Chapter 17: To The Armory
"Unblessed..." Rowan said, half-asking and half-stating, his mind wandering between the word and its possible meaning.
Internally, Rowan could sense it. The heroes would mention the feeling of knowledge enthralling their mind and offering quick passage into the many workings of this new world, but he couldn't relate in this sense, having almost no new insights or power granted to his limbs.
He'd hoped that it was a result of his faulty grimoire, holding him back in some contrived attempt to get rid of his legend, the void from its pages sucking in his own knowledge.
But no, he understood it, and so did the crowd. If his inability were something pertinent to him--to his vessel, then there was little means of establishing himself as a hero, his name forever tarnished.
Consequently, whispers ran amongst the crowd, mentions of his failure and overestimations of the heroes peeking through to reach his ears.
A deep, endless pit formed in his stomach, struggling to bite back the acidic aftertaste of what could've only been bile. He felt trapped--not only in this new world, but in his body.
"Silence!"
The king's bellow was brutal, following up with a devastating stomp against the ground, carrying with it enough force to hurtle a web made of cracks.
The aether empowering his leg slowly fell into the air, allowing everybody's attention to once again fall to his words.
"I will not tolerate heresy! The gods have ordained these five as the heroes of this land, and so they will be just that. Retaliation against my words is defiance of the gods, worthy only of death!"
His voice boomed so loud that he hadn't the need for the voice amplification device used for the projection, cracking against the air and even sending small, striating lines akin to heat waves.