of their nerves. As a bold leader, Arthur Pendragon dismounts his horse, blonde hair sticking to his forehead in a mix of sweat and rain. The people extend their hands to touch his armored shoulder as he passes, as if that could save them from a similar fate which befell those unfortunate souls in the tavern.
This young Prince has seen death up close on the battlefield and in the tense duels of mortal combat. He's shoved his sword into other men's chests, watching as their eyes go blank and blood seeps around them. He's not a stranger to the brutality of the world, but when he bravely walks to the tavern door and pushes it open, his stomach churns so harshly he thinks he may lose his breakfast. Arthur holds up his hand to stop any other knights from entering as the molding floorboards groan underneath him. The Prince sucks in a breath, and takes in every, bloody detail.
All around the floor, men lie dead. Throats deeply slashed, chests cut open, wounds inflicted with the intent of excruciating pain. The once light brown floors are a dark crimson. The walls are splattered with the destruction. Not one man even looks like he was able to put up much of a fight. Arthur leans down to press his fingers to the blood-stained wood. Whoever did this is long gone.
When he stands, he walks further into the tavern, towards the back where a door is kicked off its hinges. Inside the storage room, a man lies dead against the wall with a clean slice to his throat. He tried to hide from his attacker, but nothing could have saved him. His eyes are dull and wide as he slumps against the wall with his execution etched permanently on his face. Arthur's eyebrows furrow when he notices one of the man's sleeves pushed up to his forearm while the other hangs loosely. It could be a detail of little importance, but he still takes note of it as he leans against the doorframe.
