Brought to his knees before the kingdom after ten years of hiding, Kyros believed that he would be sentenced to death for the murder of his pack. His sentence would mean the end of it all - his torment, his abuse, his turmoil.
But his destiny change...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The rumbling was felt all across the land. It started with a gentle quiver at first, a slight shake of the ground that was barely noticeable in the early morning hours. And then it progressed to something more as the minutes ticked by. Something louder and more powerful.
Kyro's eyes opened as he lay in his cell. He was never asleep in the first place, he found slumber an impossible entity to chase. His heart seemed to always be beating frantically from the anxiety he felt from his possible impending death, and sometimes he wondered if the organ would give out.
But the morning he became aware in was a different one.
He didn't feel as weak as he had previously felt. His scars were plentiful and his wounds were still visible, but they were healing. And he wasn't starving for once, Asheria had come down to feed him earlier that morning before the commotion.
She had said nothing to him this time - she seemed to be fearful and her fear resonated within him and made him even more anxious.
His cell was lathered in light. The soft, warm glow of candles that were perched on the walls outside his cell eminated an inviting glow. The flames barely touched the air and danced with the sparks of life that dwelled within them.
The earth quaked lowly beneath him, like little vibrations touching his skin. He could hear what sounded like a crowd - a very large crowd, gathered somewhere in the distance and he grew fearful. The shaking of the ground was coming from them.
He knew they were there for him.
He knew it was the start of his public trials.
He immediately sat up, leaned over, and wretched. A bitter mix of fluid forced its way up to his throat before scattering on the ground in a warm heap. He felt extremely sick with fear and stress and his body shook immensely.
He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for help. But who could he call to? Who could he run to? Who could he find shelter with in a world that rightfully kicked him out and slammed the door shut?
If his death meant that the survivors and surviving families could be at peace, then he, too, would be at peace with his death.
He knew that without a doubt, that if roles were switched, he would want death upon the one who murdered his family, too. He could show no blame towards the people that despised him, who looked down on him with contempt.
The marching of several guards bounced off the walls and blared through his ears. He winced at the sound - it was louder than usual and there were many more people coming for him this time. Their footsteps clapped loudly like the thunder that cracked the mountains of Winterfest and like the thunder that encased him during the storms.
He groaned and held his hands against his ears, trying to block out the noise.
This was something the guards had noticed over the weeks. They had observed his fears, observed what made him terrified and weak.
