All present stood frozen, unable to process what had just happened. A dense, oppressive silence filled the courtroom.
It took five seconds—five seconds of pure silence, five silly seconds—for the audience, for everyone present, to process the reality.
After those five seconds, as if a spell had been broken, Roland's head separated from his body. The torso, once imposing, knelt slowly, like a felled tree, before collapsing to the ground with a heavy, dull thud. The sound of the head rolling across the stone floor, grotesque and unnatural, echoed through the courtroom. Roland's glazed eyes, once full of defiance, now stared at nothing, fixed on a distant, unreachable point.
The great bear of Dunkel, the legendary Devil's Hand, lay inert on the floor of that fateful courtroom. Life, strength, indomitable fury... all extinguished in a single, terrible instant.
The witnesses' eyes widened in shock. The silence, once absolute, was now charged with an almost palpable tension: a suffocating mixture of fear, cruelty, and a deep, disturbing confusion.
No one dared to take a deep breath; no one dared to move. Only the faint, yet unmistakable, tallic scent of blood began to slowly spread through the air.
Edward, as if abruptly awakening from a trance, seed montarily stunned. A shadow—was it regret? Confusion?—crossed his face for an instant but was quickly replaced by an expression of false indignation, a desperate attempt to regain control.
He turned to those present, his voice strained, the words sounding hollow and unconvincing, even to his own ears.
"He... he slandered ! It was calumny against the Crown! Treason!" He paused, gasping for air, and then, in a whisper, forced out: "The sentence... the sentence was... fair!"
But his words fell on deaf ears. Or, worse, on ears that no longer believed. The disbelief was palpable.
From the corners of the courtroom, whispers began, like a fire creeping stealthily through a dry forest.
The rumor, the suspicion that had already hung in the air like a fog before that day, now gained body and substance, fueled by Roland's blood and the pathetic fragility of Edward's excuse.
The truth, like a subterranean and impetuous river, began to silently undermine the foundations of the usurped throne.
The heavy murmurs in the courtroom were suddenly interrupted by the imposing figure of Gerard, the new Supre Commander. He pushed open the doors, advancing with long, determined strides towards Edward, ignoring the petrified gazes of the audience and with only a sidelong glance at the macabre presence of Roland's body.
Leaning down, Gerard whispered sothing urgent in Edward's ear. The words were inaudible to the others, but the expression on the commander's face was grave, almost alard.
Edward, who until then had seed lost in a haze of confusion and false indignation, reacted instantly. The color drained from his face, replaced by a sudden pallor. Without a word, he turned and, followed closely by Gerard, hurriedly left the courtroom. His steps, previously hesitant, now echoed firmly but charged with a new urgency.
The instant they crossed the threshold, leaving behind the stage of the tragedy, Roland's last words—the desperate oath, the accusation—seed to reverberate in the air, striking Edward full force. "...Persecuted your sister, who had just given birth!"
A shiver ran down his spine. Leah... pregnant? The realization, like a freezing blast, hit him, paralyzing him for a fraction of a second in the hallway.
An heir.
A dark thought crossed his mind, swift and lethal. His regret for killing Roland was now bitter and indigestible.
The initial urgency regained his attention; the reason for Gerard's summons gave way to a new priority. A brutal but necessary solution to the problem that Roland, even dead, represented.
"Gerard..." said Edward.
His voice was suddenly cold and controlled, regaining composure. "Roland's body... it will be displayed in Gothia. Let all see the fate of a traitor." A cruel and subtle smile deford his lips. "Let it be a lesson, especially for this Leonard."
_______________________________________
Amidst the paralyzed crowd in the courtroom, Thomas, Roland's loyal friend, felt horror spread through his veins like poison. He witnessed the brutal death, the blatant injustice, and fear dominated him.
Without hesitation, Thomas broke away from the crowd and ran out of the courtroom. His steps were hurried on the stone streets of Luria, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. "Am I next?" he thought.
In his hand, he firmly held a sealed envelope—Roland's posthumous letter, the last request of a condemned man. The letter of inheritance for Leonard, which he had written at his house days before.
Urgency propelled him. He needed to send that letter, whatever the cost. It was Roland's last hope. Leonard's only chance.
But Thomas wasn't alone.
Hidden in the crowd, now a silent chaos of emotions, Evelyn watched, and everything narrowed to a single point: Roland on trial for 3 days.
Three days she was moving behind the scene playing her ga and moving her pawn.
But "powerless". The word beat hard against her ego. She couldn't intervene. Not openly. She was on a mission, the promise... Leonard.
Then, she saw him.
A man. A blur. The only one moving away from the courthouse, hurried. Shoulders hunched, face hidden, quick steps. A wolf fleeing.
Evelyn's instincts scread. "Sothing's there..." that man was the missing piece.
She knew Roland.
"It's about Leonard..." The thought, clear and urgent. "I need to protect this person. Ensure Roland's plans co to fruition."
Drawing closer, she recognized him, the sa face that had testified for Roland. Thomas.
I need to protect him. And so she did, Evelyn beca his shadow.
_______________________________________
Leonard's POV, Besen, New Era 189
The wind whistled in his ears, a harbinger of the pain to co from that fall. Leonard felt the cold dampness of the lake on his face, the acrid sll of the turbulent water below.
He glanced down for a fleeting instant. The jagged rocks, speckled with white foam, looked like hungry teeth waiting for him, growing larger by the second. The waves crashed furiously; the storm had created a monster beneath the platform.
