Whispers of the veil.
The relentless drumming of rain against the castle roof echoed the turmoil within King Owen's heart. A torrential downpour, a weeping sky mirroring the storm brewing within the ancient stone walls of Aethel. He sat upon his throne, the heavy crown askew, a stark symbol of the unease gnawing at him. His weariness was not merely physical; it was the exhaustion of a man burdened by tradition, by prophecy, and by the weight of a crown that felt increasingly heavy. Three advisors, faces etched with concern, stood silently before him, their usual confident postures replaced by a subdued apprehension. The only light in the vast throne room came from the flickering torches, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the king's rigid composure.
A young maiden, breathless and pale, burst into the chamber, her hurried entrance a jarring counterpoint to the oppressive silence. She curtsied deeply, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and relief.
"Your Majesty," she stammered, "the Queen…"
Owen, his patience frayed to the breaking point, barked, "Well?!"
"Her Majesty has delivered," the maiden announced, her voice barely a whisper. Relief washed over the King's face, a fleeting moment of respite in the relentless anxiety. A son. An heir. The succession secured. The weight on his shoulders seemed to lighten, if only for a breath.
A slow, delighted smile began to spread across his face. The years of anxious waiting, the endless prayers for a third child, were finally answered. A successor to secure the future of Aethel. He was about to utter a word of thanks, when the maiden's next words froze him in place.
"But… there is a complication, my Lord." Her voice trembled, betraying the gravity of the news.
"Complication? What complication?" His voice, though still demanding, held a note of unease, a tremor in the apparent authority.
"Her Majesty… she gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl."
Silence descended, thick and suffocating. The rain outside seemed to intensify, the rhythmic pounding a stark counterpoint to the stunned stillness in the throne room. The King's smile vanished, replaced by a rigid mask of disbelief. Twins. In Aethel, the very notion was an abomination, a perversion of the natural order. A curse.
The ancient laws of Aethel, etched in stone and blood, were brutally clear: twins, a violation of sacred balance, were considered harbingers of misfortune. Their birth was an omen of impending doom, a plague upon the land. The mother and the children were to be eliminated, their existence erased as swiftly and silently as possible.
One of the advisors, a tall, muscular man named Sir Kaelan, stepped forward, his gaze unwavering, expecting the customary command. He waited, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the unspoken expectation hanging heavy in the air. The other advisors remained silent, their faces grim reflections of the impending tragedy. The weight of tradition, of centuries of unquestioned obedience, pressed down on them all.
Owen remained silent, his mind locked in a desperate battle against the chilling decree of tradition. He had prayed for a child, a legitimate heir, and now, in the face of this unexpected blessing, he was faced with an agonizing choice. He had yearned for a third child, a child to secure his legacy, and now he had two; a son and a daughter, one a symbol of hope, the other a symbol of doom. He had sought stability, and instead, he found himself caught in a maelstrom of conflicting desires and unwavering tradition.
The agony etched itself onto his face; the weight of his crown, of his kingdom, and the unbearable burden of his decision became a physical manifestation of the conflict raging inside.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and devoid of any emotion, a voice strained with the weight of centuries of ingrained beliefs. "Kill the girl child," he ordered. "And kill every maiden present at the birth."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of death and the stench of tradition. Sir Kaelan, without hesitation, moved with the swift, deadly grace honed by years of service, vanishing into the night to carry out the king's brutal edict.
One of the other advisors, Lord Elmsworth, a wizened old man with eyes that had witnessed countless tragedies, dared to speak. "But my Lord, the prophecy…" he began, his voice a cautious whisper.
Owen raised a hand, silencing him. "Enough," he snarled. "Tradition is not a law of nature. I am tradition. This matter is closed. Summon the council. I shall announce the Queen's death during childbirth."
The rain continued, relentless and unforgiving. The silence in the throne room, however, was even more profound. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath, a testament to the horrifying decision made by the King of Aethel. The echoes of his words – the cruel decree, the callous dismissal of prophecy – lingered in the cavernous space, a chilling testament to the insidious power of tradition and the price of absolute power. Owen was alone, his crown heavier than ever, the weight of his actions threatening to crush him. The joyous expectation of an heir had been replaced by the chilling weight of his own ruthless decision. He had not merely chosen to follow tradition; he had become tradition, a chilling embodiment of its uncompromising cruelty.