The city gates opened.

  They did not open slowly, as usual. They opened like the jaw of a giant beast swallowing light. The screech of old iron filled the square, and the first mass of soldiers advanced.

  Thousands entered.

  They marched with strict military organization, their steps synchronized like the beats of a single heart. Their armor was blue, the color of the sky on a clear day, but it was not a peaceful sky. It was battle armor, their helmets covering their faces completely, leaving only two narrow slits for the eyes, behind which gleamed eyes that knew no retreat.

  And in their midst, there was the carriage.

  It was not an ordinary carriage. It was semi-royal. Its roof was of dark purple fabric, from whose edges hung golden tassels. Its sides were of precisely carved wood, on which were painted scenes of battles and monsters falling beneath the swords of warriors who do not die. Six black horses pulled it, gleaming like night, their steps harmonious as if dancing on the ground.

  Baelor emerged from the palace.

  He walked across the square, his steps confident, steady. Behind him walked the city's officials: his advisors, his officers, the senior guards. They all wore their best, their faces rigid like stone masks.

  And behind them all, at a distance, stood the three.

  San, Shin, and Elena, and Clarissa was a few meters near Baelor.

  The others were far enough to see everything, and close enough to feel the weight of the moment.

  The carriage stopped.

  A man descended from it.

  He was in his fifties. His thick grey hair covered his head like a snowstorm, and his excess weight showed clearly under his heavy cloak. But his eyes... his eyes were the only thing that could not be ignored.

  They were cold. Angry. Like a trained dog, ready to bite at any moment, just waiting for the signal.

  Zilox. Baelor called him by this name.

  Baelor stepped forward. Extended his hand.

  Zilox's hand hesitated for a moment. Then he shook it.

  The handshake was dry, quick, as if touching something dirty.

  —

  They entered the palace.

  They walked through the long corridors, through reception halls, through heavy wooden doors, until they reached the room.

  The room where the remains were.

  Zilox entered alone. Baelor waited outside with his guards.

  Minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

  Then Zilox came out.

  His face was the same face. Cold, angry, unreadable. But something in his eyes was different. Perhaps deeper. Perhaps more dangerous.

  —

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  They sat in the meeting hall.

  The hall was spacious, its walls of white marble, on each wall an oil painting depicting the city's rulers through the ages. In the center, a long table of dark mahogany wood, surrounded by heavy leather chairs.

  Baelor sat at the head of the table. Zilox sat on the opposite side.

  And San stood behind Baelor.

  He had asked him: "Be with me. As an attendant."

  San did not understand the reason at first. But now he began to understand.

  Baelor wanted a witness. He wanted another eye to hear every word, remember every tone, analyze every signal.

  The dialogue began.

  Zilox's words were like knives. Hints here, veiled accusations there. "Unfortunate incident." "Strange circumstances." "Suspicious timing." "Known relationships." Every sentence carried another meaning, every glance was an unasked question.

  And Baelor's responses were very intelligent.

  Calm. Composed. Not reactive. He explained, clarified, presented evidence with the calm of a doctor diagnosing a patient's condition. He did not say a word out of place. He did not leave a single gap.

  But Zilox was not convinced. Or perhaps he was convinced, but did not want to show it.

  He suddenly stood.

  He looked at Baelor from across the table, his eyes narrowing like a snake's.

  "You, human curse," he said. His voice was low, but it cut through the hall like a whip. "If you have a hand in this... I will erase your city."

  Then he left.

  He did not look back. He did not bid farewell. He just walked, his steps echoing on the marble like war drum beats.

  —

  Baelor remained seated.

  San thought: Human curse?

  Baelor looked at San. And smiled.

  "So far... no problem with what's happening," he said.

  —

  Days passed.

  Days of heavy waiting. Of wandering through corridors. Of exchanged glances between guards. Of silence that was heavier than any words.

  One of the days after that, Zilox entered a large hall.

  It was not an ordinary hall. It was more like a throne hall. Its walls were very high, touching the vaulted ceiling, adorned with heavy red silk curtains. At its end, on a raised platform, there was a chair.

  It was not an ordinary chair. It was a throne. Carved from a single piece of black wood, decorated with gold and ivory, topped by a tall back bearing the engraving of a roaring lion.

