Chapter 87: The King’s Verdict

Chapter 87: The King’s Verdict Lynnor, finally free from her restraints, stumbled back, eyes wide. "It was you," she whispered. "The wolf in the trees..." And yet, somehow, she didn’t run. Back then, she had her suspicions about what happened to the wolf, and she was sure it was gone. But no, this changed everything. A thought lingered in the back of her mind. Was this Aramith using its power he’d absorbed, or the wolf trying to survive after consuming him? The wolf looked nothing like the one from before. It was taller now, leaner but far more menacing, its fur darker than night and bristling like razors. Its growl wasn’t loud, but it rumbled through the air like distant thunder. Even standing still, it looked like it was seconds from lunging — from killing. Henndar looked at the others. They were horrified. Their fear was sharp, electric. And that... that was useful. In the face of panic such as this, his greatest worry was that they would realize Aramith’s attribute had been erased. In this situation, he was a damned. But he still felt that uncontrollable power. This was just another manifestation of his darkness. Henndar calculated quickly. Three options. 1. Call Lia. She might be able to cancel it. 2. Wait for the power to burn itself out. 3. Break him. He chose the last. Henndar didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The wolf had power, but Henndar had already decided how this would end, and that was all that mattered. With a flick of his hand, invisible force gripped the wolf and hurled it upward. It was dangerous, yes. You could feel it in the air — raw strength, barely contained. But compared to Henndar, it wasn’t enough. Not here. Not now. The wolf had power, but Henndar had control. And the moment he moved, it was clear who the real monster was. Chains followed from the cloaked ones. They weren’t metal, but binding spells, glowing with intent. They wrapped around its limbs midair. And then— SLAM. The creature crashed down. Stone shattered beneath it. The ground cracked with the force of it. It yelped. And Henndar didn’t flinch. Again. Again. Again. Each impact was brutal, calculated. It wasn’t punishment. It was restraint through ruin. The onlookers couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Kesha stared, mouth open in silent horror. Lynnor trembled, rooted to the floor. Why not just kill him? Henndar kept going. The runes dimmed. The fur ripped. Blood pooled. The power began to recede, unwilling to stay. The wolf shrank, and the boy returned. Bruised. Barely conscious. And still, Henndar struck once more—one final blow that sent the boy skidding across the floor like a discarded doll. Then he stopped. He walked forward, slow, precise. Everyone felt true fear from this man. He grabbed Aramith’s limp body and dragged it up, nose to nose. "You chose this," he said. "So suffer the consequences." He threw Aramith down at Lynnor’s feet. "He’ll die with her, then. Since that’s what he wants." He raised his hand again. The doors slammed open. Mozrael burst in, white-faced, breath sharp. Her eyes locked on Aramith’s crumpled form. "No!" she screamed. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside him. Henndar turned sharply. "Mozrael! This isn’t your fight! Move!" She didn’t. "Mozrael! I won’t lose you too!" Still, she stayed. Her hands trembled over Aramith’s chest. Her eyes glowed. And then blue flames came alive. Fire curled from her palms. Henndar saw the glow, the heat, and the way the light flowed down her spine. She was going to transform. "No," he muttered. And with a snap of his fingers, time froze. Everything stopped. Henndar exhaled slowly, then drove his fist into the table. CRACK. He didn’t care. He turned, gestured, and the Deadlocks moved. Swift, silent, exact. They took Aramith. Then Lynnor. Then Mozrael, their bodies frozen in the moment. Henndar followed them out, calling forth the Deadlocks. A shadow passed over the hall. Something had broken. And the kingdom would never forget this day. Outside the hall, Henndar came to a halt. He didn’t look at them, didn’t even check if they were still following. "Deadlock," he said coldly, "take them to the third east wing. Lock the room. No windows, no contact. And chain them." "Yes, Your Majesty." Henndar turned slightly, his voice carrying a chill."Send for Aiden. Have him tend to Aramith’s wounds." With that, he turned around and strode back toward the meeting room. His steps were calm, but each one echoed with a finality that unsettled everyone present. As he re-entered, the heavy doors closed behind him with a soft but ominous thud. Then, with a subtle flick of his hand, time resumed. The air snapped back into motion. Papers rustled. A few delegates blinked in confusion, jerking as if waking from a nightmare. Someone knocked over a cup. But then they noticed. Aramith, Lynnor, Mozrael. They were gone, and Henndar was standing right where they last remembered, his face like stone. Whispers began to form on tongues, but no one dared to speak. A suffocating aura spread across the room like a heavy fog. It rolled off Henndar in waves, thick and unrelenting, choking any sense of resistance before it could take shape. The fear he inspired in that moment was not through violence, nor words, but presence. Cold, commanding presence. A single motion from Henndar, and the room itself began to shift. Cracks on the floor sealed themselves. The destroyed chairs reformed. The overturned table straightened as though time had rewound. Every splinter, every broken item mended itself in eerie silence. The room looked exactly as it had at the beginning—untouched, pristine. As if nothing had happened. And yet, something had. Henndar faced them, his voice like steel against silk. "They have been transported to a secured chamber. All three of them will face banishment." The words dropped like stone into still water. No gasps. No objections. Just a quiet, collective dread. No one moved. Then his tone changed. Lower. Sharper. Like the first cold drop before a storm. "None of you are to speak of what happened here. Not a word. Not to your men. Not to your families. Not even to your shadows." His eyes narrowed, sweeping across each face—warning them, marking them. Every noble, every advisor, every knight in that room felt it in their bones: this was no mere request. It was a threat. A binding silence sealed by fear. He stepped aside, his voice calm once more. "You will remain here until the outer grounds are secured and tensions have cooled. Then, I will send for you to be escorted out." No one protested. No one even nodded. They simply stood there—silent, shaken, and uncertain—grappling with the weight of a truth none of them dared speak. For all their titles and power, none of them felt like rulers in that moment. They were subjects again—of a king who reminded them what it meant to hold fear.