In a spacious room adorned with gigantic statues on either side, a long bronze table sat firm.
As the illumination of the room was aided only by the cloudy blue moon that shone through the windows, it was quite difficult to make out the entire quiddity of the room.
That, however, was not a problem for the three Emontarions seated by the table, for the moon's lighting, though faint, could still help them navigate the position of the food on the table.
All three remained silent as they were engrossed in their feast.
The one seated at the seat of honor, wearing a black robe with loose sleeves, after putting some veggies in his mouth with a fork, reached for a silver cup with his black hand.
Slowly munching the food in his mouth, the long-haired Emontarion drove the silver cup towards his mouth before stopping halfway.
His tired-looking eyelids blinked at the silver cup for a while before he slowly put it back on the table and, without looking at the other two, said, "Thanks for joining me. If you'd excuse me now, I'm going to take a rest."
As he prepared to stand, the Emontarion whose face was covered with a black hood adorned with intricate silver jewelry put the half-consumed meat back on the silver plate.
"Your Grace, is this how we will continue living? Till our flesh joins the soil?"
His voice was that of an old man suppressing his annoyed emotions in front of his ruler.
With his gnarled black hand, he picked up the meat on the plate once more and looked at it, slowly rotating it.
"Is there really any difference between us and cattle, Your Grace?"
"What is that supposed to mean, Great Advisor?" His Grace asked in his calm voice, his back turned.
"Great Advisor. You might as well just drop the title. My words have long stopped reaching your ears. I am but now an observer."
His Grace did not say a word as the old man continued.
"As for your question, you know what I mean. Your sudden loss of appetite, it's ascribed to the death of one of the expecting queens, isn't it?"
The question seemed to bestow a tense atmosphere upon the room.
Even the other white-haired Emontarion, who had been concentrating on his food with his head lowered, paused for a moment before he slowly continued picking up the rice with his dark blue teenage hands.
"Her death, as well as that of her child, was her doing."
Slam!
Hearing His Grace answer in the usual calm tone made the old man vent his anger on the table. He could no longer suppress his emotions.
Looking at His Grace's back with enraged eyes, he pointed a finger and roared,
"How many of our kind have to fall for you to act? Our people are out there suffering, and yet here you are, the King of Terath, pushing back the blame on our race."
"If they had obeyed my rule of not venturing into the outside world, this would not be occurring."
"Not leaving? This is what I was referring to when I said our lives are akin to cattle. Each time we leave, we get slaughtered."
The old man had now stood up from his seat, and supporting his frame was a cane he held with his shaking left hand.
Despite the angry voice of the old man, as well as the energy he could feel from his gaze, His Grace remained calm.
He took a step and said,
"Maybe we are cattle. That is the least punishment we deserve for what our race did to the world ten years ago."
With that, he left, leaving the old man at a loss for words.
The old man, with his heart pounding faster and the heat of the room seemingly increasing, gritted his teeth.
As he cursed the world under his breath, he suddenly heard muffled sobs opposite him.
Turning, he found the white-haired, dark blue Emontarion convulsing as he ate.
Slowly but surely, tears dropped from his lowered eyes onto the plate he ate from, mixing with the food.
The sobs, after several seconds, became louder and louder, eventually echoing throughout the spacious dark room from time to time.
...
Tap! Tap! Tap!
About three Emontarions slowly trailed through the island of Voldmoth Kingdom—or what was left of it.
The air was riddled with black smoke. Dilapidated buildings, still burning in hot red flames, met their gazes with each step and turn. Walking on the ground too was a hassle, for they had to avoid stepping on debris and a never-ending pile of dead bodies that added a grotesque feature to the scene.
What in the hell happened here?
Those would be the words either of them would say if they had the ability to talk.
Thinking on it a bit more, perhaps it was good they couldn't talk. Who knows? One of them might have run back and begun cursing their commander, who had sent them into the dead land to retrieve cores from the dead civilians.
