Page 55

T he snow battered the high, arched windows as the male paced up and down the stone corridors. His shoes sounded as he walked, click, click, click , with each step he took.

His thoughts were overflowing, attacking him from the inside. The North had lost the battle he was so sure they’d win, and the king was dead. Never again would he have to face the king, and he couldn’t decide if he was happy about that fact or not.

But now, the weight on his shoulders—and head—only grew.

His body ached, his very veins hurting and straining.

From what, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t have time to worry about it.

The meetings he was now required to attend and endure were never-ending, but he could hardly think straight anymore.

He’d be of no use in another pointless meeting, so he’d dismissed everybody.

They had argued, of course, but he did so despite their protests.

It was a temporary reprieve, but a reprieve, nonetheless.

He paced the long corridors for hours without let up, trying to ignore the throbbing of his veins, until finally he fell to his knees in agony.

And with that, he cracked at last.

The very ground beneath him shook and rippled. Darkness shifted to surround his kneeling form. He tilted his head towards the ceiling and let out a gut-wrenching scream of agony. And with that scream, a ring of fire blotted out the darkness around him, surrounding him in bright flames.

And there in that moment, within the cold of that dark corridor, the next king was formed.