Lumiere heard the king's words, and his heart sank.
At the same time, he noticed the nobles who had been watching the spectacle from near the manor were now, with mocking smiles, quickly retreating to a safe area, as if they had foreseen what was coming.
Immediately after, Decarabian's voice echoed out again, laced with a self-proclaimed benevolence:
"My subjects, if fear still lingers in your hearts, then let my divine gales soothe you!"
The words had barely fallen when a gale, far stronger than before and imbued with true power, poured down from the top of the tower, sweeping towards the crowd in the plaza!
The people reacted as if they had seen something utterly terrifying, instantly thrown into chaos.
Shouts of alarm and cries of pain replaced the earlier singing.
They scrambled to crouch, fall flat, find cover, or simply grovel on the spot.
Coppelia saw that while a few might have been performing a pious prostration, the vast majority were clearly scrambling to hide in a panic!
Even the ever-quiet Columbina immediately crouched down, covering her head with her hands.
Coppelia was still wondering why everyone was reacting so violently and hadn't crouched down at the first moment.
The next moment, that 'soothing' gale swept over them.
The wind felt as if it were laced with countless invisible, tiny blades that brought a searing pain, like flesh being flayed from bone, as it blew against their skin!
The high-sensitivity tactile sensors of Coppelia's mechanical body amplified this pain manifold, feeding it back to her consciousness.
She let out a stifled grunt, staggered, and her face instantly turned pale.
How the hell is this 'soothing'?
The intense pain forced Coppelia to abandon her observations. She quickly dropped to the ground, burying her face in her arms to lessen the impact of the invisible wind blades.
The gale, which felt as if it could shred one's very soul, lasted for a few moments before finally, slowly, subsiding.
The people, still shaken, slowly got to their feet and gathered together again.
A wave of suppressed whispers, interwoven with confusion and unease, spread across the plaza.
They brushed the dust from their clothes, their eyes still locked on the high tower, waiting for the king's next explanation, or perhaps... a promise.
...
The wind died down, and the nobles who had taken cover leisurely strolled out again to continue spectating.
Lumiere heard undisguised mockery coming from their lips.
"Look at them, scrambling and crawling about. How comical!"
"A bunch of poor wretches," another noble sighed, though his tone held not a shred of sympathy as he leisurely popped a honey-preserved dried fruit into his mouth.
Lumiere pressed his lips together tightly. He roughly knew the contents of the petition, and it made no mention of Andrius whatsoever. A sense of foreboding spread through his heart.
The crowd waited in vain for another response from the tower.
Waiting fermented into impatience, and impatience evolved into unrest.
The bards were the first to gather and discuss in low voices, their faces filled with confusion and worry.
Soon, a tide of chaotic whispers flooded the entire plaza, and everyone saw the same bewilderment reflected in the faces of those around them.
Just then, the cacophony suddenly died down without warning. Coppelia was reminded of a familiar scene: a boisterous classroom falling silent, which usually meant a teacher had arrived.
She followed the crowd's gaze and, sure enough, saw Amos and her attendants walking back to the sacrificial altar from the direction of the tower.
All eyes focused on Amos, awaiting her proclamation.
Amos stopped and tried to make her voice sound steady and hopeful: "Your petition has been received by the king. The king will consider your requests. Now, please disperse in an orderly fashion, return to your homes, and go back to your work."
Someone from the crowd immediately called out, "Did the king truly agree to our petition?"
"He truly agreed," Amos repeated, trying to dismiss the crowd with her words. "Everyone, please go back..."
"Agreed?" a voice, choked with irrepressible agitation, cut her off. It was a young bard. "What was the king talking about Andrius for? Our petition never even mentioned the King of the North Wind! Did you even deliver the petition to His Majesty at all!"
Amos's face paled slightly, but she maintained her composure. "The petition was delivered. The king is reviewing it now."
She tried her best to persuade them, wanting only for the gathered crowd to disperse quickly to avoid greater chaos.
"He probably didn't even glance at it!" another angry voice roared.
Those words were like a spark hitting oil. A group of people began to clamor, and the ensuing uproar instantly drowned out whatever else Amos was about to say.
The crowd began to shout uncontrollably, roaring their demands directly at the tower:
"Lower the taxes! We need to survive!"
"Reduce the working hours!"
"Make the nobles open their granaries so the children can eat their fill!"
"Our king! Please open your eyes and see!"
The shouts continued for a long time. Some people exhausted their strength, their voices growing hoarse, but the torrent of their cries seemed unable to penetrate the invisible barrier around the tower.
...
High above in the tower, Decarabian did indeed hear the sounds coming from below.
The wind carried the clamor to his ears, but after being distorted and filtered by the storm wall, all specific words and demands were stripped away, leaving only pure, fervent... emotion.
He felt that restless emotion and seemed to discern a surging rhythm within it—a rhythm so very similar to that of his own gales!
"Heh," a trace of satisfaction welled up within him. "My subjects must have felt my love and protection. They are cheering for me, singing my praises, responding to me with such vigor."
With that thought, he felt it was enough. He turned away, no longer paying attention to the world outside his window.
He had to continue maintaining the storm wall. Andrius's attacks had grown fiercer recently. To protect these subjects who so adored him, and to answer their 'passion,' he absolutely could not slacken his efforts.
...
Below, seeing their calls fall on deaf ears, the crowd's last vestiges of hope were utterly extinguished.
Some fell to their knees, utterly despondent as if their spines had been ripped out, turbid tears sliding silently down their cheeks as they murmured, "Why... why won't you listen..."
The majority of the commoners either huddled against the lingering breeze or, like the walking dead, silently departed the plaza, their faces returning to the deep despair and numbness from hours before—or perhaps even worse.
The sound of their calls gradually faded, replaced by another.
"Decarabian! Are you deaf?! Do you even care if we live or die!"
Some turned their anger on the bards around them, grabbing them by their collars:
"What kind of damn garbage did you write in that petition!"
"You said the king would listen!"
"This is all your fault!"
Some of the bards, weeping, repeatedly apologized, "It's all my fault... My words weren't powerful enough to move the king's heart..."
Other bards, their faces ashen, seemed to have realized something. They silently put away their pens and paper, pulled their hoods low, and slipped away from the crowd without a sound.
...
Amos was still trying in vain to console the grieving people.
Her own heart was bleeding. On one hand, she couldn't bear to see the people lose faith in her king; on the other, the king had ignored her again, which caused her immense pain.
Her voice cracking with unshed tears, she pleaded, "Everyone, please believe in our king..."
A vicious curse cut through the air clearly:
"Believe in my ass! That tyrant Decarabian! He can just go and die!"
___
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