King Heralla barely slept the night before, the amount of sleep he'd gotten amounting to just under two hours. He'd tossed and turned in bed. Twice, Yenchal, his wife and Khamene's mother, had awakened to his fitful slumber.
Each time she'd asked him if he was okay. Both times he'd answered yes, he was alright, go back to sleep my darling, but Yenchal was a mother and a wife, so she had instincts for both.
She had initiated conversations with him during those two times that he'd woken her up, but in the end her words would only weakly escape her lips as sleep took hold of her. Ever the loving husband, Heralla had not prodded her more, had not woken her up even though their poor attempts at conversing had distracted him from his thoughts.
Now, the sunlight pouring from the window and directly on his face, Heralla's face grimaced as an entity appeared in his dream.
The figure was a black shadow, humanlike, but he somehow knew that this being wasn't human at all. In this realm of bad dreams, he could clearly hear a thumping sound.
Thump, thump.
It was the sound of a heartbeat.
The figure's eyes opened, crimson red. Behind it, red stains bloomed like water quickly soaking through a page of a newspaper.
It stared, and Heralla could only stare back.
Then he jerked awake, his heart thudding in his chest like a bird thrashing inside its cage, the nightmare already forgotten the way dreams were instantly forgotten when the person had awoken. Across the room, the big metal clock that had Roman numerals instead of numbers told him that it was just past nine in the morning.
He sighed. The last time he'd checked that clock was thirty minutes before. Still, he was grateful that he'd fallen asleep for thirty more minutes.
Heralla stood up, his purple cotton nightshirt billowing just above his ankles. He removed the nightcap on his head and realized that it was soaking wet with his sweat.
Walking to the bathroom, he leaned his hands on the sink and looked at himself in the oval mirror. Purple half-circles had formed below his bloodshot eyes, thin wisps of gray hair on his temples disheveled. The edges of his beard had grown a whitish gray, too, as if they'd been dunked and stained with milk.
Two attacks. On the same day. In Wontaria.
What's happening here? he thought to himself.
He turned the faucet on, cupped his hands under, then splashed it on his face. The coldness sent a rocket of chills down his spine, which made him more awake, more present.
One attack--one tragedy--could be an isolated case. Two could mean something.
Shut up.
Two attacks happening on the same day was just a coincidence, no more and no less. The natures of the incidents were different: one was a murder-suicide, the other was probably just an animal attack, a rogue beast that had stepped foot on campus but was now back where it lived.
Yes, that was right. That made sense.
But why wasn't Heralla convinced?
He shook his head and scratched his back. His nightshirt clung to his sticky body like a second skin. Leaving the bathroom, he walked to the dresser and grabbed a blue tunic and a pair of trousers.
After changing his garments, he took two deep breaths before leaving the room and into the Great Hall.
Yenchal was already seated on the right adjacent to Heralla's chair, applying butter on a piece of toast. She looked at him and smiled. "There you are."
As acknowledgement, Heralla only raised his eyebrows at her. He sat down and immediately, a servant was at his side, picking up his glass and pouring orange juice from a pitcher.
"Did you get any more sleep?" Yenchal asked. She took a bite of the toast; the crunch was loud against the large space of the hall, its lonesomeness, its vacantness.
"I did," the king replied.
"Is something bothering you?"
Yes, he almost said, but was able to bite his tongue. His eyes scanned the room and saw Rodanka and Fredrin standing by the door, lost in a conversation. Rodanka felt his stare and turned to him. They had a wordless exchange before the guard looked away.
Yesterday, Rodanka and his clique of guards had arrived to his chambers forty minutes after ordering Fredrin to tell them to come to him. Heralla had told them--warned them, really--that the news of the attack in Larthas must be kept between them. He'd also reminded them about their families and how they depended on them, on their salary as a Wontaria Guard. The message was clear: disobeying his orders would result in immediate firing.
"Yes, my lord," Rodanka and the three other guards with him had said, almost at the same time.'
There was a sense of discomfort in Heralla's chest and conscience as he kept this from Yenchal and Khamene. They were his family; shouldn't they know everything that was going on in Wontaria? Especially when Khamene was slated to become the next king?
That was true. What was also true, however, was that time and time again telling even just one more person something confidential proved that it could be the first ember to start a whole fire.
Once, he'd carelessly shared with Yenchal that he'd caught a guard and a servant making out in the reading hall. Yenchal had proceeded to tell her friends about it, the wives of the male members of the Order. The gossip had resulted in the servant leaving the castle in embarrassment. Nothing too scandalous, but the last Heralla had heard, that servant was still struggling looking for a new job.
After all, there was no need to alarm them of such a heinous crime. It was a straightforward murder-suicide between a couple. Things like this happened. No other emotion was as strong as hate than love, anyway.
If so, why had he felt the need to check up on Khamene last night? It was not like Heralla called regularly to ask him how he was doing. It had certainly been out of the blue, out of character for him.
It just so happened that calling his son had been the right thing to do, because now he knew about the other attack at Witcher Price.
The attack in Larthas had been settled and was being kept under thick wraps. The police officers on the case had been keeping it between themselves, and fortunately there had been no witnesses at the crime scene to tell others about it. At the very least, the Larthasians still saw Heralla as a great and responsible king.
He had also successfully sent the Order more money as well, more than he had originally intended to. Of course, the Roztock Order was the first to be notified of all crimes in Wontaria, since police reports were automatically sent to money. Money would keep their lips sealed.
All that was connected to the incident in Larthas was being handled carefully, all loose ends tied. That was under control.
But the attack at Witcher Price?
Probably just a wild animal.
Heralla, however, didn't believe that. He wouldn't be able to explain why, just that he really didn't believe that idea. Plus, there had been witnesses. If there was something more sinister at play in this situation, it would be more difficult to cover this up with many people having seen it.
"Rodanka," he said now after a moment of contemplative silence, breaking free from his thoughts.
Rodanka approached him, Fredrin staying by the door. "Yes, my lord?"
"Tell Hurfa to ready the carriage."
Rodanka's lower lip jutted out, his subconsious tell when intrigued, but did not ask any more questions. "Certainly, my lord." He walked away, gesturing for Fredrin to come with him.
Yenchal looked at her husband. "Going somewhere?"
"Yes," Heralla said.
It was time to pay his son, and Witcher Price, a visit.