* * * * *
The sound of flesh upon stone resounded through the chamber as the King sat deep in thought, the top of his knuckles tapping on his throne. It had been nearly two days since he’d heard from either Kalinies or the guards that he had sent to dispatch of Rhimaldez’s family. On the surface, it bothered him. But on a deeper level it was not what was increasing his stress levels. Since the moment that Gerin had left, Idimus had been wondering if he made the right choice in letting him go. The entire situation had caught him off guard and Gerin left so quickly that he barely had time to assess what occurred. Looking back on it now though, perhaps letting him leave without so much as a warning was too light. A year ago, even six months ago, for his arrogance Idimus would have crippled him—would have put him in prison and tortured him until he broke.
But things were different now. Idimus had clung so tightly to the prophecy since the day he’d heard it. The actual war however, was usually at the back of his mind. First and foremost, it was the General’s responsibility, not his. To the egotistical, delusional King, the war was a simple issue. In the first years of his reign there had been revolts—several—some that had almost robbed him of his power yet he survived, he flourished. As the years passed, the attacks became fewer and fewer. The people lost hope and eventually forgot about it all together. Idimus made sure of that by destroying the past and writing his own.
The people were idle, controlled. Whatever revolt they could muster would be minimal and ineffective. The war, at least in Idimus’ eyes, would simply be another day. No one could match his strength and cunning; and he didn’t think anyone could even get close.
He snarled and wrapped his hand around the knotted end of his armrest, trying and failing to squeeze his frustrations out. Six months ago, the war was not a threat. He imagined it would take place much later—a decade, maybe even a century. Now one event, one person, had shoved him into a very jagged reality.
Grahamas.
Idimus had imagined countless scenarios, all of which he had prepared for; but the hero of a fallen kingdom was not one of them. Grahamas was seasoned, even more so than his own General. He was brilliant and obviously patient, and above all else he was a threat. The King’s grip loosened slightly and his hand raised, fingers trembling. He was not like his General; where Gerin became obsessed, Idimus grew terrified. Where Gerin rose to the challenge, Idimus sank inside himself.
The war was no longer a guarantee; it was a gamble. Several weeks ago, Gerin had come to the realization that there was a potential danger—Idimus had it only days ago. He could lose; his kingdom, the war, his life. It horrified him. Every daunting, foolish, paranoid worry he had over the years was now a blaring, life-shattering actuality.
Based sonly on that, Idimus let Gerin go, despite it still refusing to settle itn him. It was important, now more than ever, that his kingdom remained protected; and it was necessary for Gerin to be prepared. For the time being, Idimus would allow extreme measures in order for him to achieve that. He could have punished him, very easily; but he was depending on Gerin. He would not risk anything getting in the way of his destiny. Afterwards, he was fair game. The King was a patient man. Gerin would suffer—drastically—for his insolence. Only, he would not suffer now. The realization put the King at ease, if only for a moment.
“Good eve my Lord.”
Idimus tried not to scowl. She snuck in so easily, and as dark as he left his chambers it was hard to tell if she could see him. “Good evening, Valaira.”
“All is well?” she asked as her pale, slender form glided from the shadows.
Idimus debated telling her of Gerin as he held her lavender eyes with his own before answering through gritted teeth, “Fine…”
She approached, dragging her fingers along the back of his throne as usual, “Word?”
Idimus remained forward, maintaining the same expression, “None.”
“Tch…” Valaira clucked her tongue against her teeth, running her hand down along the back of his head. “Perhaps you need more reliable constituents…” she said, a slight sting in her voice.
Idimus considered launching it right back but he held his tongue. “Perhaps, though I find it hard to trust people.” The intent that Idimus implied was achieved and Valaira’s face flared. “Never the less, Grahamas was smart enough to stay hidden for three hundred years so I don’t imagine we’re going to find him in two days.”
“Aye, my king,” her fingers danced along his scalp. “Grahamas is not my major concern at this point. He is simply one more frayed string needing to be cut. He will…” Valaira stopped, turning to Idimus, “Are you listening?”
The King paid no attention to her though. Instead his eyes were on his windowsill. “Strange…” he muttered and Valaira removed her hand from him. “What is a butterfly doing all the way out here?” The woman’s gaze shifted slowly towards the window as he continued, “I’ve never seen one with red wings. What an ugly thing,” he snickered.
Valaira’s eyes shot open. “NO!” she screamed and raced towards the window. “No, no, NO!” She leapt, hand extended towards the butterfly—intent on crushing it—but it fluttered away and her palm found only stone. For only a moment she remained, hand sprawled out over the sill, body kneeling—a drastic look upon her porcelain features as though she had just received a death sentence.
She rose, her lavender eyes flicking rapidly as Idimus’ black ones focused on her, “What is it?” he asked, more curious than concerned.
Valaira paid no heed. “Damn…” she muttered, her expression frantic. “Damn it!” she screamed, her fist slamming onto the granite frame of the window and causing a tiny crack to appear.
Idimus leaned forward; “Valaira!” but she still ignored him. In a flash and a mass of smoke, the King was no longer looking at her female form, but that of the crow. It hopped to the sill in one second and disappeared the next, leaving Idimus dumbfounded and staring at the window. He remained that way for quite some time until a knock on his door finally averted his eyes.
“My Lord?” the door cracked open slightly as a hand, bandaged from a knife wound, slid around to push the it open further. The King looked up. His mood had only been fragile before; it was now about to shatter.