Chapter I

⛨Death of a Hero⛨

Fregnemor 28 Argonad Pferdjahr 53, Castle Dorne

Arnold’s hands tremble as he tightens his grip on the executioner's sword. The weight of the blade is nothing compared to the burden on his heart. The courtyard is silent, the gathered soldiers and nobles holding their breath as they watch. This is unlike any execution that many of them have seen. In the past there would typically be jeers and cackles directed at the guilty party. Not today however. Today, there is no jeering— there is no cackling— there is only somber silence. 

Before them kneels their hero and idol, Adalbert, his head bowed, his face calm in stark contrast to the raging storm within his father. To many present, it is an execution that reminds them of the final days of the Queen’s mother, when she was paranoid and bloodthirsty.

As Arnold looks down at his son, he is reminded of the days of old when the Ash had first arrived in the north and displaced thousands. Adalbert was one of them, orphaned by the Ash when he was eight or nine years old. Arnold found the boy wandering the devastated landscape, his clothes torn and his eyes hollow with the trauma of losing everything. Despite the chaos around them, Arnold saw a spark of resilience in the child, a will to survive against all odds. It was this spark that compelled Arnold to take the boy under his wing, to offer him a chance at a new life.

As an Imperial judge reads off a list of Adalbert’s crimes, Arnold is unable to listen, unable to stop his mind from wandering to thoughts of his son. He recalls the countless nights spent by the fire, telling stories of old battles and teaching young Adal the skills he would need to thrive in a harsh world. Over time, the bond between them grew stronger, and Adalbert became the son Arnold had never had. He trained him, molded him into the formidable commander he became, and watched him with pride as he grew into a man.

He can hardly believe it has come to this— father and son, though not bound by blood, they had been bound by duty— or at least he had thought, now torn apart by treason. The somber mood in his heart is only matched by the sky above as rain lightly pounds against the ground.

Queen Frederica sits upon a throne overseeing the spectacle. Her expression is cold and distant, but a flicker of something crosses her face as Adalbert glares at her— discomfort, perhaps fear. Her fingers tighten on the armrest of her throne, her knuckles whitening. Could it be that even now, she doubts the loyalty of those surrounding her?

As the Imperial judge finishes speaking, Arnold raises the sword, his eyes meeting Adalbert’s one last time. “Forgive me,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

With the blade bearing down and in a last moment of defiance, Adalbert continues glaring straight into Queen Frederica’s eyes, and shouts, “Long live House Fal—” 

Crack. 

And with that fatal swing, Arnold’s world shatters as he watches his son’s head fall into the basket beneath him. Now, as he stands over Adalbert’s lifeless body, the weight of those memories crushes him, filling him with an unbearable sorrow and a deep sense of failure.

He stands there, paralyzed, as the reality of what he has done washes over him and sinks in. He can never undo this. What is done is done. Slowly, he looks down at his hands, and even though they have remained clean he can see his son’s blood there, right next to his old best friend’s.

A wave of nausea hits him, and he struggles to maintain what little composure he has left. How many terrible things have you done in the name of Her Majesty? He asks himself. How many lives have you ruined, all for the sake of duty and loyalty?

The crowd begins to disperse, murmurs and whispers filling the air with rumors and tall tails. Arnold stands still, feeling their judgments and his own guilt pressing down on him. He can feel the eyes of soldiers who served with and under Adalbert on him.

As Arnold steps away from the execution platform, he feels Queen Frederica’s eyes boring into him. He risks a glance up, only to find her gaze cold and calculating. A stark contrast of the girl he watched grow. She gives him a single nod, but her lips remain pursed in a tight line, as if she were displeased. He wonders if she sees the guilt in his eyes— or worse, if she already is suspecting him of treason, despite what he had just done to prove his loyalty.

Excusing himself from the courtyard he enters a tunnel followed by Oleras, who quietly instructs, “Keep your head down, old friend. These days, Her Majesty is beginning to show signs of mistrust— not even we who have served her the longest are given the benefit of the doubt.”

As Oleras moves to follow Arnold into the tunnel, Queen Frederica’s sharp eyes follow their every step. She leans slightly forward in her seat, her brow furrowing. Oleras had always been a faithful advisor, but in recent weeks, she had begun to wonder— was his loyalty truly to her, or to those in the past?

Without turning to acknowledge Oleras or his warning, Arnold asks, “Ye once said ye viewed Jr. as yer own boy. Isn’t that so?”

“Indeed.” Oleras coldly responds. “I do.”

“Then I only have one thin’ to ask ye. How do ye live with yerself?” Arnold asks.

“Quite simple, really.” Oleras starts responding, turning around to leave, “I don’t.”

Arnold’s gaze hardens as he slams his fist against the wall, leaving a sizable crack in the bricks and mortar. He remains frozen in place, consumed by his guilty conscience. Then, faint at first but growing steadily the sound continues to hound him as the whispers that plagued him the night of the attack return. They seem to come from all around him, a low, insistent murmur that he is still unable to make out. Looking around him, he can feel the madness continually gripping him. 

In the darkness of the tunnel the whispers grow louder, more urgent, filling his mind with a cacophony of voices. They overwhelm him to the point he doesn’t realize Ilina tapping on his shoulder.

“Arnold?” Ilina calls out, “Arnold!” She taps and shakes his arm.

The whispers disappear as he turns and stares down at Ilina, an expression of worriment on her face.

“Arnold, are you alright?” She asks.

Staring down at her is another reminder to his guilty conscience of the terrible things he has done in the past. He is one of only three people who knows the truth of her parents’ deaths, what he helped do to them. All in the name of Her Majesty.

“You need to rest,” Ilina says gently, placing a hand on his arm. “Come, let’s get you inside.”

Allowing her to guide him away from the tunnel, Arnold remains quiet, his mind still reeling from the terrible day he has had. As they walk, he can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is awakening within him as he begins reconsidering his loyalties and where they lie.

In the quiet of his quarters, the whispers begin their onslaught again. Whether it is a reminder of his past sins, or rather something more sinister lurking in the shadows of the sound. He hasn’t the slimmest idea.

But all he can sense is that something dark has begun to stalk him.