For the Kingdom by Anna Andriychuk

Long, seemingly everlasting moments of dreadful silence

stretched indefinitely as droplets pummelled the windows with an unprecedented fury. Thunder roared and screamed as though the gods themselves ruled, for the skies today to be mercilessly ripped apart in the name of their wrath. The winds howled as they carried the wails and screams of the world, ignorant of humanity’s desire for calm.

And yet, all of these sounds, these powerful forces of nature meant nothing before a heart that rummaged violently against a ribcage, akin to a wild beast trapped in a hunter’s cage. The thumps of pumping blood took their beholder’s ears hostage, enveloping the dim-lit room in its crimson cocoon. The hands, propped on the desk and clasped together so tightly they whined in protest, trembled. Beads of sweat ran down their contours, in tandem with the ones that scooted down his stoic face.

“Monsieur Lamont!”

A man suddenly burst into the office, heaving profusely as he barely managed to stand on his own two feet. His voice was desperate, his movements rapid. But in this darkness, his expression stayed a mystery.

Reveal it.

Show it.

Hurry.

Come on-!

A burst of lighting eliminated the space through the large panel of floor-length windows. The lackey’s face. It was clear. Horror. Despair. Sorrow.

And Lamont? Lamont has never felt happier. Elation coursed through his vines like a downed glass of sweet enticing ambrosia.

Nothing could compare to the joy he felt today. Not the day he inherited his title. Not the day he became His Highness’ attendant. Not the day he became the right-hand man of the King. Ah, no, how preposterous of him. The late King.

“Are their Majesties..?” He wore grief like a knight wore their armour, like a dame wore her make-up and gown. A perfect performance, a calculated play.

“I-I’m..! T-they… I-I don’t know-,” the lackey’s voice stumbled, his frame still frozen at the door.

Lamont stood up, circling his desk and carefully guiding the man inside, offering him a chair and a glass of water he procured from the cabinet to the right of the desk.

“Breath, slowly. You may speak when you are ready to,” Lamont’s voice was soothing, artificially tinted with heavy notes of anguish.

It didn’t take long for the man to speak his truth. They were dead. Their carriage crashed, clearly attacked, their bodies disfigured and bloody. The minute details were yet unclear, but a proper investigation would heed more grounding results. The man was free, off on his way with a generous amount of vacation days to clear out his thoughts and calm himself.

Alone once again in his office, Lamont stood near the window with a newly held glass of whisky, glancing at the Inner Palace and the city beyond the gates. The joy he felt quickly subsided, replaced now by something he was not expecting to occur. Was it guilt? Remorse? Or something much more trivial… Like pain.

“You idiot,” Lamont whispered, slashing the drink in his hands, his voice strained with emotions he was too afraid to name: “if only you listened. If only you weren’t such an incompetent fool.”

He took a sip. Strong sandal notes and scorching fiery taste. Lamont had always prided himself on his ability to easily digest strong alcohol. But for the first time in his life – it just wouldn’t go down.

“Fear not,” he placed the glass with a heavy thud, “I shall make this Kingdom more prosperous than you have ever dreamed of. Even if you aren’t here to witness it.”