Heir of Cinders [FADING EMBERS #1] - ON HOLD

9.1 - Vargs, Witches, and Warriors

Lord Cathal Faolahn's men were already herding the protesters to the sides of the road to let King Aidan's procession through. All the while, Daud's fingers never left the cool hilt of his ancestral sword.

The discordant clamor of the people rattled his eardrums, their voices shouting in high crescendos filled with poison. Their tongues leaked with venom, spitting scornful jeers at their direction. Daud watched them warily as they made their way through the path. His fingers curled tighter over his sword, turning his knuckles white with the force of his grip. The soft flesh of his lower lip slid underneath his upper incisors- the only thing keeping him from spewing out curses of his own at the masses.

How dare they, he thought. Something dark and wrathful stirred within his chest, rearing its head at the anarchy. How could they say such disgusting things to their king?

If Daud had his way, he would have wanted to pull his blade out of its scabbard, if only to boast to these insolent people how sharp a blade forged in the fabled Iron Mill could be. Yet, he could do no such thing. Not when his king, the only person who deserved to be angry, was showing such incredible restraint. Daud found his gaze tearing away from the toxic masses to the silver-haired paragon that rode in front of him. A surge of admiration washed over him, taming the dark beast that had awakened in the depths of his heart.

King Aidan rode with his head held high in the air, his face a sculpture of dignity and authority despite the insults that were flung at him. He was the calm amidst the storm, unshakeable like a mountain in a hurricane as he rode on his skewbald through the battering rain of spite. Part of Daud dreaded the moment when that mask of perfect stoicism would break. There had to be something that boiled underneath those icy crystals of his eyes, a fury that was ready to be unleashed.

Of course, it never came, and his fears were unfounded. This is why he is the king, Daud silently told himself. Only a king could show such incredible restraint.

These thoughts quelled the broth of anger that churned inside him. His gaze slid back to the sides of the road, where men clad in silver were shoving back the furious demonstrators. They were having loud altercations, only adding fuel into the already-raging fire.

"Tell that witch-lover's son to send them away!" a man bringing a tall wooden sign hollered. He was trying to push past a man under Faolahn's service, wrestling futilely.

"We will not accept another king of freaks!" another jeered. That brought howls of mocking laughter from the crowd.

After what seemed like an unbearable eternity of riding through the shame, they finally arrived at an expansive fortress constructed of stone. Its structure shared the geometrical design of the rest of the town's architecture, comprising mostly of rectangular shapes. The walls were gray in hue, like the coat of the vargs that became the symbol of House Faolahn. It was fitting then, Daud thought, that the nobles should make the foreboding keep into their abode.

Lord Cathal Faolahn came to greet them, accompanied by the young lord Conall. All Faolahns were gaunt, Daud knew, but Lord Cathal was practically a wizened scarecrow of a man. He was ghastly thin, with pale limbs as frail as the branches of a dead tree. Dark pits indented the sides of his cheeks. His skin was like bleached parchment stretched thin over his bones, with deep-set wrinkles that marred his features. Wispy gray whiskers hung underneath his nose. The hair on his head- perhaps once dark like that of his son's- had turned ashen and receded towards the back of his head, leaving the front half of his head bare.

The thieran was almost worried for the walking corpse of a man. It looked as if the slightest passing zephyr might be enough to reduce him to a pile of dust.