Realm Lord

Another blink brought them inside the castle itself, and Arthur was shocked by the transformation in the king’s demeanor. Gone was the composed, gentle father who had read bedtime stories to his daughters. In his place was a man driven by desperation and fear, his voice raised in urgent commands as he shouted at everyone within the castle walls.

"Leave! Everyone must leave immediately!" the king bellowed, his voice echoing through the grand hallways. "Get out now, or I will have you removed by force!"

Arthur watched as servants, guards, and courtiers who had served the royal family faithfully for years were suddenly being expelled from their home with threats of violence if they didn’t comply quickly enough. The king’s eyes were wild with panic and determination, and his hand never moved far from his sword hilt as he supervised the chaotic evacuation.

Through it all, his family—his wife and twin daughters—watched with frightened, confused eyes. They had never seen their husband and father in such a state, and their fear was palpable as they huddled together for comfort. But they remained silent, understanding somehow that this was not the time for questions or protests.

Once the castle had been cleared, the king led his family to the throne room where Arthur had first found himself in this strange experience. It was there that they encountered the familiar empty suits of armor that Arthur and his group had dubbed "the sheepmen" during their own exploration of the castle.

The suits of armor stood in perfect formation, their metal surfaces gleaming despite their apparent emptiness. They stood motionless, yet Arthur could sense an otherworldly presence emanating from them, as if they were waiting for some predetermined signal to spring into action.

Another blink transported Arthur to a scene that filled him with sudden understanding and dread. The king was now positioned in the center of the throne room, surrounded by the sheepmen in a complex ritual formation.

’The king was the magician? This must be the spell put on the castle.’

The realization struck Arthur like lightning. it was the king himself who was the source of the magic, driven by desperation to protect his family through means he didn’t fully understand.

Arthur watched as the King began to chant in a language that predated common speech, his voice taking on harmonics that seemed to resonate with the very stones of the castle. The sheepmen began to move in response, their empty armor clanking softly as they shifted positions according to some predetermined pattern. Energy began to build in the room, crackling between the ritual circles and causing the air itself to shimmer with magical potential.

The next blink brought Arthur to perhaps the most heartbreaking scene yet. The king was lying upon his bed in the royal chambers, the room darkened except for the pale moonlight filtering through heavy curtains. His wife and daughters slept peacefully beside him.