Obsidian's Reign ¹

∷ Chapter 22 ∷

TWO THINGS CAME to Clara's attention when she stepped foot within the throne room. The first was the way the room was bathed in illuminating light, quite unlike her first visit. The second was the shrouded expression on the king's face as he sat upon the throne, his eyes staring fixedly on his granddaughter.

The absence of warmth in his manner and gaze caused her earlier determination to falter as she curtseyed rather stiffly.

"Your Majesty," she stuttered when she straightened, realising the impossibility in smoothing her grace and conduct.

The king remained unfazed, a distinct chill in the air as the silence stretched on between them. At long last, he spoke, his voice low as it resonated throughout the throne room. 

"I was made aware of your encounter with Prince Adric," was all he said, his gaze and tone unwavering.

"I . . . met him briefly," Clara said.

For some unfathomable reason, she found herself frightened of him—aware of the way her heart was beating resolutely against her chest with her tightly clenched fists doing little to stop her hands from shaking in fear.

"And?" the king prompted with impatience. "What of it?"

He had taken on a chiding tone, wishing for her to admit her mistakes as though admonishing a careless child. Except, Clara could not recall committing acts that might have angered him so. If anything, shouldn't his apparent frustrations be directed towards the prince instead?

"Claretta," the king said, the sudden increase in his tone of voice startling her. "I asked you a question. What of your meeting with Prince Adric? What did you do?"

"What did I do?" Clara repeated in confusion. "Nothing. I didn't do anything."

"Do not lie to me!" the king yelled, the lid completely off his bottled emotions.

Following his outburst, a strong gust of wind rushed through the throne room, causing Clara to avert her gaze and shield her eyes from its effects. The king's rage was like fuel to fire, feeding the torches with intense bursts of aggression. He stood from his throne, making his way over to her as he regarded her with little to no care. His eyes were bright red, mirroring the embers that burned the torches lining the walls.

But it wasn't their unorthodox shade that frightened her, it was the sheer hostility she found in them; nothing but annoyance directed towards her though she remained clueless to the fault that seemed to lie with her.

"You'd do well not to anger me further," the king said, his voice soft yet threatening all the same. "You do not wish to face the extent of my wrath."

Clara remained silent as she stared at him. The person standing before her held no resemblance to the once apologetic grandfather she knew. He was a stranger who adorned the mask of her grandfather's features. A facade, perhaps, to reel her in and use her for his personal gain. Was the prince being truthful, after all?

The king's solemn threat seemed to be a silent cue as Lucan materialised from the shadows and handed him a folded letter. He bowed to them both before vanishing as silently as he had appeared.

With his eyes still emotionless and unrelenting, the king tossed the piece of parchment on the ground by Clara's feet.

"Read it," he ordered.