Rober/t
The palace library of Thornholl was a tomb that had forgotten it was a tomb. Its shelves rose like walls of ancient wood—dark, unpolished, their edges worn smooth by centuries of hands that had long since turned to dust. The books upon them were cracked and faded, their spines peeling like old skin, their pages yellowed by the darkness that had no beginning and no end. The air was thick with the smell of old paper, dried leather, and something else—something like dust that had never been disturbed, like the breath of a room that had not been entered in years.
A single candle burned on the desk. Its flame was small and restless—trembling with every draft that crept through the cracks in the stone, casting shadows that moved like living things across the walls.
Robert sat behind the desk. His fingers moved over the pages of an old tome—a history of Thornholl's wars, its defeats, its shames. His eyes moved slowly. Reading. Weighing. Judging. His jaw was set. His shoulders were still. Only his fingers moved—turning pages, tracing lines, pausing at names that had been forgotten.
The silence was broken by footsteps.
Old Grey entered. His steps were slow—each one placed with care, as though the floor might give way beneath him. His back was bent—bent so deeply that his head seemed to lead the rest of him. His hands were clasped before him, fingers interlaced, knuckles pale. He stopped at the edge of the desk—far enough to be respectful, close enough to be heard. His shadow fell across the candlelight, wavered, then settled.
"My lord Robert."
Robert did not look up. His finger traced a line on the page—a list of names, a list of dead. His voice was flat, stripped of anything that might resemble interest.
"We've never won a single battle before, so that's true? All I see in this book is shame."
Old Grey's hands tightened before him—the knuckles whitening. His throat moved as he swallowed. He said, his voice careful—measured, like a man walking on stones across a river:
"No, my lord. Never." He paused. His eyes dropped to the desk, then rose again. "This is our first victory."
Robert closed the book. The sound was soft but final—a sound that ended something. He leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked beneath him. His hands came to rest on the armrests—his fingers spreading, then curling.
"So, all I have to say is that I've completely changed the traditions."
Old Grey's head tilted slightly—a small, nervous motion, like a bird sensing a change in the wind.
"I would not call it tradition. Perhaps bad luck."
Robert's eyes narrowed. His fingers tapped once on the armrest—tap—the sound sharp in the silence.
"Luck does not win battles. A king does. And as I said—I would change tradition. That is what I did."
He leaned forward. His elbows pressed into the desk. His voice dropped to something cold and deliberate—each word placed like a stone on a grave.
"So from now on—anyone who addresses me with a word that does not suit my station will have his tongue cut out. Is that understood? I won't say it again."
Old Grey bowed his head. His hands tightened before him—the knuckles whitening. His shoulders drew inward, as though he were trying to make himself smaller.
"Understood, Your Grace."
Robert said, his hand rising to wave once through the air: "Good. What about the king of the sea? Did the sea take his ship?"
Old Grey nodded slowly—his head moving like a leaf in a tired wind. His lips parted, then closed, then parted again.
"Yes. He was defeated, Your Grace."
Robert's lips curved—not a smile, but something close. His hand fell back to the armrest.
"I thought he was clever. But I misjudged him. Defeated by a cripple." He paused. His brow furrowed. His hand rose and touched his chin—fingers pressing against the skin, tracing the line of his jaw. "What is his name? Remind me."
Old Grey said, "William, Your Grace."
Robert said, "Yes. This William."
Old Grey shifted his weight—one foot to the other. His hands unclasped, then reclasped. He said, his voice tentative:
"What do we do with his men?"
Robert said, his fingers drumming once on the desk—tap—then stilling:
"Smart move—leaving his men here in the palace, behind my back. But nine? Not that smart."
He paused. His eyes moved to the candle flame—watching it flicker. Then he said:
"Let us use what was against us in our favor."
Old Grey's head tilted again—his brow furrowing. His hands spread slightly before him, palms up.
"What do you mean, Your Grace?"
Robert said, "Begin digging a large, wide pit. We will throw them there. And let the people of Thornholl take their right with their own hands. We will direct their anger toward them."
He leaned back. The chair creaked. His hands came to rest on his stomach—fingers interlacing.
"This will serve us. Men who went to the pit on their own feet. Let the people deal with them."
Old Grey said, "I will order the men to do that."
He turned to leave. His robes brushed against the floor—a soft, whispering sound. His steps were slow—each one carrying him toward the door. His hand reached for the handle.
But Robert said, "Wait."
Old Grey stopped. His body went still. His hand, reaching for the door handle, froze in the air. His shoulders tensed beneath his robes.
Robert paused. His hand rose and touched his chin again—his fingers tracing the line of his jaw. His eyes were distant—fixed on something beyond the room.
"Is there any news about Rodric? From the Great Pale?"
Old Grey said, without turning, his voice careful: "Not yet, Your Grace."
Robert said, "What about my two sons? Haven't they arrived yet?"
Old Grey said, his head turning slightly—just enough that his profile was visible: "They are on their way, Your Grace. Fully protected."
