In one of the many halls of the Royal Palace, many figures dressed in dark leather armor laid prostrated on the ground at the King's feet, with their faces on the floor, in silence.
The Shadow Guards failed at their mission and failed at protecting the precious offspring of the three Guardians.
They were supposed to follow them from afar and protect them in case anything went wrong, however, things went bad and fell apart way too quickly.
In just the short five minutes they took to get close, the great majority of the young warriors lost their lives in the most brutal of ways, being torn apart and devoured, piece by piece, while still conscious.
The men fought bravely, but against such a force it was hopeless.
When the Shadows saw it, they went mad and obliterated all the monsters in a matter of seconds.
Armored Orcs? So what? They could crush bones with their bare hands. Fingers like claws and hands as spears, the elite force tore apart the beasts without sustaining a single casualty.
Even the immensely powerful Ogre, after getting jumped by more than ten Shadows at once, was like a young calf amid a pack of hungry lions.
Piece by piece they tore its flesh and skin, dismembering and disemboweling…
But for what? The battle was already over, and…they lost. Their mission was crystal clear and yet… Only three among the younger generation returned back to the city, from dozens that left, and even those were already on the verge of death.
The three were Arron, Ron, and Tabbris. They were the strongest, most resilient among them, with the best tools and armor, but when outnumbered ten to one, that didn't matter.
Not the Shadows lay at King's feet, begging to be punished.
Robart's face was cold as he ignored them and stared at the Royal doctor, examining the three. He felt time drag on slowly, at a snail's pace, like trying to swim through honey.
Watching the doctor's face scrunch up as he examined the wounds and noticing the minuscule head shakes as the man felt their pulse, his anxiety increased bit by bit.
He wanted to curse himself for sending them on a scouting mission. He could have just sent out many groups of his usual scouts, achieving good results with minimal risk.
Granted, it wasn't originally his idea to do it, but in the end, what did it matter? He was the one to approve it after all.
The doctor eventually stood up and turned to the King, shaking his head. There was nothing he could do for them anymore. In a few short minutes or maybe hours, if they were unlucky, the three young men would die.
There was no doubt about that.
Arron sustained injuries to his head and spine, his body being twisted in the wrong direction and the skull split open, with blood flowing out of it. His breathing was shallow and fast as his blood pressure kept dropping due to excess blood loss.
The Shadows made him drink potions and offered him first aid, but there was only so much they could do. In the time it took them to carry him back to the city, he basically became a corpse. His life was hanging by a thread.
Tabbris wasn't fairing much better. Though the armor protected his body, his arms and legs were chopped or torn off at the joints. A sharp stick also pierced his stomach from below, and as soon as anyone tried to remove it, he would die.
Ron, having ridden on the giant boar, had his body crushed in battle after his mount died and rolled over him. Sharp ribs were poking out of his skin and his limbs were all sorts of wrong shapes and colors, from deep purple to blue, and red, and black.
The King stepped closer and whispered something into the doctor's ear. There was only one thing that could be done now.
The old man opened his eyes and mouth wide in shock and stared into the distance. Quickly he recovered from his stupor, bowed to His Majesty, and ran out of the room as fast as he could while still keeping some grace.
"Arron!" Ulrich Aust burst into the room seconds later, nearly throwing the doors off their hinges as he entered, and ran to the bed on which his oldest son lay.
"My boy," he cried as he fell to his knees beside the bed, "Look how they massacred my boy!"
Soon Razor Northendark and Crag Carre also came, wearing the same somber expressions.
Tabbris' father couldn't take it looking at his son in such a state and closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, holding back his boiling emotions. He completely disregarded everyone in the room, including the King.
At the moment he couldn't even look the man in the face, afraid he might lose it.
"Please, Your Majesty!" Crag Carre threw himself on the floor and kowtowed, "Please, save my son!"
But he got no response from the man he looked up to so much, which hurt even more than getting his please rejected.
Then the last of the four came, Guardian of the East, Ewat Holt. With one look he realized the severity of the situation. And for once he was glad his oldest offspring stayed back home, instead of joining in this insanity.
The three laying there on the beds were dead men, there was no doubt about it. Even the King, with all his magical powers, couldn't save them.
There was just one thing in the entire Kingdom that could maybe give them some hope. But Ewat was certain it was too precious to be wasted before the last battle even began. It was something that only the Royal family had access to.
"He surely wouldn't use waste it on those three, right?" Ewat Holt murmured to himself. But one look at His majesty's expression told him everything.
"He..."