The Cursed Kingdom

P R O L O G U E | the legacy of shields and swords

"Father," she gasped, her breath heaving and her tearful eyes glistening.

"Arana, my dear," King Alistair's voice held both tenderness and admonishment. His eyes softened as he gazed upon his daughter, her tears a testament to her tumultuous emotions. He reached out and gently wiped away a tear from her cheek. "Eavesdropping is not a regal quality, but I understand the weight of your curiosity."

He paused, his voice filled with compassion. "In times of uncertainty, it is natural to seek answers and reassurance. However, I implore you to trust in my judgment and decisions. The path we tread is treacherous, but I carry the burden of protecting our kingdom and our family."

On that particular day, King Alistair chose to forgo his usual lecture on the principles and morals befitting a royal. As he observed his daughter's expressions, he recognized the depth of her understanding. Arana, with a gaze of keen perception, took in the profound changes that had befallen her father. Each passing day etched more wrinkles upon his visage, as if shouldering the weight of the entire world. It wasn't the universe that troubled him, but rather the future of their kingdom. The once vibrant glow of his face had given way to a somber pallor, its radiance fading into an ashen hue.

Worry lines now traced the edges of his eyes, replacing the laughter lines that should have adorned his countenance. The cheerfulness that once danced upon his features had dulled, surrendering to a weary grayness. The toll of his responsibilities weighed heavily upon him, and Arana could sense the burden he carried.

His complexion bore a pallor, as though his skin had weathered more storms of distress than moments of joy. It seemed as if he had been engaged in a lifelong battle with life itself. Atop his Herculean and sallow frame, a disheveled crown of dusky hair rested, forming a wild tangle beneath its regal adornments. Wrinkles etched deep furrows upon his brow, forehead, and beneath his piercing icy blue eyes, testament to the countless challenges he had faced.

Arana's mind wandered back to the days when her father exuded power and authority, his raven-black mane and a well-groomed stubble accentuating his commanding presence. His piercing gaze had the ability to strike fear into the hearts of all who beheld him, making him the embodiment of a formidable monarch.

The sight of her father in his current weary state pained her deeply. She longed to witness the return of that towering figure he once was—the resolute and benevolent King, the tender and nurturing father, the devoted and passionate husband.

But as Arana observed him now, all she could see was a man burdened by defeat, wearied from ceaseless battles. A man who had lost the love of his life and seemed to have relinquished his spirit to sorrow.

"Father, forgive my transgression. Sometimes, eavesdropping becomes the only path to uncovering the truth," Arana confessed, her fingers gently massaging the corners of her eyes in an attempt to suppress the tears welling within. She endeavored to maintain a composed facade, a show of strength.

"Arana..." King Alistair began, his voice laden with a mix of concern and affection as he reached out a hand to gently cup her tear-streaked face.

"The conversation I overheard in mother's chambers... please, tell me it's a misunderstanding," Arana pleaded, her voice quivering with a mix of desperation and hope, her eyes searching her father's face for reassurance.

"I'm afraid I don't have the answer you're seeking," he sighed, his hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The weight of the disease was taking its toll on him, making it increasingly difficult to breathe.

"Come inside, my dear. It's time we confront the stark reality of this situation," King Alistair said, gently pushing the door open to welcome his daughter into the room.