Chapter 407: The Weight of Decisions
The Weight of Decisions
The morning at Blackthorne was bathed in sunlight, the sun bursting through silken drapes, pouring warmth upon rumpled sheets and naked flesh. Leon and Cassidy were still immersed in the echoes of their morning fire—her laughter needy, his fingers grasping, the two of them bound so intimately to each other it seemed as if the rest of the world did not and could not and would not matter. Their room reeked of sweat, perfume, and desire. To them, the war beyond those walls was a muffled hum, a storm yet to come.
But somewhere else, away from the center of Blackthorne City, the air was a completely different story.
At the edge of Weytsend, where the earth sloped into the broken ridges of Moonstone’s grasp, the air hung heavy—too heavy to inhale without a sense of iron and dread weighing upon it. Campfires smoldered in the fading sky. Soldiers crept as shadows, their armor ringing, their voices low, expecting the certainty of dawn.
The Vellore forces had already started their preparations, flags aloft above lines of tents. The acrid scent of oiled steel and wet leather hung in the air. Horses kicked in their lines. Scouts arrived and departed in silence, eyes narrowed, jaws clenched. All were aware—the Moonstone troops would reach the border by nightfall. The waiting game for tomorrow was over. Tomorrow, blood would be currency.
Within the command tent, tension hung thicker than smoke.
The large pavilion was dimly lit, lanterns gently swaying with the night breeze. Maps were spread out on the middle table, stones holding down the curling edges. Cups of wine were untouched, lying beside untouched bread. Nobody had the taste to eat.
King Gary presided over the head of the table, his green hair damp with the mist beyond, his black eyes hard and unforgiving. Beside him sat the top commanders of the Vellore court, hooded and armored, their faces set into furrows of concern. Edric was one of them, his black hair falling onto his forehead, his eyes moving, agitated.
The silence lingered until finally Gary spoke. His words were measured, smooth, but had a steel edge that sliced through the air.
"As you’re all aware," he started, his voice stern, "Moonstone’s armies will meet at the border before night actually falls. Tomorrow, war commences. It is time we put our trap into action—the one we planned long ago. The question is—who among us will carry it out?"
The tent plunged into silence once more.
Gazes flashed from one man to another, but no one stirred, no one stepped forward. The sound of lantern fire crackling was the only noise, hissing against the stillness.
At last, a voice spoke, hesitant yet resolute:
"My king... if I may."
Every head swung towards the speaker, a gaunt figure in a mantle, face half hidden. His voice had a sort of wary boldness. "This trap was contrived by Lord Edric. So... should it not be Lord Edric himself who executes it?"
For an instant, nothing. Then all eyes flicked to Edric.
His teeth clenched, his eyes narrowing as he sat back in his chair. "Why me?" His voice snapped like a whip, defensive and quick. "Why not you? Do not presume to foist this on me."
A shiver of discomfort ran through the tent. The accusatory silence of every commander bore down on him, heavier than armor.
Another general stood, his face scarred down one cheek. His voice was steady but cut with icy precision. "Because, Lord Edric, this was your idea. You set the trap. Who better to carry it through? Unless..." his eyes narrowed, "you question your own handiwork?"
The words hung as a blade poised above Edric’s neck.
His lips opened, and then closed again. His fists tightened on the table rim, knuckles paling. He felt the cutting stares, the unvoiced charge. Skepticism. Fear. Betrayal.
Gary pulled back in his chair, his black eyes locked on Edric. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His silence weighed more than words, his stare as cutting as any headsman’s sword.
Edric’s throat dried out. In his head, his mind roiled like stormwater. Damn them. Damn this. They don’t understand. If I go myself—if I go in there—then I might not come back. Aurelian might be a fool, but he is cunning, too cunning. If even a whisper of suspicion crosses him, my head will roll before I’ve had time to blink. I cannot take the risk. I cannot walk to my death.
But all of them waited.
At last, he swallowed and compelled his voice firm. "It’s not... it’s not that I have no faith in my plan." His gaze darted to Gary’s, then back away. "I do know it will work. I do know that we will succeed. But I cannot go. Not because I am afraid—" He set his chin, attempting to conceal his hesitation, "—but because I must stay with my people.". If the plan fails, if something goes wrong, my men will require me here to take them into battle. To equal Moonstone steel with our own. That is my responsibility.
The tent fell silent once more. But this time the silence was heavy with judgment.
Gary clenched his jaw, although he nodded only once. His black eyes were unblinking, inscrutable, but a hurricane churned within them. Coward, he thought icily. If I did not require you, Edric, I would dismember you myself. But for the moment... you live. For the moment.
Aloud, his tone was curt, controlled. "Very well. Your argument has value."
Another rose to his feet, agitation creeping through his formal tone. "Then if not Lord Edric, who will take his place, my king?"
Each eye turned back to Gary. He allowed the silence to hang, allowed them to sense the gravity of his choice. His drumming fingers paused once against the arm of his chair before dropping still. Gradually, he swept his black eyes around the tent, allowing each man’s in turn to meet his own.
I know," Gary finally replied, his voice heavy, definitive. "I know one man qualified to do this."
The tent was full of murmurs, tension spreading among the assembled commanders. One ventured to ask at last, his tone hesitant: "Who, my king?"
Gary’s gaze became sharp, his lips twisting into something that was not quite smile or frown.
"That individual," he continued, every word measured, "is no other than my—