CYRDEL SONASSON IS AFRAID. When cannons and flintlocks open-fired on the pacifist territory, Alkara, signaling an invasion by Synketros, he is left with no choice but to watch destruction grip more than he is ready to let go. With his fiance and her...
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Cyrdel's lungs burned as much as his eyes watered. Smoke stung every pore in his form, threatening to draw out every liquid in his system. He braced the ground and his palms came away streaked with soot. He coughed, his lungs trying to dispel the ash drowning his breaths. Blurred blobs complemented the stark ringing banging his eardrums. Screams of alarm and aggression blared, but no words registered. One thing latched on his mind and never let go.
"Father!" he rasped against the hazy veil of settling debris. Huge slabs of marble and splintered wood which once held up the ceiling littered the expanse. Still, forms clad in Russet and black weaved past them, crossing blades and driving embers bright against the thinning clouds of dust.
A chunk of to his left moved, caught only by his frantic periphery. "I'm here," a grunt echoed behind, and the King rounded it. Relief flooded Cyrdel's veins, coming out as a heaved breath. His shaky legs burst forward. How did they even become separated?
He turned to where the trajectory came from. Fire ate away at the rim of the hole the ball of flame and stone punched through the estate's roof. It's like...
It's as if the ammunition was aimed specifically at them. Or maybe the King. Cyrdel happened to be in the way. They couldn't have that. Without a head on the Crown, it'd be easier for Depandes and the entire Brownie cities to fall into the wrong hands. Cyrdel was in no way ready to become a war commander.
He needed his father alive.
His hands reached forward, closing around his father's arm. They needed to get away. The Sovereign's soldiers were unpredictable, able to bend the shadows to their will and pop out of nowhere like those sempervivum most nobles loved. They also bore flintlocks, along with the kind with longer snouts. Unforgiving blasts rang across the plain, felling Russets like they're simply moving dummies. Not even a need to swing a blade.
"Let's go," he urged the King to follow him. They'd be safer somewhere. Maybe. He also needed to evacuate his workshop of anything that the Sovereign might find useful. That's his next goal.
Extreme crashes and booming whips of detonations streaked into the air, never giving his ears a respite. Smoke billowed as more marble slabs hit the ground from the sky. Cyrdel lost track of whether they're from the ceiling or from the flaming boulders slamming into the city.
He was about to step towards a random direction when his father jerked his arm back. "The gardens," the King said. Despite being covered in soot and his coat and trousers rumpled, he didn't lose one bit of his authority. "We'll regroup there."
The gardens didn't have aerial support either, but there might be something Cyrdel could do about it. He really needed to go to his workshop. But to do that...
"I'll evacuate the estate," Cyrdel gave his father a nod. It's on the way. If the servants and other officials and dignitaries followed the protocols for emergencies, they'd be on the wing closer to the escape routes to lead them to the outskirts of the city. They would be able to escape to nearby cities and maybe even to the neighboring territories.