There was no ti to think, to hesitate.
He stretched and stiffened his body, transforming himself into a human arrow, and plunged into the dark river.
The impact with the water was brutal, an explosion of cold and pain that stole the air from his lungs. He heard the body of the bandit he had dragged with him collide with the rocks with a terrible sound, a mixture of bones breaking and flesh tearing. A sound muffled by the fury of the lake.
Leonard tried to fight the current, but he was extrely exhausted; it was useless. A gigantic wave engulfed him, throwing him against a subrged rock.
A flashbang and then, darkness.
"No..." The word echoed in his mind, a thread of consciousness refusing to yield.
He struggled, more out of instinct than strength. His arms, heavy as lead, barely moved. His legs were numb. Water entered his lungs, burning, suffocating him.
His head broke the surface for a brief instant. A gasp of air, mixed with water and rain. It wasn't enough.
He sank again.
"Roland... Father... Mother..." Faces, mories, fragnts of a miserable life.
Sothing touched his body, strong enough to awaken his instincts. It was a log... floating along with the river's turmoil in the storm.
With the last vestige of his strength, Leonard clung to the rough wood, his fingers slipping on the sli and mud present in the water, but they closed in a desperate grip.
The current continued to pull him, but now he had a foothold, a tenuous link to hope. With great effort, he kept his head above the water, coughing and expelling the muddy water he had swallowed. Each breath was a painful victory.
The heavy rain fell on him relentlessly, as if the very sky were in mourning. The shore was only a distant shadow, obscured by fog and darkness. He was adrift, alone, badly injured, in a raging lake on a stormy night. A castaway in his own holand.
Leonard opened his eyes, but the bright light from the bedroom window montarily blinded him. He blinked, confused, trying to focus. He was no longer at the lake. He was no longer in the rain.
He was lying on a narrow bed, covered by a thick, comfy blanket. The sll of dicinal herbs, strong and sweetish, filled the air. He felt his body numb and heavy, as if every muscle had been crushed.
He tried to move, but a sharp twinge in his ribs made him groan. The pain brought him back to reality, fragnts of mory colliding in his mind like waves in a storm.
"The fall... the lake... the bandit... the fight... the current..." Leo thought while massaging his temples.
He rembered the biting cold of the water, the darkness, the feeling of drowning. He rembered the big log, the desperate struggle to stay afloat. And then... nothing.
"Where was he? Who had rescued him?" He questioned himself.
A movent in the corner of the room caught his attention. A figure approached, tall and thin, but with a posture that, despite his age, conveyed a serene strength. He possessed an ancestral aura.
An old man, with hair as white as snow and a long, thick beard, but his eyes were a penetrating green, full of life and an almost palpable energy. He wore simple but clean clothes, and his hands, although marked by prominent veins and knuckles, were firm and strong like those of a young warrior.
But there was sothing more... a serenity, a depth, that transcended re age.
"You've awakened, finally," said the man, his voice hoarse but gentle. An ancestral timbre echoed in every word. "I was worried."
Leonard tried to speak, but his throat was dry and scratchy. He coughed, a weak and painful sound.
"Easy, lad," said the man, approaching the bed with a glass of water. His movents were fluid and precise, like those of a feline, despite his frail and elderly appearance.
"Drink slowly," he said.
Leonard obeyed, feeling the cool water relieve so of the dryness in his throat.
"Who... who are you?" Leo managed to ask, his voice still hoarse.
"My na is Saito," replied the man, with a slight smile, a smile that seed to have seen centuries pass. "I found you in the river, during the storm. I was fishing tempest-catchers—a rare fish that only appears with heavy rain—when I saw you, clinging to a log, almost unconscious. I brought you to my cabin."
Leonard frowned, trying to piece together the puzzle. "Saito... storm... fish... None of it made sense. How could a man, who appeared to be so old, have so much strength?" He thought.
"Where... where are we?" Leo asked, looking around.
The cabin was small but surprisingly airy and bright. The morning sunlight stread through the window, revealing walls of light wood, polished by ti. There was a stone fireplace, now with only embers, and shelves with jars of herbs and kitchen utensils. The environnt was simple but conveyed a sense of peace and order.
"In my humble abode," replied Saito, with an enigmatic smile. "You are safe here, for now."
Leonard nodded slowly, still trying to process everything. His gaze road the room, taking in the details. It was then that he saw two katanas, but he chose not to comnt on anything.
"I need to know..." Leonard began, but his voice failed. There were still many questions.
Saito interrupted him, gently but firmly. "There will be ti for questions, young master. First, you need to rest." He turned to a shelf filled with glass jars and dried herbs, beginning to select so ingredients. "I'm going to prepare sothing for the pain and to help heal your wounds."
Leonard watched as Saito worked, his movents precise and experienced. He mixed the herbs in a mortar, adding a clear liquid from a small bottle. It was then that Leonard noticed.
A subtle glow, almost imperceptible, emanated from Saito's nape. Not from the skin, nor the clothes, but from within. A faint greenish glow, but unmistakable.
"You..." Leonard began, his voice strained with surprise. "You are a Neumond."
Saito stopped for an instant, the pestle suspended in the air. He turned slowly, his green eyes, now shining with an almost supernatural intensity, fixing on Leonard's.
He walked calmly to the bed, the aura of mystery enveloping him like a mist. He leaned down, his ancient and wise face inches from Leonard's.
"And those blue eyes of yours..." said Saito, his voice low and laden with aning, "...are much more than you can imagine..."
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