Chapter 49 — The Monarch's Night
The heavy doors of the throne hall swung open with a metallic groan, letting Alexander through. Heat hit his face at once: here, the air vibrated with flames, and every torch burned with an eternal fire. The volcanic stone walls were carved with ancient runes, pulsing as if they breathed with the rhythm of the magma beneath their feet.
He walked forward in silence, his boots striking against the hardened lava floor. On the dais sat Leonidas Salamander, sovereign of the Fire Kingdom. His imposing figure radiated raw power: a man with a thick beard, fiery hair, and a gigantic axe strapped to his back. Despite his eighty-nine years, his body was that of a muscular colossus, preserved in the strength of a man in his forties.
Before Alexander could bow, a voice rang out from a corner of the hall:
— You see that, gramps? Even the doors are begging to be left alone…
A light laugh followed the remark. Aleos, leaning casually against a column, toyed with a cup of wine as though the throne room were nothing more than a drawing room.
Sala, without even turning his head, let out a growl that rumbled like thunder.
— For the thousandth time, Aleos, I am not your "gramps." I am your king. And you will kneel when you address me!
Aleos tilted his head, feigning thought, then looked up at the ceiling before replying:
— Hmm… no. "Your Majesty" sounds too stiff. "Gramps" feels warmer.
Alexander fought back a smile. He knew this dynamic well: Aleos delighted in pushing Sala to the edge, and though the king was profoundly respected and respectful, he could not stand the slightest familiarity.
— Aleos… Alexander sighed, stepping forward. A little respect.
— But I do like him, Aleos countered with a laugh. It's just my way of showing affection.
Sala rose from his throne, his shadow swallowing half the hall. His eyes, red as embers, flashed with irritation.
— Keep mocking me, and I'll throw you into the main crater myself.
— Oh, but wouldn't that be a declaration of love? Aleos smirked, sipping his wine.
Alexander lifted a hand, calming the two colliding energies. His deep yet steady voice resonated through the silence:
— Enough. We have more important matters than your bickering.
A respectful silence followed. Sala sank back heavily onto his throne, arms crossed, while Aleos resumed his lazy posture, a smirk still plastered on his lips.
Alexander stepped toward the circular table where maps and documents lay spread.
— I have returned from the Dark Continent, he announced. And… there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. As though an invisible hand erased every trace of life.
Aleos set down his cup, his expression suddenly serious.
— You think they've already struck?
— No, Alexander replied. That is not their way. They wait… They observe, they endure. If they act, it will be with a force so vast we could never mistake it.
Sala's brow furrowed, his voice grumbling like a volcano:
— Then we must act before they do. Send patrols.
— Not you, Alexander cut in, turning toward Aleos before he could speak.
Aleos lifted his hands, feigning innocence.
— I was just about to volunteer myself.
— Exactly, Alexander sighed. And Sala knows as well as I do—you'd never follow orders. You'd improvise, and put everyone at risk.
Sala nodded, satisfied to hear his opinion echoed.
— A hothead like you has no place in a reconnaissance mission.
— Tsk… killjoys, Aleos muttered, slumping again against the column.
The conversation shifted, until Alexander brought up Flora. At the sound of her name, Aleos's arrogance faded, replaced by genuine worry.
— And Flora? he murmured. Is she better?
Alexander's face darkened.
— No. Her heart weakens by the day. I do everything to spare her. She insisted only humans tend to her .… I could not refuse.
A heavy silence weighed on the hall. Sala was the one to break it.
— I will send a brigade to watch the western borders. That is all I can do for now.
Alexander nodded, then produced a sealed envelope.
— I have received a letter from Etheria. Some students accepted the mission. I must join them.
He turned, heading for the exit. Aleos, trying to lighten the mood, called after him with a teasing grin:
— You won't stay the night with me? Come on—we drink, we laugh, like the old days…
Exasperated, Sala raised his fist and slammed it down on Aleos's head.
— Idiot!
Alexander, despite himself, chuckled softly.
— Forgive me. But I don't have that luxury. Time is running short.
And before their eyes, his body shone with light, his limbs shifting in a majestic transformation. A dragon of black, red, and white scales unfurled in full splendor. His massive wings struck the burning air, and with a thunderous roar, he soared away, leaving Sala and Aleos each lost in thought.
---
Night then fell across the kingdoms like a shroud of ink. The torches of Solgaleau flickered late into the evening; in Dragonil, the dancing flames still cast their glow on the lava walls. Yet the calm was a pretense: somewhere beyond appearances, strategies were weaving, and invisible roads opening.
In Britania, dawn had not yet risen when the ivory tower of the court echoed with heavy footsteps. Arthur wandered the throne hall, hands clenched on his sword's hilt, unable to calm the storm gnawing at his chest. Merlin's words—his terrible whisper, claiming that Britania's heart could be the key to destroy the world—would not fade.
— I don't believe it, he finally muttered, voice hoarse with disbelief. Merlin, you tell me Britania's heart lies beneath our land, that it could tear the world apart… you lie. You lie to manipulate me, to bend me. Prove it. Show me proof that what you say is true!
His mind replayed memories of the conversation from only hours before. Arthur paced back and forth, his boots echoing on ancient marble. His anger was only the surface: beneath it lay fear—fear of being powerless, of being the instrument of a fate he could not control.
