Chapter 376: A King’s Wrath, A Commander’s Rebellion
A King’s Wrath, A Commander’s Rebellion
"If you arrive in such a hurry," Gary told them, his tone black, laced with metal, "then something has gone wrong—again.
The words pierced the thick quiet of the war tent. Smoke from the brazier curled in the stagnant air, bearing the acrid smell of burning herbs intended to cover the smell of blood and bandages. Wounded commanders slumped over cushions all around them, their armor removed, their bodies wrapped in cloth that bled. Their faces were pale, their eyes hollow, and yet even they raised their heads, awaiting.
Veynor’s eyes flashed around the room, racing over each battered soldier, each bent figure, every shadow that seemed to edge closer to hear. His throat pulsed as he pushed his voice out, shaking but insistent.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The beasts were only the beginning...
The tent descended into deeper quiet. No one stirred. The leather creak, the soft hiss of flame, even the ragged breathing of the wounded seemed to restraint itself, all waiting for the words that could destroy whatever fragile thread of strength they hung on.
At the edge of the dais, farthest from the speakers, Edric sat motionless, his scarred face impassive, but his eyes fixed on Veynor. His hand contracted once on his knee, then relaxed, as if containing himself from speaking.
Veynor’s eyes flashed to him for a moment—guilty, hesitant—before flicking back to Gary, who sat on his cushion like a curled tempest, golden eyes unwavering.
"My king..." Veynor leaned forward, his head close to the ground. His voice broke, heavy with the fear of bringing bad news. "My agent in the capital... has reported. The King of Moonstone has made a decision. He is moving."
There was a low murmur in the tent, too little to be audible but heavy enough to notice. A score of eyes turned on Veynor, their stares piercing, questioning, almost accusatory.
Gary’s eyes narrowed. His hand, clasped around a goblet of wine, froze in mid-turn. "Move?" His voice was even, but the quiet beneath it was menacing. "Can you say more, Veynor?"
Veynor nodded hastily, his throat constricting as he forced out the words. "Yes, my king. King Aurelian himself has decreed—he will head the army against us. He comes to fight you in open battle."
The tent folded into silence once more. All commanders stood rigid, shock reflected in their empty eyes.
Gary’s goblet wobbled in his grasp. Even he was shocked, once. His brows furrowed, his lips wide in incredulity.
"Aurelian..." he said. "That son of a—"
Everyone knew about Aurelian—king of Moonstone, the watchful king who had spent years hiding behind his fortress, having other people die in his place, never venturing onto the battlefield himself. That he should march now, in person, was unthinkable.
"Impossible," one of the older generals at last whispered, his throat raw, the words splitting like parched wood. He spun toward Veynor. "You’re sure of what you claim? We all know King Aurelian. Behind walls, he stays, always bussing out armies to protect him. If defeat is near, he runs away before putting himself in harm’s way. To march—this smells of rumor, not fact."
Whispers arose, doubtful, incredulous, but heavy with dread. All the gazes were drawn back to Veynor.
Veynor swallowed thickly beneath their looks. Sweat made his brow glisten. His knees shook, but he did not raise his head. "I attest to it, my lords. Not a single spy—I had several. They share the same language. Preparations are already being made. The soldiers march. The king himself... is leading them."
The force of his words fell. The tent contracted, air crushing in over every breast.
Gary’s grip on the goblet tightened until metal creaked. Then—CRASH. He slammed it to the floor. Red wine splattered on rugs like spilled blood.
"Ahhh!" His bellow ripped through the tent, savage and booming, shaking every man’s skeleton. His aura burst, gold and turbulent, oppressing like a tempest. Men gasped, some holding their chests, others shivering as if the air itself strived to suffocate them.
"What the hell is going on with me?!" Gary roared, leaping from his cushion like a beast released. His eyes burned with rage. "Why does nothing—NOTHING—go according to plan?!"
The tent shook with the fury of his anger.
Edric’s lips thinned, his eyes contracting. He had borne much in silence, but now he moved, slowly standing up. His eyes locked with Gary’s.
"You..." Gary’s finger darted out like a spear, stabbing at him. Venom dripped from his voice. "You damned fool! Since you began to fight alongside me, everything that’s gone wrong! The tide turned against me, my invasion bogged down, and now this—this treachery of calculation, this nonsense of Aurelian marching himself! You—your bad luck taints everything I do!"
A stunned hush descended over the tent. No one breathed.
Edric’s jaw clenched, his brow furrowing. He took one slow step forward, his boots heavy on the rug. His voice came low, as pointed as a blade.
"Bad luck, you call me?" His gaze flamed. "When I stood beside you, I provided you with cleverness. I put my neck on the line, defying kingdoms, bringing cities to ruin for your sake. And now—because the currents shift—you place blame on my feet? When I spilled my blood for you, I was not bad luck. But now, when your schemes fail, suddenly I am?"
Gasps were heard. No one had ever presume to speak to their king so boldly, so perilously.
Gary’s aura blazed more intensely, golden flames dancing around him. His features twisted in fury. "You dare. speak to me thus? Do you forget you are beneath me? If it pleases me, I can extinguish you with a twitch of my fingers!"
Edric’s lips curled into a sneer. He shifted forward, gaze locked with Gary’s, unyielding. "Then try. But understand this—if I fall, you fall with me. I don’t fall alone."
The words hit with the force of a slap. Gary stilled. His teeth were locked together, his fists shaking at his side. He knew Edric spoke the truth. This man had claws sunk too deep to be yanked out without backlash.
"Enough!" Growled a voice from one of the older generals. He stepped forward, his hand held high, though his arm trembled under the strain of Gary’s aura. "My king—please! We cannot risk blood in our own tent. Not now. Not when Moonstone is in motion. We need him—at least, for the moment. Kill him, and you weaken us when already we are too weak."
Gary’s chest rose and fell, his breathing harsh with pent rage. His golden eyes flashed to Edric, then moved on to the general. His jaw clenched, grinding down on anger.
At last, he breathed out, long and pointed. The aura receded, although sparks still danced around him.
"You live—for the moment," Gary snarled, voice low, thick with menace. "But don’t confuse my patience for weakness. When this war is over, you and I will resolve this."
Edric smiled crookedly, half defiance, half fatigue. "Then I’ll be waiting."
Gary’s back went stiff. His hand shook once before he got control of it again. His voice, when he spoke, was still with the edge of thunder.
"Fine. For now I have more important matters. Aurelian dares enter the field... Then I will shatter him myself."
The tent caught its breath once more, air entering men’s lungs. But relief did not penetrate anyone. The storm merely changed direction.