Robert said, "Good. Go, then. And prepare the platform and the pit. We have shows to present."
Old Grey said, his hand still on the door handle, his body half-turned: "What about Meriel? Will he be thrown into the pit as well?"
Robert said, "No. I will handle him myself. Just prepare the platform. I will prepare my sword well."
He paused. His hand fell to the desk—his fingers spreading flat against the wood.
"We do not want the king to suffer in his last moments."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The Dungeons
Below the palace—in the dark catacombs—Robert descended the dark stairs.
The stairs were narrow. Worn. Each step dipped in the center from centuries of feet. The walls were close on either side—damp stone, slick with moisture, glistening in the torchlight. The air was cold. Heavy. It smelled of earth and rust and something else—something old, something that had been left to rot.
A torch was in his hand. Its flame cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls—shadows that leapt and twisted, that seemed to reach for him as he passed.
He walked through a corridor lined with dark cells. Hands reached out from between the bars—fingers grasping at the air, voices begging. He did not care. He did not turn. He continued walking—his steps steady, his face still, the torch held before him like a shield.
Until he reached the last cell at the end of the corridor.
It was silent.
Robert approached. His torch illuminated the cell—the damp walls, the straw on the floor, the chains that held Meriel to the stone. He stopped before the bars. His free hand wrapped around one of the iron bars—his fingers curling around the cold metal. His voice came out low—almost gentle.
"Are you asleep? We are sorry we did not place you in a position befitting your royal status."
He paused. The torch flickered. His head tilted slightly.
"But do not worry—soon all your troubles will end. A little patience will do."
Meriel was inside—lying down. His body was still. His eyes were open. He did not move. He did not reply.
Robert stepped closer. His torchlight fell on Meriel's face—on the hollows beneath his eyes, on the lines around his mouth, on the beard that had grown unchecked.
"In this place, creativity and innovation exist in the methods of execution," Robert said. His voice was almost conversational—as though he were discussing the weather. His free hand gestured toward the cell around them.
"Strange, isn't that so? In the dark, what does a person take as passion? Killing."
He paused. His head tilted. His fingers tightened on the torch.
"There are no blacksmiths or carpenters here. No crafts. Only the passion for blood. They call it here—the art of bloodshed."
He paused again. His hand left the bar and rested on the torch—both hands now holding it, the flame steady between them.
"Tell me, Meriel—how do you want to end your miserable life? Shall I bring you the list?"
Meriel said—his voice faint, barely above a whisper, his lips moving slowly as though each word cost him something:
"You seem happy."
Robert said, his head shaking once—slow, deliberate:
"No. I am not truly happy. And your death will not make me happy either."
He paused. His jaw tightened. His hands adjusted their grip on the torch.
"But it will make things easier—to focus on what is more important."
Meriel said, his eyes turning toward Robert—cold, steady, despite everything:
"What do you think is more important than killing me?"
Robert said, "What is more important is what follows."
He paused. His voice dropped. His eyes narrowed.
"Unfortunately—you will not live to see it."
Robert said, looking at Meriel in the darkness, his head tilting with something like curiosity:
"I heard that your library is the largest in the human realms. I heard that you can find any book you are looking for."
Meriel said, his voice flat: "You are not Robert—are you?"
Robert said, his hand rising to his chin—fingers pressing against the skin:
"What made you say that?"
Meriel said, "You are everything but Robert."
Robert said, "It does not matter who I am. People see me as Robert. So I will be Robert."
Meriel said, "I knew it. Is he dead? And since when?"
Robert said, "Not important. And it was never important. He was just an old blind man. Consider me only the better version of him, The wiser version."
Meriel said, his voice quiet but steady, his eyes never leaving Robert's face:
"Before—I thought Robert was bad. But compared to what I see now—I think I was wrong about him." He paused. His chains shifted as he moved slightly. "You are a demon who has not mastered his role. Tell me why you killed my brother."
Robert put his hand to his chin and said, his voice thoughtful—as though he were recalling a distant memory:
"I don't know. Maybe he stood in my way." He paused. His hand fell to his side. "You weren't supposed to see that in the first place, but you were unusually present. Maybe if you hadn't been, I wouldn't have done it."
He leaned slightly forward. The torchlight caught his eyes.
"So it was your fault. I killed him just to make you want revenge, and here I am, and here you are. It seems my plan has worked."
Robert moved closer, his face pressing near the bars. His voice dropped to something intimate—something almost curious.
"Tell me why you came. Which is unusual for you."
Meriel glared at Robert. His jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides—the chains pulling taut.
"You look confident behind bars. When I stood pointing my sword at you, you didn't seem that confident."
He paused. His breath came hard through his nose.
"You want me to tell you why I came? Because I wanted to convince the Five Kings to join forces and destroy your entire race."
Robert smiled a faint smile. His hand rose and waved once—dismissive.
"Destroy us? Do you truly believe that numbers alone will make a difference? It seems you are unaccustomed to true power."
He straightened. His voice dropped.
"Very well—I will show you what you are dealing with."
Robert moved back a little until he disappeared into the darkness.