Why even do such a thing?
An ignorant Anger Emontarion would say they wanted to honor the dead with a ritual of passage, but such was only meant for high-ranking members of the Voldmoth Kingdom, and Pitu Island was no place for such a class of Emontarion.
Here, only miners and farmers lived.
Oh well.
Pondering what was suspicious or not was not part of their pay grade, and that dawned on them soon enough.
Doing what they were told was the only important thing. Questions were meant for the powerful.
With this harmonious line of thought, the three soldiers of the Voldmoth Army gathered their courage and traversed the dead land, picking up cores and putting them in the sacks each one possessed.
About twenty minutes later, the soldiers crouched in a half-destroyed house.
They were dissecting cores from a group of Emontarions that had been burnt to a point where their bodies had turned into an ugly embellishment resembling black stone sculptures.
The group looked like a couple of children holding hands in fear and pain.
At the sight, as well as the spillage of blood during the dissection, one of the soldiers could no longer handle it.
He crouched even lower and vomited as soon as he became nauseated.
With looks of disgust and disappointment, his friends told him to go vomit somewhere else, and so he did.
Aimlessly walking to pass time so he would not have to endure the disgusting sight, the soldier suddenly tripped.
His body began to fall. Instinctively, he removed his dagger and plunged it into the side, and lucky he was, the dagger sunk in deep and supported his weight.
"Sigh...'
He was saved.
He prepared to push himself up when a small amount of energy reached his senses.
It was an Anger Emontarion.
Tracing it, he turned his head and saw a thick burning forest just across the pitch-black valley he had almost fallen into.
Some time later, as his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he made out an Anger Emontarion lying lifeless on the other side.
'A man?... that's a man.'
After the shocking encounter, the soldier went back and called his friends.
The three, by means of a grappling hook, got to the other side of the deep valley.
And sure enough, on the other side was an Anger Emontarion, Shifty.
Lying ridiculously close to the rim of the valley on his stomach, he had passed out, yet in his right hand was a rope that extended down into the pitch-black valley.
The soldiers pulled him away from the danger before one of them, with some difficulty, removed the rope from his hand.
On a hunch, one of the soldiers squatted and stared into the deep valley, known in medieval times as the Valley of Death.
At first, all he could see was thick smoke drifting about.
Then, as he planned to stand and move, he saw what appeared to be glowing grey eyes and the outline of a small boy sitting in the Valley of Death in a somewhat calm state.
The scene was so puzzling that the soldier remained still, trying to make sense of how someone, a boy, for that matter, had managed to stay alive despite being pierced by several poisonous spikes.
More than that, there was no reaction or expression of pain. He just looked dull, save for his glowing outline and eyes.
What kind of Emontarion is that...
"Greenhorn. Greenhorn. Can't you hear me, soldier?" a deep voice reached his ears.
Then a rough hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling the soldier from his reverie.
He turned to find his superior, Commander Gal.
Dressed in the usual red military attire adorned with three stars on each shoulder and wielding a burly build, he had an aura of authority.
The mute soldier got cold feet for a moment.
Then he gathered his thoughts and pointed to the valley.
"There is someone in there. I don't know how, but he is... still alive..."
Before he could finish, Commander Gal creased his thick eyebrows and walked past the soldier to stare.
For a moment, he maintained a straight face before an apparent smile appeared on his face, making his mustache twitch.
Clearing his throat, his usual serious face returned.
He turned and said, looking at the unconscious Shifty,
"Bring all the cores to my carriage, and make sure this man gets proper medical attention. He has suffered more than enough..."
"Sir, what of the one down there?"
Commander Gal did not respond immediately.
He remained silent as he walked away.
Then he paused in his tracks.
Without looking at the soldiers, he said in a deep voice,
"Rescue him. Tend to his wounds too, then transfer him to Mazi City, where the freak shall be tried for mass murder."