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

14.1 - Choices To Be Made

The Colossal Horror was headed towards Rizadon.

Of this fact Aidan could say with near-absolute certainty. While not inherently a person to be content with being confined by walls, the king had spent the last couple of hours poring over books and notes. The conference chamber of the Faolahn's abode had been converted into his personal study, a large map of the continent unfurled across the wide circular table. A multitude of colorful pins were stuck onto the map, embedded deep into the ebony surface due to the force Aidan stabbed them with. They marked the path which the Colossal Horror seemed to have taken, from the very first report of its sighting to its latest destruction of Yhlifa.

Lines had formed between his brows. His chin sunk low as he skimmed through a massive tome, turning the crisp pages delicately with his calloused fingers. The paper was yellowed by age and frizzed towards the edges. Yet despite the sheer volume of his resources, Aidan was no closer to unraveling the mystery of their conundrum.

History had a way of repeating itself, often in an uncanny fashion. As such, Aidan attempted to seek counsel from records of the past, to no avail. The Colossal Horror was a near-unprecedented situation. He'd found recounts of strange monsters that emerged from the Mist, from the attack on the aerhyan shores a mere decade ago to the legend of the three-headed Devil that appeared during the World's End itself. Legends often had roots in reality; now with the confirmed existence of the Colossal Horror, Aidan was very much inclined to believe the existence of such a gigantic monster in another era.

Aidan shut the book with a heavy sigh, shoving it aside. His eyes, wearied from the strain of reading fine print for hours, rose towards the ceiling. He locked sights with the glassy, dark orbs of the mounted swine head. Its stare was one of disapproval, its snout wrinkled in dismay at his fruitless endeavors. Aidan glared at it with a small scowl.

"To hell with you, too," he grumbled.

"Were you talking to the pig, Your Highness?"

The king jolted in his seat, quickly whipping his head round to look at the newcomer. Jonathan the Hound was standing in the doorway, arms crossed in front of his sturdy chest. Aidan had not heard him enter the room, which was odd, considering the heavy groaning of the oaken doors' hinges. Jonathan paused at the entrance of the door. His round brown eyes seized up his appearance in their quick, scrutinizing way, seeming to penetrate deep beyond Aidan's physical features straight into his mind.

He knew that Jonathan was a good man, but his seemingly clairvoyant eyes unnerved Aidan in more than one occasion. He held his breath in silent anticipation, wondering what words would tumble out next from the Shield. The half-calaian's eyebrows had gradually sunk closer towards his eyes, pressing the folds of his lids downwards.

"You've been here for hours, my King," he said, concerned. "You are very much not the type to be sedentary. It would do you some good, to go outside and get some fresh air."

"I'm fine," was Aidan's automatic reply. Jonathan was right, of course. At heart, Aidan was a warrior, not a scholar. He could not stomach the monotony of literature studies for long periods of time, and his legs were already itching for release. Again, it was beyond him how uncanny Jonathan's intuition for people was.

Jonathan pursed his lips. "You were talking to a dead decapitated pig."

"It was disparaging me."

"You're most certainly not fine."

Jonathan made his way to the table, casting his gaze down towards the map on the table. An index finger found its way onto one of the marker's heads. Pressing the tack's colored head with both his thumb and index finger, he attempted to pull it out. It was lodged so deeply into the wooden surface that it proved to be a much harder challenge than anticipated.