Amukelo's heart pounded in his chest as he drew his sword, its blade gleaming faintly in the light of the hall. His mind was spinning, a whirlwind of confusion, guilt, and fear. The room around him seemed to blur, the faces of the people, their angry voices, all merging into a dizzying cacophony. He could barely keep his footing, but his hands gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. His muscles tensed, and despite the overwhelming exhaustion and emotional strain, he wasn't ready to give up. His story wouldn't end here.
The first guard approached, his hand outstretched to seize Amukelo. Though the guard's expression was uncertain, he was following orders. But just as the guard was within range, a powerful voice rang out across the hall, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Stop!" The command was so authoritative that it froze everyone in place, including the guard, whose hand hovered in the air mere inches from Amukelo.
It was Berthold, his voice booming and filled with anger. All eyes snapped to him as he stepped forward, his imposing figure dominating the room. His sharp gaze scanned the crowd, filled with an intensity that immediately silenced the murmurs and whispers.
"What do you people think you are doing!?" Berthold's voice thundered, his tone filled with righteous fury. The room went deathly quiet, the tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. Even the guards, who had been advancing on Amukelo, halted in their tracks, unsure of what to do.
"He is not the enemy!" Berthold continued, his voice unwavering. "The fact that he decided to go on this long journey, to get here, to find us, to deliver this message, shows how much it means to him. Think about it! How often have you heard of someone dying on an adventure and leaving their families clueless for years? How often does someone come solely with the purpose of letting us know what happened, risking their own life in the process?"
The weight of Berthold's words hung in the air, and for the first time, the crowd seemed to pause and reflect on what was truly happening. Amukelo, still standing with his sword drawn, felt a surge of emotion well up inside him as Berthold spoke.
Berthold wasn't finished. His voice lowered slightly, but the intensity remained. "And you still think you can judge him for something he had no control over? You should be ashamed of yourselves!"
The room fell into a stunned silence. Amukelo stood frozen, his sword still at the ready, but now the eyes of the crowd had turned away from him. They were focused entirely on Berthold, and the authority in his voice left no room for argument. The shame was visible on the faces of some of the nobles, their eyes dropping to the floor as they realized the harshness of their previous accusations. The rage that had filled the room only moments before had evaporated, leaving behind a sense of quiet reflection.
For a long moment, no one moved. Amukelo remained in his stance, his sword still drawn, as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. His breath was shallow, his vision still a blur from the emotions that had overwhelmed him. He could barely register the silence that had taken hold of the hall. The echoes of the angry accusations still rang in his ears, but Berthold's words had cut through them, offering him a lifeline when he had thought all was lost.
Then, slowly, the whispers began again, but this time they were softer, less hostile. Some of the nobles had caught sight of Amukelo's sword during the confrontation. They hadn't noticed it before, but now they were whispering among themselves, their eyes darting to the blade in hushed curiosity.
"Is that…?" one noble whispered to another, his eyes widening as he peered at the sword in Amukelo's hand.
"Could it be a legendary elven sword?" another noble murmured, doubt creeping into his voice. They had all heard the tales of such weapons, but few had ever seen one.
The whispers spread through the room like wildfire, but no one dared to ask the question directly. Most of them didn't believe it, chalking it up to a fanciful rumor, but the seed of curiosity had been planted. Berthold noticed the glances toward the sword, his eyes narrowing in recognition. He, too, had heard the stories of legendary weapons crafted by elves, and though he hadn't noticed it before, the sword in Amukelo's hand seemed to match those descriptions.
Amukelo, sensing the shift in attention toward his weapon, quickly sheathed the sword. His hands still trembled slightly, and his legs felt weak beneath him, but he stood tall, trying to compose himself. He hadn't drawn the sword to show off or intimidate, but now that it had been noticed, he didn't want the attention.
After a long, tense moment, Amukelo turned toward Berthold. His voice, though quiet, was filled with gratitude. "Thank you," he said, the words carrying the weight of his relief. He wanted to leave, to escape the heavy stares of the crowd and head to Norton instantaneously as his matters here were fulfilled. "I still have one unsolved matter," Amukelo continued, his gaze dropping slightly. "So I will take my leave."
