The Mad Ҡìղց

The Waters of Truth

Wang gazed down at the small, shimmering vial, its contents swirling in a mesmerizing dance of red and gold light. The liquid inside pulsed with a soft glow, almost alive, as though it held within it both the promise of salvation and the threat of destruction. Without a moment's hesitation, Wang uncorked the vial and swallowed the liquid in one swift motion, grimacing as the warmth of it slid down his throat, igniting his insides.

The room fell into an eerie silence. Everyone present, from the highest lords to the lowliest servants, held their breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen. A sense of dread permeated the air, but no one dared to speak.

Then came the voice. It was not spoken aloud, but everyone heard it clearly in their minds. "Why did you kill Cheng?" The question came from one of the Silent Brothers, a feared and revered group of men whose mouths were sealed with magic, but who communicated their thoughts directly into the minds of others.

The Silent Brothers were a sight to behold, draped in flowing black robes that obscured their faces, only their glowing eyes visible beneath their hoods. They moved in perfect unison, as though they were one mind split into many bodies. Despite the familiarity of their magic, the people present could not help but be awed by it each time they witnessed it.

Wang's eyes, heavy with the burden of the question, scanned the faces of those gathered. His expression remained unreadable, his tone cold and indifferent as he replied, "My mate asked me to kill his brother. He said he had a feeling Cheng would challenge him for the throne."

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Zhan, seated at the far end of the hall, was frozen in shock. "What? he whispered, his voice cracking. He had always known that Wang harbored a deep resentment toward him, but he never imagined that Wang would go so far as to lie to the silent brothers.

Before Zhan could react further, the Silent Brothers, their judgment swift and merciless, made their decree. "Kill the king and his mate."

The words echoed in Zhan's mind like the tolling of a death bell. He jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, his heart racing in his chest. For a moment, he sat in the darkness, trying to steady his breathing, his mind reeling from the dream—or was it a nightmare? He prayed it was only that—a figment of his subconscious.

Unable to return to sleep, Zhan rose from his bed and dressed quickly, the need for fresh air overpowering. The palace felt stifling, oppressive even. He wandered through the empty halls until his feet carried him to the graves of his parents. Kneeling before them, he closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer, hoping for guidance. The moon cast long shadows across the gravestones, and the only sound was the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. By the time the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Zhan had returned to the palace, his heart heavy with unease.

That morning, the Silent Brothers arrived, just as Zhan had seen in his dream. The great hall was packed with people—royalty, nobles, and commoners alike—all gathered to witness the unfolding events. The atmosphere was thick with tension, rumors swirling about Wang's involvement in Cheng's murder.

Wang, still weak and pale, stood before the silent brothers in front of a stone in the center of the hall. His sickness had worsened since the night before; his body shuddered with violent spasms, and his temperature swung wildly between burning hot and freezing cold. The whispers about his guilt grew louder, though no one dared voice their suspicions openly.

The leader of the Silent Brothers, Hase, stepped forward. He was a towering figure, cloaked in the same black robes as the others, but there was something distinctly more menacing about him. Hase had been the first of the Silent Brothers, and legend said that he had long since conquered the passage of time. His skin was pale and unmarked by age, and his eyes gleamed with an unsettling, ancient knowledge.