On the balcony of the tower, Merlin stood, his silhouette light, a dark mantle caught in the night wind. He gazed at the sleeping city, then sighed, his eyes carrying a weight Arthur's vanity could never grasp.
To lie to Arthur… is it a sacrifice? Merlin clenched his jaw. If he knew the truth, he would act without restraint. Perhaps a lie is the only armor left to us.
Guilt pierced him nonetheless, a fissure through his resolve. He turned his back to the city and descended into the forest that bordered Britania. Hidden among ancient roots and luminous vines lay the hut where he kept his books and grimoires. Surrounded by parchments and mute enchantments, his shoulders sagged and a rough breath escaped him. He leafed through yellowed pages, weighed words, searched for an answer that would not condemn them all.
Meanwhile, far to the west, in the cold halls of Atlantis, a shadowed figure prepared a move none foresaw. King Agnor, stern and dangerous, dressed in garments dark as night. At his side, Edward—his loyal shadow, a lieutenant with steel eyes—watched him, searching for hesitation in his expression.
— Is this truly the best course? Edward asked quietly. We cannot act this way without consequence.
Agnor cast him a sharp look. His lips did not waver as he answered.
— Yes. Merlin is the only one who knows, or holds the trace, of where Britania's heart rests. I must have it. Before the Illuminati do.
Edward faltered, then obeyed. With a precise gesture, he stretched an illusion over himself; Edward now wore Agnor's face, his features molded with the cold perfection of a reflection. Agnor placed a hand on his shoulder.
— Stay here. The Guard of Atlantis must believe I am in the citadel. No one can doubt. Until I return, you will wear my face. And if anyone questions you, you will hold firm.
Edward bowed, his eyes dark, then watched as Agnor opened a portal. The air compressed; pressure built, as though space itself held its breath. Agnor spoke an ancient sequence, and the stone vibrated. A luminous circle expanded, twisted with black runes, and the night thickened around the threshold.
— Merlin is the key, Agnor murmured, without regret. I will deal with him myself.
Then he stepped through. His silhouette tore into a dark flare, and without a glance back, Agnor vanished.
The portal sealed with a final hiss. Edward remained motionless, Agnor's face upon him, and the citadel of Atlantis never knew their king had left behind only his image to plunge into the darkness of a solitary act.
---
The forest around Merlin's hut lay silent, stirred only by the breath of trees. Agnor emerged from the portal without hesitation. He measured the place at once: the paths, the density of the foliage, the hidden sun's position. He knew the wild like one learns an enemy. A finely wrought dark mask covered his face—premeditation and caution. None must know who he was. He advanced, steps measured, heart hardened, each move calculated.
Merlin, bent over his parchments, first felt a subtle tremor. The protective spell woven over Britania was not fragile, but neither invincible; it quivered, as though challenged. His senses, old as stone, sharpened. He raised his head and scanned the darkness. A figure stood between two trunks: a foreign presence.
— Who goes there? Merlin called, his voice laced with real weariness. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.
The silhouette stepped forward. Agnor, masked, spoke in the gruff tone of a wandering brigand:
— Traveler. I travel. Sorry to intrude. Roads of Britania… dangerous these days. I only seek shelter for the night.
Merlin watched: the voice, the cadence, the scent on the wind—something rang false. He felt a will behind the mask, sharp as a blade.
Suddenly, Agnor shifted his tone. His gaze probed for cracks, weighing Merlin. Then he let out a low, mocking chuckle.
— Britania is so naïve, he muttered. So easy to slip into when you know where to strike.
Merlin understood then: this was no ordinary vagrant. The capital's wards were intact—yet someone had found his path. He felt the coming strike—not physical yet, but mental first, a creeping attempt at intimidation.
Merlin straightened, his hands brushing the talismans on his table. His clouded green eyes hardened like blades. The protective spell around the hut swelled, ready to close. He whispered words like tightening cords.
Agnor stepped closer, his mask gleaming faintly. His intent was clear: he had not come merely to gain knowledge. He had come to kill—to strike at the source of truth and snuff it out.
Their gazes clashed. The forest rose around them, suspended between two wills. Merlin now knew he faced an enemy masked, calculated, deadly. Agnor savored the moment: he was close, at last, to the knot of a secret he coveted.
— So, Merlin, Agnor murmured with an icy smile, you dwell at the world's heart yet remain far from knowledge. Tonight, I come to take what you hold in memory.
Merlin gave a sharp, bitter laugh.
— If you think violence will erase truth, you delude yourself. But if you wish to play thief in the shadows, beware: the forest does not take kindly to stolen lives.
Agnor leaned in, drawing a dagger whose blade seemed to drink the light. Merlin, confident in his craft, gathered energy around him—not to strike directly, but to bind, to deflect, to reveal.
The tension rose another notch. A battle of wills, cloaked as a duel of words, was about to ignite. Leaves rustled; an owl took flight, shattering the silence.
At the forest's edge, Merlin's hut glowed faintly: a lone refuge. Agnor stepped closer still, murmuring without breaking eye contact:
— You should have yielded your secret. But since you refuse, I will end you.
Merlin stood unmoving, fate sliding cold as rain down his spine. Yet deep within, he was not alone: an ancient network of protections—the legacy of times when dragons and mages conversed—slumbered. Invisible cords, dormant runes, waiting to awaken.
Agnor's arm rose. Steel whispered. And the forest held its breath, waiting for the spark that would set the night ablaze.
To be continued…