When the screams faded and only the crackling sounds of beasts feasting remained, the woman stepped closer. From under her hood, her lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile.
Among the dead and dying, a few still clung weakly to life. A handful of soldiers twitched, barely alive, broken and bleeding in the mud.
The cloaked woman's eyes narrowed. She raised her hand, and a small sphere of dark energy formed in her palm, swirling with malicious intent.
"They are still breathing," she whispered to herself. "Not for long."
A soldier, barely clinging to life, lifted his hand weakly. "P-please… help…," he gasped, blood bubbling from his lips.
The woman paused before him. For a moment, her figure loomed above him like a savior.
Then, without a shred of mercy, she raised her foot and brought it down with brutal force.
Crack!
His skull split open like a melon, and the soldier's hand fell limp.
The woman didn't even spare him another glance.
She moved towards King Alector, who was sprawled at the base of a tree, his once-mighty body broken and battered. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to raise his head.
"You..." Alector croaked. "Save... save me... and I will grant you anything. Gold... land... anything you desire."
The woman stopped a few feet away. Slowly, she pulled down her hood.
Her hair was white as snow, her face etched with deep wrinkles, but her eyes burned with a hatred that was far too intense for her age. There was madness in her smile.
"You fool," she hissed, her voice cold as winter winds. "Why would I save you when I was the one who ordered the beasts to kill you?"
Alector's pupils shrank in horror. "You…" he whispered.
The woman chuckled, a low, bone-chilling sound. "If you want to curse anyone," she said, "curse your fate... to have been born the brother of Lycandros."
Before he could utter another word, she lifted her foot and brought it crashing down onto his head, just like she did earlier to a soldier.
Crack!
Alector's skull caved in under her heel, his lifeless body slumping further into the dirt.
The woman stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, before she straightened her back.
She raised her left hand high into the air. A black staff, carved with writhing serpents and ancient runes, materialized in her grasp. She began to chant in a strange language, her voice rising and falling in a sinister rhythm:
"Kravyadanam prabhavatu,
Mrtyubhayo bhasvaram,
Atmanam sarvam grasantu,
Aham asmi tamasi patini!"
As soon as the chant is over, the ground trembled for a moment as a blood-red glow gathered at the tip of her staff, growing denser and darker every second.
From the bodies scattered around, wisps of golden light—their life forces—began to lift into the air, drawn to her hand. They spun into a swirling sphere.
As she absorbed them, the woman screamed—a guttural, inhuman sound. Horns, black as obsidian, erupted from her forehead. "Graaaa." Her scarlet eyes glowed in the dimly lit surroundings of the forest.
The transformation was swift. Her white hair darkened to an iron-grey. Her wrinkles seemed to smooth, her back straightened. Strength returned to her old limbs, though the darkness in her eyes only deepened.
"Hmm… so much life force. I guess the quality of warriors indeed is way different from ordinary civilians, after all."
She lowered her hand, the life sphere now fused into her chest. Panting slightly, she looked up at the sky.
"This isn't over," she muttered, her voice dripping with venom. "Lycandros... this isn't over."
With that, she turned and melted into the shadows, leaving only death and silence in her wake.
*
For the following morning, every day at the hour of noon, the bells of mourning tolled across the city of Athens.
For twenty-five days, the streets remained draped in black. No music, no festivals, no laughter—only the silent prayers and weeping of thousands mourning their fallen King.
And then, on the twenty-sixth day, the palace announced a new proclamation.
The heir to the throne, Crown Prince Magnus, would ascend as the new King of Athens.
In the shadowed corner of the East Wing of the palace, the blind Prince Isandros sat in his private chamber. He leaned against the cold wall, his face grim, his blind eyes staring into the nothingness that surrounded him.
A soft knock echoed against the wooden door, his ears perked, but Isandros didn't respond.
However, the doors still opened without his permission, and Prince Philanos of Iberica entered, the hem of his cloak brushing the marble floor.
"You heard the news, haven't you?" Philanos asked casually, stepping closer. "Magnus is to be crowned."
Isandros didn't reply immediately. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I heard," he said at last, voice dry like brittle parchment. "Don't need you to be here to rub salt on my wounds."
Philanos took a seat beside him, smiling faintly. "Your Majesty, you should go to the coronation," he said, almost as if suggesting a walk in the gardens.
Isandros snorted in disbelief. "To clap for the one who stands on my broken pride? No, thanks." After a beat of silence, Isandros almost growled in seriousness, giving his brother-in-law a firm warning, "And I told you a lot of times. Don't address me as Your Majesty. I'm not the King and I will never become one."
Philanos's smile didn't waver at his words.
"I understand," he said smoothly. "But think about it, Your Highness. King Alector is gone. The true King is gone. Now... there is only you and Magnus."
He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Remove Magnus... and the throne will be yours. No one will dare oppose you, blind or not. After all, a kingdom cannot exist without a King or a heir apparent."
Isandros stiffened, turning his head slightly toward him.
"You're telling me to kill him?" His tone was more curious than angry. "How dare you?"
"I'm merely pointing out a path," Philanos said with a shrug. "The path that destiny has prepared for you."
Isandros's expression tightened. He lowered his head, resting it against the back of his chair.
"I won't," he murmured after a long pause. "He's my brother. I... still love him."
Philanos watched him keenly, noting the hesitation.
"You love him?" he asked softly. "Did he love you when he stood silent as the ministers humiliated you, Your Majesty? Did he love you when he accepted the crown that should have been yours? He kept on saying to you that he doesn't have any attachment to the Kingship, but he never opposed himself or fought for you in the assembly. In front of the greed for power, he didn't hesitate to stab you in the back, Your Majesty."
Isandros didn't reply.
"You were the elder," Philanos continued, weaving his words like a slow, poisonous river. "You were born to be King. And yet, look where you are now—reduced to a shadow in your own home."
The blind prince's hands trembled slightly, but he said nothing.
Philanos stood up, brushing the imaginary dust from his tunic.
"I see," he said quietly. "Your heart still clings to hope."
He bowed slightly.
"Forgive my impudence, Your Highness. I spoke too much."
Turning around, Philanos began to leave.
Just as he reached the door, Isandros's voice, barely above a whisper, reached him.
"Leave me alone, Philanos."
Philanos paused, a thin smile playing on his lips where Isandros couldn't see.
"As you command."
With a respectful nod, he exited, leaving Isandros alone with the growing storm inside his chest.
The young prince sat there for a long time, unmoving, his mind churning.