Chapter 47: Scent
News of the Crimson General’s return spread swiftly through the capital, carried in hushed whispers as if even the air itself feared to speak his name aloud. In the grand estates of the nobles and the narrow streets of the markets, the tension was palpable, like a storm about to break.
"Did you hear?" a merchant murmured to his customer, eyes darting nervously. "The Crimson General—he’s back. After all these years."
"No," gasped the customer, clutching her shawl tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought he was dead."
"He showed up at the courtroom today. Right in the middle of an execution," another vendor added from behind his stall, leaning in as if afraid the walls had ears. "Stopped it dead in its tracks. They say swords flew on their own, like magic."
In the dim taverns and bustling squares, the whispers were the same—low, furtive, tinged with both fear and awe. "The prince must be furious," someone said quietly over a pint of ale, casting a glance over their shoulder. "You know he’s the reason the general was gone in the first place."
And indeed, in the royal palace, the tension boiled over.
The prince stood in his opulent chambers, his face contorted in rage. With a furious shout, he hurled a porcelain jar against the wall, watching as it shattered into jagged pieces, the sound echoing through the room. His attendants stood frozen, their heads bowed low, not daring to breathe too loudly.
"The Robbens couldn’t even do their job properly!" he spat, fists clenched at his sides. "They had one task—just one—and now look where we are. Thorne’s back, and they’re nowhere to be found!"
In the dimly lit office of the Robbens family, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The room, richly adorned with dark woods and opulent decor, seemed to close in around them as the patriarch, Duke Robbens, slammed his fist on the polished mahogany table. His face was a mask of rage and disbelief.
"What is the meaning of this?" the Duke bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls.
Sevian Robben, Thorne’s younger half-brother, slumped in his chair, a mixture of irritation and anxiety etched on his face. "How would I know?" he snapped back. His voice, though defiant, was laced with a palpable sense of inferiority.
The Duke’s piercing gaze shifted to Sevian. "Did you give it to him?" he demanded.