Then he returned—but he did not return as Robert.
He came back different.
It was Gerald.
Standing there with a complete head and an intact body—looking more alive than Meriel himself. His eyes were open. His mouth was curved in a familiar smile.
"Hello, Meriel. I can't wait to meet you."
Then he returned to the darkness. And Robert himself came back.
Meriel was stunned. His body went rigid. His eyes widened. His mouth opened—but no sound came out. His chains rattled as his hands trembled.
Robert said, his head tilting as he watched Meriel's face:
"Did you see? Terrifying, isn't it? But in our world—that's nothing. Our goal is higher than just a strange power."
He paused. His hand tightened on the torch.
"Even if I told you—you wouldn't understand."
He paused again. His voice dropped.
"Unfortunately, you will die soon, and we won't have the chance to talk like this. Or we could actually—"
He smiled.
"Yes—even after your death, I will have some chats. With your head, at least, in the Neverwood. Forever, I think."
Robert turned. His robes swept behind him. His torch faded into the darkness—the light shrinking, shrinking, until it was only a point, then nothing.
The cell returned to silence.
Rodric
In a far place—beside the Red Forest—in a lone house on top of a hill, the house was quiet. As if empty.
But inside—Rodric was eating in silence.
The room was small. The walls were bare wood—rough, unpainted, the grain dark with age. A single window let in the grey light of a sky that never cleared. The fire in the hearth was low—small flames licking at the last of the wood. The smell of smoke and old grease hung in the air.
Before him sat the old man—the one who did not move. His eyes were open. Staring. Unblinking. His hands rested on the table—still, like the hands of a corpse that had been arranged for burial.
Rodric ate. His spoon moved from bowl to mouth—slow, mechanical. Then he passed a spoonful to the old man.
The old man's lips pressed together. He turned his head—just slightly—refusing.
But Rodric fed him anyway. His hand guided the spoon—gentle but firm—until the old man's lips parted and the food went in.
After Rodric finished eating—he washed the dishes. The water was cold. The cloth was rough. He dried each plate with slow, deliberate movements. Then he stood looking out the window at the weather.
The sky was dark. The wind was rising. The trees outside bent and swayed—their bare branches scraping against each other.
After that—he headed to the door. He carried a bucket in his left hand and a bucket in his right.
He looked at the old man. His eyes held for a moment—unreadable. Then he went out.
The wind hit him at once—cold, sharp, carrying the smell of rain. He went to the well. The stones were slick with moss. He lowered the bucket—the rope burning through his fingers—and drew up the water. Then the second bucket.
He returned to the house. Outside—the weather was thundering. The sky cracked—white light, then dark. Rodric placed the two buckets down. Then he went out to gather firewood.
The wood was wet. It took longer than it should have. His hands grew raw. His fingers stiffened with cold. He brought the wood in—armful by armful—and placed it beside the hearth. He lit the fire. The flames caught slowly—sputtering, then growing. He placed a large pot to heat the water.
After that—Rodric carried the old man.
His arms wrapped around the thin body—the bones sharp beneath the skin. He lifted him—slowly, carefully—and carried him to the tub. He removed his clothes—piece by piece, the fabric stiff with dirt. He put him in the tub. Then he warmed the water.
And while he was doing that—the old man was frozen. His gaze toward Rodric had not changed. The same eyes. The same stillness. The same unblinking stare.
Rodric noticed that.
He said in a cold voice—his hands moving through the water:
"I will be leaving soon. And I do not think you will live long. Not alone."
He paused. The water rippled.
"So I will make sure—at least—that you die clean. Believe me, being alone isn't as bad as they say."
Rodric looked at the old man. His hands stopped moving.
"You must be thinking—and saying—that I'm the one who made you alone. And you're right. But your son—or whoever he may be—made a mistake. And the world, for all its beauty, does not forgive mistakes."
He paused. His hand moved over the old man's shoulder—washing away the dirt.
"Lower your head a little. Let me wash it."
He paused again. His voice dropped.
"I don't think they took proper care of you. No wonder you didn't lift a finger when they died."
Rodric approached and bathed him. His hands moved over the thin body—removing the dirt, the grime, the smell of weeks alone. He dried him with a rough cloth. He dressed him again—clean clothes, simple, soft. Then he returned him to his place—in the chair by the hearth.
After that—Rodric went to the kitchen. He cooked a soup with lamb meat. The smell filled the house—rich, warm, alive. He placed it before the old man on the table.
"You must eat. I will not stay here. So you must learn how to do it yourself."
Then Rodric gathered some provisions. He placed them in a cloth. He tied the cloth. He headed to the door.
On his way out—he exchanged looks with the old man. The old man's eyes followed him—still unblinking.
"Your soup will get cold."
Then he said: "Well—goodbye. Take care of yourself."
And after he closed the door—he heard a loud sound inside.
Rodric returned. He opened the door. He saw—the old man fallen on the floor. The chair overturned. The soup spilled. The old man's body lay still—his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Rodric closed the door again.
And left...