My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫

King Luka [Jimmy]

Two weeks later...

The hall smelled of blood. Not fresh blood — no, the battlefields had been scrubbed from my armor already — but the memory of it, lingering. A stench that seeped through bone and marrow, a reminder that even in victory, we were still drowning.

The prisoners knelt before us. Three of them — Western lords, men who had led their armies across our borders, burned our villages, slaughtered our people. Their wrists were bound, their faces pale, though not with shame. No, there was pride still in them, as if even in chains they believed themselves untouchable.

Thyme sat beside me on the dais, crown catching the torchlight. His jaw was clenched so tightly I thought it might crack. He looked older, hollowed by the weight of grief and command. But his eyes — gods, his eyes burned.

The court was gathered, every lord and general seated in rows. Behind us stood the executioner, faceless beneath his hood, his greatsword gleaming. He did not move. He did not breathe. He waited.

I rose first. The chamber quieted.

"These men," I began, my voice low but steady, "stand accused of crimes not just of this war, but of every war before it. Their forefathers spilled our blood for generations, and they have carried on that legacy with fire and steel."

One of the prisoners, a thickset man with scarred cheeks, spat at the floor. "You speak of blood as if your own hands are clean. You kings — you snakes of the East — you starved us, drove us to rebellion!"

The hall erupted in shouts. Some of our lords leapt to their feet, others slammed their fists against the benches. Thyme lifted his hand and the noise died.

"Silence," he said. His voice shook the chamber more than the outburst. "You speak of hunger, yet you fed yourselves with conquest. You speak of rebellion, yet you sought not freedom but dominion. Do not dress your tyranny in rags and call it justice."

The prisoner sneered, but he said nothing more.

I stepped forward, descending the dais until I stood before them. My boots echoed against the stone. "For a century," I said, "our kingdoms have clashed. Borders shifting, treaties broken, blood spilled on every acre of this realm. I was born into hatred of your banners. So was he." I glanced back at Thyme. "So were all of us."

The youngest prisoner, barely older than me, lifted his chin. "Then end it. Kill us now. Make martyrs of us, and see how quickly others rise to take our place."

I studied him. He was brave — or foolish. But his words only fueled me.

"There will be no martyrs today," I said coldly. "Only traitors. Only tyrants."

I turned to the gathered court. "You have heard their defense. You have seen their deeds. Villages burned in Suphanburi, fields salted in Lopburi, children hanged in Ayutthaya. What say you? Are they guilty?"

A chorus rose, unanimous, thunderous: "Guilty."

The word rolled through me like thunder. Final. Absolute.

I looked to Thyme. He met my gaze, and for a moment, the chamber faded. Just the two of us, holding the weight of centuries between us. He gave the faintest nod.

I faced the executioner. "Then by the crowns of Bangkok and Chonburi, by the blood of our fathers and the ashes of our people, I sentence them to die."

The hall went still.

The executioner stepped forward. One by one, the prisoners were dragged to the block. The scarred man fought, cursing, thrashing until two guards forced him down. His curses turned to screams when the sword fell, clean and final, his head rolling across the stone.

The young one did not struggle. He met his end with eyes fixed on me, as if daring me to flinch. I did not. When his body crumpled, I forced myself to watch, to remember.

The last prisoner wept. Not for mercy, but for his home, for the West, for a kingdom already burning. His sobs echoed even after the blade struck.

When it was done, the hall was quiet but for the crackle of torches and the faint drip of blood onto stone.

I climbed back onto the dais, my legs heavy. I turned to the court, my voice hoarse but steady.

"Let this be the end," I said. "Not the beginning of another century of vengeance. The West has fallen, and their lords with them. From this day, we rule not through hatred, but through order. Through unity."

There was applause, cheers even, though faint, uncertain. But my eyes found only Thyme's. He stared at me, unreadable, as if weighing not my words but the man who spoke them.

But he was here, with me. 

And that was all that mattered in the end.

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