  And on that throne, sat an old man.

  His face was like a map of wrinkles, each line telling a story, each scar carrying the memory of a battle. His eyes were sunken, but they gleamed with an intelligence that had not weakened with the years. His long white beard flowed down his chest like a waterfall of snow.

  Zilox entered like a storm.

  His rapid footsteps echoed on the marble, his cloak fluttering behind him like bat wings. He stood before the throne, and did not bow.

  "My uncle," he called.

  The old man looked at him. He did not move. Only his eyes slowly shifted to focus on him.

  "You are angry," the old man said. His voice was deep, hoarse, like the sound of stones moving underground.

  The dialogue began. Zilox explained everything to him, but

  The old man advised him to be patient. He told him there was something more important than this, there was a larger scheme. But Zilox was like burning coal, refusing to be calmed.

  "I will attack," he said. "I will burn his city."

  The old man looked at him for a long time. Then he said:

  "If you attack now... I will not help you."

  Zilox stopped. His eyes widened slightly.

  "Have you forgotten who you are about to attack?" the old man said. His voice did not rise, but it became heavier. "Have you forgotten his title?"

  Silence.

  Then Zilox began to pace.

  His steps were slow now, echoing in the large hall. He reached a side table, on which were crystal bottles and liquids of various types. He picked up a bottle, poured himself a drink into a tall glass. Raised the glass, contemplated the liquid for a moment, then drank.

  And he began to speak.

  He was not speaking only to his uncle. He was speaking to the room, to the walls, to the memories.

  "The human curse," he said. And his voice was different now. Less angry, more thoughtful. "Many know his story."

  He drank another sip.

  "The young man who devised plans... that brought down hundreds of corrupt and killers."

  He walked a few steps.

  "The young man who, instead of going to the capital... decided to go to the worst and weakest city."

  Steps.

  "The young man who, in the last battle of the kingdoms... decided to carry out a suicide attack."

  He stopped. Looked at the glass in his hand.

  "Fifty thousand... against six hundred thousand."

  He paused for a moment.

  "The outcome was sealed. Of course. But the place where the fighting happened... by chance, there was a herd of C-rank curses there."

  He raised his head. Looked at the old man.

  "It was a disaster. The attack that was suicidal... by chance, led to breaking the army that was approaching the city."

  He drank.

  "This loss... its effects lasted for months. Some even say it was one of the reasons the war ended with a truce back then."

  Silence.

  The old man looked at him. Then said in his deep voice:

  "Was it really a coincidence?"

  Zilox stopped. Slowly turned to face his uncle.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Did you forget what happened after?" the old man said. "After he came out of the battle, he and a few thousand... led another attack days later. To eliminate the C-rank herd, or what remained of it."

  His eyes narrowed.

  "With an intelligent plan, he trapped them in one of the caves. But an unfortunate incident happened... leading to the death of over a thousand guards."

  Zilox was silent. His face was rigid now, but his eyes were moving quickly, recalculating everything.

  "Yes," he said finally. "Another achievement of his."

  The old man did not smile. He just stared at him.

  "Focus, Zilox," he said. "Those who died in the attack, and those who died in the plan to eliminate the herd... among them were six officers. All of them higher rank than Baelor."

  He paused to let the words sink in.

  "Is it a coincidence that all those above him died in his plans?"

  Another step.

  "Is it a coincidence that months before, he was in a relationship with the daughter of the city's guard commander?"

  Step.

  "Is it a coincidence that the city's ruler was found dead by suicide?"

  The old man's voice became sharper.

  "A ruler dead by suicide. Thousands killed. Six officers killed. The city's commander becomes the ruler. And his daughter becomes the beloved of the young officer who became a hero in the eyes of the city's people. Whose achievements spread throughout the entire kingdom."

  Silence.

  The old man looked at Zilox with piercing eyes.

  "Is what happened still a coincidence to you, Zilox?"

  Zilox did not answer. He just stood, the glass still in his hand, the golden liquid slowly dancing under the light.

  "Do you really want me to risk my plan by dealing with someone like him?"

  The old man rose from his throne. His movement was slow, and he said:

  "Just wait," he said. "Everything will be as planned. And you can get Baelor's head after that."