Chapter 16: Confession
The feast was hitting its peak.
Which meant my tolerance for it was hitting rock bottom.
The noise in the Great Hall was a physical thing, a wall of forced laughter and clinking wine goblets.
It was the sound of a server full of players trying their absolute hardest to ignore the massive, world-ending lag spike that had just rattled their screens.
Denial.
It was the most powerful buff in the kingdom tonight.
Yael stood behind my chair, a silent, beautiful, and deeply pissed-off statue.
I could feel the waves of irritation rolling off her.
She hated this.
She hated the fancy clothes, the fake smiles, and the fact that her only weapon was a dinner knife that probably had negative damage stats.
I couldn’t blame her.
This whole thing felt like one of those unskippable cutscenes before a major boss fight.
All pointless dialogue and bad camera angles while you’re just itching to get to the part where you start blowing things up.
The King finally stood up.
He raised his goblet, a masterpiece of gold and glowing gems.
Instantly, the wall of sound crumbled into absolute silence.
Every single eye in the room, from the lowest servant to the snootiest noble, snapped to the throne.
Showtime.
"My loyal subjects," King Eldros began.
His voice wasn’t the booming command from our first meeting.
It was quiet.
It was tired.
It was heavy.
"My friends."
He swept his ancient eyes over the sea of expectant faces.
I saw it then.
The deep, bone-weary sadness in his gaze.
This wasn’t a speech.
This was a eulogy.
"For too long," he said, his voice cracking just a little, "our prosperity, our peace... has been built on a foundation of... forgotten history."
My gamer brain lit up.
Oh, here we go.
The big lore dump.
The part where the old king tells you the world is doomed because of something his great-great-grand-admin did a thousand years ago.
Yael shifted behind me, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.
This was the part where the quest objective changes from "Survive" to "Fix Everything."
"There is something I must confess to you all," the King whispered, his eyes looking past us, as if staring at a ghost only he could see.
"A debt that has long been owed..."
CRASH!
The sound wasn’t just loud.
It was violent.
It was the sound of the world breaking.
The massive, carved wooden doors at the far end of the hall didn’t just open.
They exploded inward, ripped from their hinges like they were made of paper.
Splinters the size of spears flew through the air.
A cold, night wind, smelling of dust and fear, rushed into the hall, extinguishing half the candles and sending tapestries whipping.
And in the shattered doorway, silhouetted against the twin moons, stood a figure.
It was one of the scouts.
One of the elite riders who had vanished into the northern mists with Gandalf.
His fine royal blue cloak was ripped to shreds.
One arm hung at a useless, broken angle.
His face, caked in dirt and dried blood, was a mask of pure, mindless terror.
He took a stumbling step into the hall, his eyes wide and unseeing, scanning the room like a cornered animal.
He wasn’t looking for help.
He was looking for his commander.
The feast’s illusion of safety shattered into a million pieces.
A noblewoman screamed, a high, thin sound that was quickly swallowed by a wave of panicked shouts.
The nobles, the ones who had been sneering and gossiping just seconds before, scrambled back from the door, a wave of silk and terror.
Prince Caleth, the arrogant little trash mob, stumbled backward so fast he fell over a chair, his face chalk-white.
The Queen’s cold composure finally broke.
She let out a small, sharp gasp, her hand flying to her throat.
But the King... the King didn’t look surprised at all.
His face was a mask of grim, weary resignation.
He just lowered his goblet, the unfinished confession dying on his lips.
This wasn’t an interruption.
This was what he had been waiting for.
Beside the throne, Royal Champion Dareth didn’t move a muscle.
He just stood there, a mountain of quiet stone.
But his jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscles bulge.
His eyes, fixed on the broken scout, weren’t shocked.
They were hard.
They were ready.
He knew.
He knew this day was coming.
My eyes shot to Yael.
She hadn’t moved either.
Her head was cocked slightly to the side, her hand resting on the hilt of her useless dinner knife.
She wasn’t scared.
She was analyzing.
Her eyes flicked from the scout, to Gandalf, to the King.
I could practically see her connecting the dots in her head, the pieces of a lie slotting into place.
The scout stumbled forward, his boots leaving bloody tracks on the polished marble floor.
The crowd parted before him like water.
He ignored the King.
He ignored the Queen.
He ignored everyone.
His wild, terrified eyes finally found their target.
Gandalf.
He staggered across the hall and collapsed at Gandalf’s feet, his good hand grabbing his commander’s arm in a death grip.
He tried to speak.
Only a broken, ragged gasp came out.
A wet, gurgling sound.
"Sir..." he choked out.
"They... they..."
He couldn’t finish.
He just shook his head, his body trembling violently, pure terror having stolen his words.
The hall was dead silent again.
A thick, suffocating dread filled the air.
Everyone was frozen, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Then the silence was shattered.
"Say something, Captain!"
It was Princess Ilyra.
She had stood up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.
Her face was flushed, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury.
The flirty, confident princess was gone.
In her place was a terrified, angry young woman who was demanding answers.
She pointed a trembling finger directly at Gandalf.
"What the fuck is going on!?"
Her voice, raw and un-royal, echoed through the vast hall.
The curse was like a physical slap, snapping everyone out of their shocked stupor.
Every eye in the room turned to Gandalf Reynolds.
He stood there, looking down at the broken man clutching his arm.
He looked from the scout to his King, and his face was a horrible mixture of a soldier’s duty and a man’s absolute dread.
He knew what was out there.
He knew what was coming.
His hand, the one that wasn’t being held, had been holding his own ornate goblet of wine.
Slowly, his fingers went limp.
The heavy gold cup slipped from his grasp.
It fell to the marble floor.
It didn’t just clatter.
It crashed.
The sound echoed through the silent hall like a death knell.