The grand hall of the palace stood as a masterpiece of timeless beauty,
encircled by towering columns gilded in gold, each adorned with
delicate carvings that seemed to tell stories of old. The columns
stretched upwards, as if reaching for eternity, and met a vaulted ceiling
that seemed to watch over all with a quiet reverence. Above, a
magnificent chandelier crafted from hundreds of tiny glass prisms hung
suspended, casting a warm, ethereal light that bathed the hall in gentle
radiance. As the light touched the polished marble floor, it splintered
into patterns of dancing stars, shimmering and drifting like whispers
from a dream.
Beneath this canopy of light, long tables lined the hall, each one a work
of art. Every crystal goblet, every piece of gleaming silver cutlery was
arranged with flawless precision, echoing a grace and refinement that
seemed to transcend time. At the heart of each table, centerpieces of rare
red and white blooms rested with an effortless elegance, as though
they'd been stolen from a garden untouched by mortal hands. Along the
walls, enormous paintings chronicled the palace's proud history, each
brushstroke capturing glories of long past, immortalizing heroes and
legends in vibrant colors that breathed life into the present.
In the dimly lit corners of the hall, bronze lamps stood sentinel on
slender pedestals, each adorned with intricate lion motifs that
whispered of courage and strength. The gentle glow of these lamps cast
a golden haze, wrapping the hall in an air of quiet regality. As footsteps
echoed softly through the space, they blended with the stillness,
imbuing the hall with an almost mystical quality, as if each sound were
a note in a song from another world.
Downstairs, the energy shifted. The banquet hall buzzed with life,
warmth, and laughter. In contrast to the solemn majesty above, this
space was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of countless candles.
Bronze sconces adorned the walls, each holding fragrant candles that
filled the air with a soft perfume, adding a touch of enchantment to the
lively atmosphere. Every piece of furniture bore exquisite carvings, each
candlestick a masterpiece of detail, all coming together to create a
haven of luxury and joy. Here, beneath the palace's grand halls, life
danced on in full, vibrant color, a celebration echoing through the very
heart of the ancient palace.
While the upper floor held an air of hushed intensity, the lower level was brimming with life. The sounds of laughter, vibrant conversation, and the rhythmic clinking of glasses wove together in a lively, joyful cadence that filled the banquet hall like a melody. It was as if every sound—each laugh, each murmur—became a heartbeat in the pulse of the night, a spirited rhythm that breathed warmth and energy into the ancient walls.
The laughter and lively conversations in the banquet hall were abruptly cut off by the rapid, echoing footsteps coming from the corridors below. The melodic clink of silver platters and goblets gave way to a tense silence. Everyone could feel that something was amiss. As the footsteps grew closer, a messenger appeared at the door, walking heavily. His face was pale, his breath ragged; it was as though a dark shadow was chasing him.
The messenger's face was covered in sweat and blood. His armor was stained with crimson, and his hands trembled. Without saying a word, he made his way up the stairs in a panic, as if he had to announce the end of the world itself. The sound of his hurried steps echoed through the stone stairwell, creating a chilling rhythm in the vast corridors and high-ceilinged chambers of the palace.
When he reached the great hall on the upper floor, the silence was in stark contrast to the cheer of the lower level. The palace guards, sensing the urgency in his posture, stepped aside to let him through. As the doors opened, the cold air that rushed in matched the terror on the messenger's face, drawing the king's attention immediately.
The king, seated upon his golden throne, appeared composed on the outside, but inside, he was gripped by a rising unease. "Speak," he said, his voice more of an impatient whisper than a command. The messenger's knees buckled, and his head dropped low. Without raising his eyes, he gave his report in a trembling voice:
"All of the city... has been slaughtered."
The king paused, repeating the messenger's words in his mind. For a moment, his face was blank with shock, then quickly replaced by a sharp fury and a dark, probing silence. His fingers clenched tightly around the ornate golden armrests of his throne, the knuckles turning white as they strained. The air in the hall thickened, and the breath of all those present seemed to freeze.
"All of the city slaughtered?" he repeated, his voice echoing with a chilling calmness. His eyes burned like fire.
The messenger quickly lowered his head again. "Yes, Your Majesty, the heart of the south, Likron," he said, his voice still trembling but now certain in tone.
The king took a deep breath before sitting upright, his posture growing rigid. "How is this possible?" he erupted. "The south is nothing but sea! Where did such a force come from to cross these shores? Did you see ships? Or was it an army that flies?"
In the early hours of the morning, with the cold breeze of the wind, a movement began in the depths of the camp as the orders reached the soldiers. Commanders and their troops started gathering at their designated points. Eyes focused on the armored soldiers, whose figures shimmered under the first light of the day. Water droplets on their armor glistened in the rays of the unborn sun, illuminating their silhouettes as if they were polished.
The marches began, broken yet determined. The sound of trumpets reached deep into the forest, each note trembling like a feather but carrying an unshakable resolve. As the soldiers marched forward, the heavy thud of their steps echoed on the ground, the creaking of their armor ringing in their ears like a song. The wind swept through the hair of some soldiers, and every now and then, the light bouncing off their steel helmets would cause them to flash.
From every corner of the camp, sounds rose in unison—the neighing of horses, the clash of shields, the echoes of footsteps from warriors still training—all serving as a reminder of how near the battle was. The sky remained grey, the morning mist trying to conceal the silhouettes of the army, but the growing noise seemed to herald a coming anticipation.
For a moment, the wind's roar filled the world, and the soldiers paused. But soon, at the command, they moved again. The sound of their footsteps imprinted upon the earth as each soldier advanced, resolute in their purpose.