"Wait a moment," Berthold said firmly, stepping forward. His voice was no longer angry, but there was a warmth in his tone that surprised Amukelo. "You should stay for a while longer. Enjoy some snacks, and let's talk about this... but not in front of the crowd. Wait a moment, I will join you soon."
Amukelo hesitated, but after a moment, he nodded. "Alright," he said. "I'll stay for a bit longer."
Amukelo stepped down from the stage, and the crowd that had been so hostile only moments ago now regarded him with a mix of guilt and shame. The people who had been shouting at him earlier avoided his gaze, but their expressions were unmistakable. There were no apologies spoken aloud, but their faces conveyed the regret they felt for their harsh words. Still, no one approached him to make amends directly.
The entire ordeal had weighed heavily on Amukelo, but now, as he walked off the platform, he felt as though a massive stone had been lifted from his chest. The guilt and pressure that had been crushing him for so long had eased, if only slightly. He moved away from the center of attention, choosing to stand near the wall, where he could quietly observe the room without drawing any more eyes toward himself.
As he leaned against the wall, Amukelo's stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything that day. His mind had been so consumed by the confrontation that he had forgotten entirely about his basic needs.
He glanced at the table of snacks that Berthold had gestured. The sight of the food, arranged beautifully and smelling delicious, finally tempted him to try some. He approached the table, eyeing the various offerings: fine cheeses, sliced meats, freshly baked bread, fruit, wine, juices, and more.
Amukelo reached for a piece of cheese first, savoring the rich flavor as it melted on his tongue. It was far better than anything he had eaten his entire life.
After that first taste, he began to eat more. He tore off pieces of bread, adding slices of meat, and tried different cheeses. He took a small sip of juice, followed by a bit of wine. Each bite was better than the last, and soon Amukelo found himself consuming more than he had intended.
As he ate, a low chuckle reached his ears. He looked up to see Berthold approaching, smiling warmly as he watched Amukelo clean his face from the remnants of food. His cheeks had become smudged with crumbs.
"I think now I might understand why you've been targeted," Berthold said as he stepped closer. His eyes shifted toward the sword at Amukelo's side, the weapon that had remained largely unnoticed by the crowd earlier. "May I see your sword?"
Amukelo froze for a moment, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of the blade. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hand it over. This sword was more than just a weapon to him. But seeing no ill intent in Berthold's eyes, he relented. With a nod, he wiped his hands and then slowly drew the sword, holding it out for Berthold to inspect.
Berthold took the sword with a careful hand, lifting it to examine it in the light. He turned the blade over, running his fingers along the intricate design of the hilt, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the craftsmanship. He remained silent for a long moment, studying the blade closely, before handing it back to Amukelo.
"I can't be a hundred percent sure," Berthold said thoughtfully, "but I think this is a legendary elven sword."
Amukelo sheathed the sword, nodding slightly but saying nothing in response. He knew this sword's origin, but he decided to keep it for himself.
Berthold continued, his voice dropping slightly as he added, "If I'm right, it's no wonder someone tried to target you. This sword alone would be worth the lives of many. May I ask who it was that came after you?"
Amukelo hesitated. His eyes flicked downward for a moment, and the familiar surge of pain returned to his chest. He didn't want to talk about Neclord White. Revealing the name of the man responsible felt too personal, too dangerous. It was his battle, his quest for revenge, and dragging others into it would only invite more suffering.
But before Amukelo could answer, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Idin's parents and Pao and Bao's mother approaching, their faces filled with curiosity and grief.
Idin's father was the first to speak, his voice steady but full of emotion. "We would also like to know who it was," he said, his eyes locked on Amukelo's. "Who did this to our children?"
Amukelo's mind raced. He didn't want to involve them. He didn't want to draw them into the vicious cycle of vengeance that had consumed him. But he could see the pain in their eyes.