Jjon was lead through the streets of Wren-Egar, Rikal's strong hand on his shoulder the entire time. The small entourage of soldiers surrounding him kept a tight formation as they walked, drawing attention from passersby. Usually, prisoners were dragged through the streets in chains, but this time was different. Something was happening, and the locals were never ones to pass up entertainment. By the time they were walking up the Great Steps and into the courtyard outside the castle their entourage had grown from a few curious stragglers to a throng of people from all corners of the city not wanting to miss the topic of this evening's tavern discussions.
A steady murmur of hushed voices followed them up the street. No one had been informed, it seems, of the coming meeting. News of the procession, however, had spread like wildfire. The guards were not opposed to shoving those who tried to pry. Eyes peeking through the wall of soldiers, trying to catch an early glimpse of the man they were escorting so carefully.
Jjon kept his head high as he walked. He had seen Lei take his mother by the hand and lead her away. Both of them were, as far as he knew, safe. The soldiers had stood down, awaiting further orders following Jjon's meeting. Sure enough, on their walk to the gates of Wren-Egar, the messenger had returned granting Jjon's permission for audience. It would not be a private affair, however. From Jjon's understanding, the King intended to make an example of him.
Just the thought of King Laurence set Jjon on edge. Every turn of his life, the looming hand of the King had hovered just over his head, ready to come slamming down at any moment. Tariffs on sales to his mills, landgrabs hugging the boarders of Jjon's farm tighter and tighter every year. All of these were problematic, and no doubt something everyone in the kingdom had to contend with.
But it was the slights against Jjon personally that bothered him more. His mother had been exiled from the city walls before Jjon was born, for what reason she had never divulged. Since then the King had apparently taken personal interest in making sure life in Jjin Luck's family was as difficult as possible.
Many times they had been denied entrance to the main city, having to rely on others to gather supplies for them. They had stopped buying horses as without fail every time one was purchased, some soldier or another with a message from the King would appear at their doorstep demanding a tribute of horses for his army. It was fortunate Lei and Keran had their own, otherwise tilling their field would have been impossible. But these were nothing in comparison to something Jjon had heard many many years ago, something his mother had let slip one night to him after a long night of talking by the fireplace.
A few months before Jjon's birth, King Laurence had murdered his father. Not directly of course. But an order had been given, and his father turned up dead at the base of the battlements. The official statement was that he fell. But Jjin knew different.
She never elaborated on who his father was, despite Jjon's asking. Jjin said it was best for him to not know, or to go asking questions that would land the Kings eyes on him. But Jjon never forgot what the King had done. And so, in turn, Jjon took every opportunity to stand in the Kings path. And now was his chance. To face the King himself and show the city what a monster he was, what foul man controlled their lives. He had never had a chance to meet the King face to face, but now, when money was on the line, he knew the King would accept his very public challenge.
Jjon knew where this would end. His heart slammed in his chest with the knowledge of it. Despite his confident façade he knew that in order to make his stand, he would be at the mercy of the King, the soldiers and the crowd. If it meant exposing the backhanded actions of the man they called King, his true face, then he would accept the very mortal cost.
Jjon was brought to the centre of the immense courtyard among a flood of the city's inhabitants. Standing torches illuminated stones, flickering in the light breeze that swirled through the now darkening evening sky. Ahead of him, up a small set of stairs and across a wide dais, were the ornate double doors of the castle itself with roughly fifty of the Kings personal guard flanking each side. The King wanted a show, Jjon considered. Overkill for such a simple meeting. A blatant show of power. He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the soldiers from the procession had spread out to form a perimeter around him, cutting off the growing crowd. More soldiers were streaming out of the barracks on the left and right of the courtyard, adding to the wall of bodies to separate Jjon from the crowd, and eventually, the King from Jjon.
He took a deep breath, focusing all of his attention on the doors ahead, blocking out the clamour of the audience, and silencing the inner voice that called to him to flee. Or to break his resolve and beg to the King for his land, or life, with sycophantic flattery. He focused on his breathing. A slight pressure in the side of his boot comforted him; the knife still tucked away out of sight.
Minutes passed. Again, a power play. Jjon knew the King was stood on the other side of those double doors, waiting. Letting Jjon suffer. Jjon cursed the King in his head for the thousandth
Then, a click. A heavy CHNKK as the internal locks were released, and the double doors swung wide. And there he stood, proceeded by a band of envoys and gold draped attendants. King Laurence of Wren-Egar, fifth of his line, rightful ruler of Lothren and its holds.
He was a symbol of avarice drowned in gluttony. The gold crown above his head sticking out of his ragged black hair, sweat already forming on his large cheeks as he stood in the sun. A rainbow of gemstones glinted on every finger, a purple robe loosely covering the short, overweight form of the man underneath.
The crowd cheered in reverence. Jjon felt blood burn in his veins. To them, he was an honourable, kind man, loyal to his subjects and the cause of much prosperity within Wren-Egar. To those outside the walls, he was a twisted, greedy man who would stop at nothing to control every last hill and valley with an iron fist, no matter the cost of life. Jjon didn't know how much the people inside the walls saw of the King's true nature. Or how much they chose to ignore.
The King gave a small gesture of his hand as he lowered himself into an ornate chair that had been carried out in his wake and placed in the centre of the dias. His speaker, a tall, slender, rat faced man Jjon knew as Lilth Smitt, stepped forwards.
"Kneel before the King."
