The older man extended his hand, his grip firm, and his voice carried the same controlled intensity.
"My name is Berthold," he said, his voice low but commanding, a tone that demanded attention without needing to raise its volume. "May I know your name?"
Amukelo met the man's handshake with his own, feeling the roughness of Berthold's calloused palm. "Amukelo," he said simply, his voice steady though he felt anything but calm inside.
Berthold held onto Amukelo's hand longer than necessary, tightening his grip as he spoke again, this time with a thin, almost imperceptible smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Good to meet you, Amukelo. I hope you have a good reason why you are the only one who made it out alive."
The words, though spoken with a semblance of civility, struck Amukelo like a blow. There was no mistaking the undercurrent of accusation in Berthold's tone, the implication that Amukelo had somehow failed—or worse, that he was responsible. Berthold's smile grew harder, and the strength in his hand increased, squeezing Amukelo's until he could feel the pressure in his bones. "Unless this is some kind of joke, which I would be very glad if it were," Berthold added with a steely edge, "but don't think you will walk away without consequences if that's the case."
Amukelo didn't flinch under Berthold's intense scrutiny, though he felt his chest tighten with the guilt that had plagued him since the day of the tragedy. Meeting Berthold's gaze with a weak, pained stare, Amukelo forced himself to speak. "Unfortunately," he said, his voice quieter, "it's not a joke. I wish… I wish it were just a bad dream."
Berthold held his gaze for a moment longer, searching Amukelo's eyes for something. After a few tense seconds, he released Amukelo's hand with a huff, the smile gone, replaced by a cold, unreadable expression.
"Good," Berthold muttered, stepping back slightly. "But don't start just yet. You'll tell the story in front of everyone, not just me."
Amukelo's stomach twisted at the thought. He opened his mouth to respond, but Berthold was already speaking again.
"It's not time yet," Berthold said curtly. "There are still people who need to gather. For now," he added, gesturing toward the tables laden with food and drink, "enjoy some snacks."
With that, Berthold turned and walked away, leaving Amukelo standing there, feeling small and out of place amidst the grandeur of the hall.
Amukelo stared after Berthold for a moment, trying to process the sudden change in atmosphere. His mind was racing with what he would say, how he would explain everything in front of so many people.
The butler, who had stayed by Amukelo's side, stepped closer, his voice low and reassuring. "Don't get the wrong impression of him," the butler said softly, as though sensing the tension in Amukelo. "He just received news that his youngest son is dead, along with all the friends he had gone on this adventure with. And the only one alive is… well, some adventurer he doesn't know who claims to be one of them. This is how he sees it, at least."
Amukelo gave a slight nod, understanding more than ever the pain Berthold must be feeling. It didn't soften the blow of his words, but it helped to put them into perspective. "I understand," Amukelo muttered quietly.
The butler waved his hand toward the tables again, a gentle suggestion that Amukelo try to eat something while they waited. But as Amukelo approached the spread of delicacies and fine food, his stomach churned. His appetite was nonexistent.
Instead, he found himself standing to the side, watching the gathering crowd as more people filed into the hall. The room grew fuller as time passed, with nobles of all ages mingling and talking quietly amongst themselves. All the children had left the room, leaving only adults. The weight of their presence was suffocating.
Amukelo's eyes drifted over the crowd, picking out the faces of mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. Some looked curious, others concerned, but not many knew the exact reason they were there.
After what felt like hours, though it was likely less, Berthold approached Amukelo again, his expression still serious but more focused now. "It's time," he said in a deep voice. "Come with me."
Amukelo nodded, his heart racing as he followed Berthold through the crowd. The hall filled with the light chatter of conversation, seemed to quiet as they made their way to the front.
At the far end of the hall was a slightly elevated platform, clearly meant for speaking or making announcements. Berthold led Amukelo up the steps, the soft murmur of the crowd growing quieter with each passing second.
Once they reached the platform, Berthold turned to face the crowd, his powerful presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He raised his hand, and with a voice that boomed through the hall, he called out a single word that silenced the room completely.
"Attention!"
As Berthold's voice rang out through the hall, the room grew utterly still. All eyes turned toward the elevated platform, where Amukelo stood beside Berthold, his heart pounding in his chest. The sudden shift in attention was palpable, like a wave of energy moving through the crowd. No one had known the full reason for this gathering, only that some terrible news would be shared, and now all eyes were on Amukelo, the mysterious young man standing next to Berthold.
Amukelo felt the tension in the room rising, a soft murmur of whispers spreading through the crowd. From his vantage point on the platform, he could see the faces of the nobles, their expressions ranging from curiosity to concern. He overheard a pair of young girls whispering to each other in the front row, their voices hushed but audible in the quiet.
"Who is that guy?" one of them asked, her eyes wide as she stared up at Amukelo. "He's so pretty."
"I don't know," the other girl whispered back. "But he's definitely not from here."
The chatter in the room was short-lived. As Berthold stood beside Amukelo, his commanding presence quickly brought the murmurs to a halt. The older man straightened his posture, his voice cutting through the silence with the force of authority.
"Every one of you remembers when Bral, Idin, Pao, and Bao set off on their adventure," Berthold began, his voice steady and solemn. There was an instant shift in the mood of the room.
"They are dead," Berthold continued bluntly. His words sent a collective gasp through the room. The shock was immediate and visceral. Mothers placed their hands over their mouths in disbelief, fathers exchanged worried glances, and even the young nobles who had been whispering earlier were now silent, their faces pale with the weight of the news.
But the disbelief lingered. It was too sudden, too harsh. 'Dead?' It didn't seem real. No one wanted to believe it, not without more explanation, not without understanding how such a tragedy could have befallen their loved ones.
Berthold, sensing the unspoken doubt in the room, gestured to Amukelo. "This young gentleman, by the name of Amukelo, is the only one who survived from their guild."
The room's focus shifted fully to Amukelo now, and he could feel the pressure of it all pressing down on him.
Berthold's voice broke through his thoughts once again. "Tell us what happened, Amukelo. Everything. All the details."
For a moment, Amukelo hesitated. He took a deep breath, steadying himself as best he could. His heart was racing, but he forced himself to meet the eyes of the crowd. He knew this moment was coming, but it didn't make it any easier.
His voice, though quiet at first, gained strength as he began to speak. "I came here for two reasons," Amukelo said, his tone clear though laced with sorrow. "The first is to tell you what happened—to let you all know the truth about their deaths."
"The second reason," Amukelo continued, his voice softer now, "is to return to you their personal belongings." As he spoke, he reached into his pack and pulled out a worn leather bag that contained the items he had carried for this moment.
He held the bag up slightly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before he added, "May their parents come forward? I have something to give you."
There was a pause in the room, a heavy moment of hesitation as the weight of his words settled over the families. No one moved at first, as though they were still processing the reality of what Amukelo had said. It was as if time had slowed, and no one wanted to be the first to step forward and face the unbearable truth.
Berthold, sensing the reluctance, raised his hand and gave a firm nod to the families. His gesture was a command, and slowly, hesitantly, the parents of Amukelo's fallen comrades began to make their way toward the platform.
Amukelo watched them approach, his heart aching for what he had to do. There were five of them in total—Bral's mother along with Idin's parents, a couple who moved with a heavy sadness in their steps. Pao and Bao's parents were also there, both of them solemn and silent as they made their way forward.
As they came closer, Amukelo felt a pang of guilt twist in his chest. He had no right to be the one standing here, alive, when their children were gone. He didn't deserve their forgiveness or their understanding, but he would give them what little comfort he could.