Chapter 54: for better of the Scyl
King Ivar stood in the center of the grand hall, his piercing gaze fixed on the two guards before him. The flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls, but the heat of the flames did little to thaw the icy tension that gripped the room.
"Where is my brother?" Ivar demanded, his voice sharp and commanding.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their armor clinking softly as they shifted nervously. One of them, a younger man with sweat beginning to bead on his brow, stepped forward hesitantly. "Your Majesty, we... we don’t know. He hasn’t been seen since earlier today. He left the castle grounds after speaking with some villagers."
Ivar’s jaw tightened as he took a slow, deliberate step closer. "You don’t know," he repeated, his tone low and brimming with menace. "And yet you stand here, claiming to guard this castle? My brother, the Prince, is missing, and this is all you have to offer?"
The guards stiffened, their eyes dropping to the floor in shame. The older of the two finally broke the silence, his voice steady but cautious. "Forgive us, Your Majesty. Prince Erling often moves among the people without informing us of his whereabouts. We will send word to the search teams to include him in their patrols."
Ivar turned away from them, his fists clenching tightly at his sides as he stared out of the tall windows that overlooked the village. Cold air seeped through the stone walls, but it did nothing to cool the fire of frustration burning within him. The weight of responsibility and the tension between him and Erling simmered just below the surface.
As the guards stood in uncertain silence, unsure if they had been dismissed, Ivar’s thoughts began to drift. The present faded as a memory from the past surfaced with vivid clarity—the day of their father’s funeral.
(12 years ago.)
The world seemed to hold its breath as the pyre was lit. The flames rose hungrily, crackling and hissing as they consumed the body of the former king. The square, usually bustling with life, was silent and heavy with grief, broken only by the sound of the fire and the occasional muffled sob from the crowd.
Villagers gathered in droves to pay their respects to a ruler who had commanded both their loyalty and admiration. His death had left a void felt deeply—not just by the royal family, but by every soul in Scyl. As the fire grew brighter, its orange glow illuminated the tear-streaked faces of the mourners, their grief almost tangible in the stifling stillness of the evening.