The crowd and soldiers all responded, lowering to one knee. Jjon remained standing.
The King grinned down at him from atop the stairs.
Rikal grabbed Jjon by the wrist, going to yank him downwards, but the King called across the courtyard before he could finish the motion.
"Leave him, Rikal. Let him have his moment."
His voice was slow and deep, tainted by the exotic cigars he was so fond of.
"You may rise." The King said, the crowd standing at his word. Leaning forwards in his chair, fat fingers bracing against his knee. "Jjon Luck. So generous of you to come and present your land to me by hand."
Jjon held his tongue. Rikal was close beside him, glowering in his peripheral vision. The soldiers ahead were all prepared should he make a move toward the King. Surrounded by enemies, Jjon's chest tightened.
"Well?" King Laurence laughed. "You asked for an audience. Here it is. Not many would be so lucky, but I suppose Luck is your last name."
Jjon's heart was deafening, blood rushing in his ears. He was going to die. If he spoke the wrong words, he would die. If he moved, he would die.
He caught that hopeless spiral downwards in its tracks and strangled it. Anger had gotten him here. Anger would get him through. He slammed closed the doors in his mind to fear.
"You are no King."
The crowd inhaled in unison and a ripple of enraged conversation broke out among them. Rikal released a mighty bellow of rage and caught Jjon square in the stomach with a furious fist. Jjon doubled over instantly, the blow nearly taking him off his feet
"How dare you." Rikal boomed. "I'll have that tongue ripped from your face!"
The King raised a hand.
"Rikal my good man, be still. Do not harm my guest." He turned his beady eyes to Jjon.
"You see this Jjon?" He lifted his hands to his head, carefully removing his crown and proffering it to Jjon. "This belongs to the king."
He pointed behind him to the castle.
"As does that."
A wide gesture to the soldiers.
"As do they."
Carefully placing the crown back on his head, he turned to Lilth.
"And who is the King, Lilth?"
Lilth bowed his head with a small smile.
"You, your grace." He said.
The King snapped a finger and pointed to him, returning his attention to Jjon.
"Exactly. So, now that I have clarified this, perhaps you will show me a little respect."
"You're a tyrant. You deserve no respect." Jjon replied through grit teeth, cold and firm, pulse steady, subtilty prepared for any movement from Rikal. His stomach ached viciously, but he refused to let the audience, or the King, see his pain. He straightened up.
"Why?" The King replied quickly. "Because I'm asking for my land back? The land under your home that belongs to me? Where I, and my family for generations, have politely let you and yours occupy without question for over one hundred years?"
"You take what you please." Jjon snapped, raising his voice "No matter the cost to those whom you take it from."
"It belongs to me, Jjon!" The King suddenly bellowed back, the audience cowering at the very sound. "All of it does. From the Crystal Shores in the north to the Shaar Desert to the south!" He slammed his hand into the armrest of his mighty chair. The courtyard mutterings were shocked into silence.
"It was conquered. My forefathers walked this land with an army blessed with the might of the Gods to make Lothren what it is today. The most powerful Kingdom on the planet."
He pointed a pudgy finger at Jjon.
"You should be thanking me for letting me breathe the air my family provides!"
King Laurence took a deep, shaking breath, running a hand over his jaw. Composing himself, he gave Jjon a cold stare.
"If I decree that your pathetic stretch of farmland should be under my direct control, then you will bow and say 'Of course my lord'. And if you think your slights against my person have gone unheard you are sorely mistaken." He stood up, the crowd around Jjon instantly falling to their knees. All of the soldiers but Rikal followed suit, standing ready to deliver the Kings order should he give it.
"This is the last time your family soils the name my kingdom." The King growled. "I give you one chance, Jjon Luck. Bow and I will only punish you severely. You may even keep your head. Disobey this order, and your life, the life of your mother, and every poor peasant who resides within sight of your home, will be forfeit."
Rikal turned his head to Jjon, a steel grin plastered across his face.
Jjon glanced back over his shoulder to the people of Wren-Egar. All around him he saw the worried, shocked, and horrified faces. Among their ranks he saw faces he knew. Shop owners and tavern keepers. Childhood names and stoic elders. In the number of soldiers a large majority of faces stood out. Conscripts from the outer walls, no doubt brought to witness firsthand the outcome of resisting the will of the King. With Jjon's death, resistance to King Laurence would forever be silenced. No one would challenge his rule again.
Jjon turned back to the King, who's eyes bore down on him like a hanging guillotine.
"So be it." Jjon muttered. He fell to his knee in one motion. Head hung low.
The King's stone face relaxed, a smile creeping back onto his fat lips.
"Good." He stated. "Take him away. Lash him until he knows his place."
Rikal took a step towards Jjon. At the same time, Jjon's fingers found the hilt of the blade in his boot.
Then came something no one had witnessed before.
Jjon was suddenly across the courtyard. He never appeared to move an inch, but suddenly he was there, stood on the dais before the King with an arm wrapped over his shoulder. The blade of the carving knife was impaled up and through the underside of the Kings jaw, buried all the way up to the hilt.
A wet grunt came from King Laurence. He tried to cough out the blood pooling in his mouth, but it was pinned closed. Blood poured from his lips in a sputtering fountain that stained his gold hemmed robes. His eyes were wide with horror, staring with disbelief into Jjon's. The King's fingers clutched at his jaw, feebly trying to pull at Jjon's hands, before falling away to his sides. Only Jjon saw his light go out.