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The WeatherMaker - Prince of Light By Lady Lilium Characters: 5618

Updated: 2018-07-10 19:03

He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying not to meet anyone's gaze, and staring only forwards. His black hair was swept back, allowing his face to be seen clearer.

The wounds he had suffered the day before stood out clearly now, as plain as day. The whites of his eyes were dotted with little red cuts where the mirror had cut him. His face was cut too.

Cam grimaced as he walked, feeling very aware of the people either side muttering as they watched him pass by, no doubt talking about his injuries.

What happened to his face?

How did he get those marks?

Cam could hear them as they spoke. He tried his best to ignore them, but their words, though whispered, cut into him like knives, and he fought back his tears, willing himself to be strong.

Either side of him in the stained glass windows, the depiction of the seven gods that it was believed created their world, looked over him now. Cam felt their eyes following him also.

He walked beneath the trumpets that sounded, heralding his arrival.

He ascended the steps, doing so slowly, feeling the pains in his body. He stopped before the stained glass window before him and turned around, facing the hundreds of people. The most important people in the kingdom were here, all the lords and political figures and some figures from foreign lands. On his left side, standing at the front of the hall, stood Heremon, Rhona, Agnus, Denzil and Desmond. On his right side, stood, Storin, Tarrant, Lamont, Valeri, Castello, Eden, and standing before all of them, was Brioke.

Cam avoided his gaze, as the holy man beside him, stepped forward and began to speak, his loud voice echoing throughout the vast and mighty hall.

Cam barely heard him as he ranted on. His attention drifted to the faces at the front of the hall. Two figures sitting on the benches at the front watched him closely, seeing the wounds on his face, and both looking worried. Luke and Miranda, Luke especially seemed tenser and a little nervous.

Cam looked away, staring at the ground.

The holy man finished speaking. Another figure approached, carrying the king's crown upon a velvet cushion. The holy man took the crown, turning to Cam. Cam bowed as he had been taught to do, allowing the holy man to place the crown upon his head.

He straightened then, turning to face the people before him once more.

'I am Cameron, now your king, and I swear under the seven gods above, to be a just and honest king, loyal to his people, and always kind.'

Chapter Twelve

Missy stumbled through the door, screaming for her father, only to find him already dead, cut down and still bleeding, his blood soaking into the lime green carpet of his study.

Missy fell to her knees in horror, clawing at her face in terror and shock as the soldiers in the room

turned to her, one of them holding a bloodied sword which dripped at the end.

Behind her the soldiers that had been chasing her caught up, grabbing her around the waist and haling her up.

She let out a cry of despair as the soldier carried her over to the table, throwing her across it and pushing down on her.

The soldier with the bloodied sword wiped his blade clean and sheathed it as the other soldiers in the room turned their attention onto the young woman, as she continued to scream.

Downstairs, the slaughter continued. The mother of the household lay dead on the steps, from her chest blossomed lush red. The servants had almost all been killed too, but in a small cupboard in the kitchen downstairs, one of the servants hid, hugging the two young children to her.

She dared to believe that for the briefest moment, they may get out alive.

But they had been found.

The door to the cupboard was suddenly thrown open, and the servant and children stared up at the soldier in wide eyed terror, knowing it was the end for them.

The dog that had been hiding behind them in silence lunged forwards then, attacking the man's arm as he moved to shield his face from the bite.

The soldier threw the dog down, impaling it with his sword and killing it in one swift blow, before turning back to the frightened figures.

The servant screamed as the children were pulled from her grasp, one after the other they were killed without thought or pause and thrown aside, before the soldier rounded on the servant. Grabbing her by the throat he lifted her small frame in one hand, stabbing her through the stomach, jerking the blade back and dropping her. She crumpled to the floor.

The soldier marched from the room.

Beneath the low table hid another servant, hands clapped tightly over his mouth as he tried not to whimper, cheeks streaked with tears and whole body trembling. He leant down, daring to look out, and seeing a short distance away, another servant, and older lady, hiding beneath another low table as he was doing.

The boy closed his eyes as more tears rolled down his cheeks, suffering the worst kind of fear imaginable. The kind of fear only experience by someone who stood right before their own demise, so close, you could reach out and touch it.

The slaughter continued. The boy and the older lady heard the sound of more frightened servants being found and killed, the screams, the songs of the blades.

Many would die, but by nightfall, the boy and the older lady would make it.

He would help her out from under the table, taking both her hands in his, and fleeing their master's house together, never looking back.

The rumours would spread then, of how their master, a political rival to many, was murdered in cold blood by his opposition.

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