The morning sun rallied against the smooth stone of castle walls. Thorendor strode across the battlements, a world of weight still hanging from his shoulders. He nearly reached the next tower when he was greeted by the looming figure of Bevon.

“My lord, your sorrow and tragedy remains…” 

Thorendor cut him off with confused rambling, “yes, yes mhmm- I was thinking, I mean wondering.”

The old king fumbled with his thoughts. He gathered some air in his lungs and continued.

“What are you doing out here Bevon?”

The leader of the Black Lions smiled with unease, “well, it’s a bit warm for this old dog. This is the armor of a captain. So, the shade is my friend wherever I might find it today.”

Thorendor looked away, hardly digesting any of the words just spoken. He told himself to breathe. Everything was difficult on this day, everything strange and broken.

“Their arrival,” the old king blurted out.

“Good captain, how well do you know the newest members of your Black Lions?”

Bevon paused and spit into the dark ramparts at his feet.

“Know them? I don’t know them, my lord. Peculiar lads who apparently made rank just before the death of captain Alemar. Cannot say I particularly enjoy their attitude.” 

Bevon rolled his eyes before finishing his thoughts. 

“According to their entry scrolls, their arrival marks one of the last acts of Alemar, rest his soul.”

“They came to these shores together,” muttered Thorendor. “They all came from the same ship…”

“Ehh, sorry my lord, what?”

The old king once again ignored the old Black Lion. He stood there with a blank look on his face. Moments passed with an awkward silence broken only by a more resolute and agitated Thorendor.

“I know where they will be, meet me in the courtyard just before midday.”

He began to walk inside the tower before him, but he stopped once he stood in the threshold of the archway.

Thorendor turned just enough for Bevon to hear his whisper.

“Bring the fifty new recruits, understood?”

“My word, if things are heading towards an even worse ending than the tragedy of yesterday, might I suggest we blood the new fields before they are plowed?”

Thorendor furrowed his brow and gave a stern and menacing response.

“If things are headed towards a more pure tragedy, I would not poison those fields with their blood…”

—————-

…Just before midday the pair of Black Lions strode over the bridge of the Dauya. It was exactly as Thorendor expected, he had innocently observed their daily walk many times. Many times, he happened to be walking the courtyard with Mekella. 

Although, today was quite different. Thedric and his mate walked cautiously under the eyes of a host of infantry. Surrounded. Their faces burned with uneasy grins. Thorendor waited for them, as soldiers piled in around them.

The old kind raised his hand as if to order them to halt. They obeyed.

“Tell me, friends. Did the horde put an ease to the suffering of my good friend Alemar, or is he still captive to unknown intentions?”

The two Black Lions paused in desperation, however, they did not look at one another. They did not deny anything. 

“How long have you known, *old man…”* the end of their words carried a thick disrespect. The disrespect would likely never be forgotten by anyone gathered there on that day.

“All I had were recent suspicions, fleeting thoughts I rather hoped were insanity. The truth? I found out now, because you’ve just told me, *child.”*

The quiet man, partner to Thedric, spoke for the first time. 

“Let us tell you where they hold Alemar, my good man. We can tell you-“

“Hold your tongue,” Thorendor barked, “I liked you better when I never heard your voice.”

The courtyard waited in anticipation of what would come next. Thorendor nodded his head in agreeent with his own thoughts.

“Where was it you found the armor of Black Lions? Where praytell, did you loot the corpses of such honorable Nordari?”

Both men stood in anxious silence before the old king chastised them.

“This is where you SPEAK,” bellowed Thorendor.

“The bat… thhe battle of ‘two hundred hills’, it was after…”

The old king raised his hand once more, content with what he heard.

“Here now, my lions! We send these men to the depths of the many hells by the thrust of TWO HUNDRED spears. For those of you not gifted in the art of arithmetic, that’s four stabs each…”

His words broke against the heat of the midday sun. A smile raced across Thorendor’s face as he tasted the salt of several angry tears…

Once a king, one last act…