The gentle snoring of the Queen of Jarma pierced the silence, in the dimly lit room—only a single candle was still burning, piercing the darkness as much as the slow and sure, quite tempo of her breathing. It was proceeding into late night, very close to midnight. The queen mumbled and shuffled around on the mattress, engrossed in what seemed a pleasant dream. A slight breeze fluttered through the large, open window and into room, lifting the silk curtains, and sending the room into almost complete darkness, as the candle flicked and lost. The waning moon cast all but a slither of light, hardly any compared to the light shone by the stars as they flickered and twinkled in the midnight blue sky, as if they were affected by the wind like the candle was. A dark, human-like shadow glided past the room, interfering with the sky’s lights. They had a dagger raised, and walked ever so quietly and gently across the wooden floor it was as if they weren’t touching it at all. As they reached the end of the bed, they frowned: Where was the king? They then gave a half-smile of satisfaction—one less to kill, plus killing the early pregnant queen would murder the king anyway. People like him tended to be suicidal. The figure rolled their eyes, and moved to one side of the bed. Suddenly, a leg swung out from under the bed, tripping the figure. They yelped in surprise, stirring the Queen, who blinked sleepily awake. Swift as wind, another figure rolled out from under the bed, stood up, sword drawn, his robes swaying in another soft breeze. The oak doors crashed open, and torchlight suddenly filled the room, as the King’s Guard flooded in, led by Tyan. “Seize him.” Tyan growled, pointing to the man, whose hawkish features were now revealed properly by the torchlight.
“Bring him to his knees.” The king added.
The queen sat up, staring intently at the scene orchestrated just for her own protection. Two guards hung the man in the middle of the room, a beautiful silver sword only a few centimetres from the man’s neck.
“Spare me your insolence.” The King of Jarma hissed, pressing the tip of the blade deep in the man’s scaly throat, making him clench his teeth in pain, as blood started running steadily down his windpipe.
“My lord, it would be wise to kill him now.”
The blade went in deeper—the man cried out. The king slowly licked his top-lip, replying, “I want to savour the moment when we crush resistance.”
Tyan hymphed in satisfaction and leaned back against the bedpost.
“Let me ask why you dare try to assassinate your Queen?”
“The whore’s not my Queen.”
The blade entered the man’s veins, close to the edge of his windpipe. The man winced violently, biting his lip so hard that blood now dripped down his chin. The King snarled. “What did you say?”
But, the assassinator was in far too much excruciating pain to answer.
“Let him go.” A clear female voice rung out.
King Brutus, still fuming, replied, “He’s threatened you, insulted you, attempted to murder you, committed treason and conspired against you…”
“Well, then he should be begging to me.”
The man growled, and gave out one choky, hoarse reply, “I will n-never ever—”
his sentence was broken by bloody coughs and winces—“bow down to you…”
The king raised an eyebrow, kicking the man down, the guards wisely letting go of his arms.
“Let me show you how easy it will be.”
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