The Tyrant's Pet

The core members of the Valiente that made the resistance group stronger with their knowledge, along with Roman, were fallen noblemen. They heard a thing or two about the Haimirich Empire. Who hadn't? Most empires, as powerful and big as the Maganti Empire, knew the empires that could pose a threat to them.

A tyrant ruled the Haimirich Empire, and that alone was enough to know what sort of person the sovereign was. So, in the end, although Ismael's words were hard to believe, they all voted the same thing: to hand over Joaquin's judgment to the Emperor of Haimirich to avoid another war.

No one wanted another war, especially in the current state of the Maganti Empire.

After their meeting and agreement, the men inside the third prince's chambers left one after another. Climaco stayed, standing beside the bed where Ismael was sitting against the headboard.

"They don't look satisfied despite the result of the voting," said Climaco to Ismael, a bit worried that this could put a crack on this frail trust between the third prince and the Valiente group.

"Of course, they are not satisfied." Ismael winced, glancing at the balcony's door when it opened from the outside. "But that's to be expected. Every one of them held a personal grudge against Joaquin. However, they weren't as foolish as to risk waging a war with a formidable force such as the Haimirich Empire. Even without the knowledge of what sort of monsters the knights in that empire were, Haimirich's name alone was already frightening at face value."

The third prince breathed out deeply when Morro sat down on the armchair beside the bed. "Sir Morro, are you alright? You seemed upset for days now."

"Because I'm upset." Morro frowned, glancing at Ismael and then at Climaco.

"Was Sir Conan mean to you again?" Ismael queried.

"No... but they all lied to me." Morro hung his head low, his frown deepening. "They hastened the wedding ceremony and they skip releasing the doves. Instead, His Majesty brought forth hell and everyone just fought."

"..."

Ismael and Climaco drew their lips into a thin line, eyes fixed on Morro. The latter had been frequenting Ismael's room since the third prince was the only person who was nice to him. Thus, Ismael had noticed the dispirited aura and the invisible dark clouds hovering over Morro's head. But only now did Ismael ask, since he was recovering for the past several days.

Who would have thought the reason Morro was so upset was because of such a petty thing? But who were they to judge? Maybe, for Morro, being released at the wedding was an important thing.

"Sir Morro," Climaco chuckled awkwardly when he recovered. "Is it really that important to be released at the wedding?"

"It is."

"Will you tell us the reason?" Ismael chimed in, intrigued by this creature. "Does it represent some sort of important symbolism for your kind?"

Morro looked up at them ever so slowly and blinked twice. "No, but it is important to me," he answered honestly. "In the past, I've witnessed a wedding where the bride and the groom released white birds. Since then, that had been my dream."

"To be released by the bride and the groom?"

"To put a dung on top of the Duke's head."

"...."

Ismael and Climaco stared at Morro's solemn countenance, rendered speechless for this dream of his. So that was the reason? Not the fact that releasing a dove was the physical expression of the sentiment that the bride and the groom were starting a new life together?

"Sir Morro... I've noticed this before. Sir Conan obviously disliked His Grace Darkmore, but... why do you dislike him very much?" asked Ismael after a moment of silence. Not just Conan, but Ismael had also noticed the same dislike from the Marquess, Dexter Vandran.

The third prince didn't dwell on it in the past because there were more important things to think about. But now that Morro was speaking about this 'lifelong dream' of his, he couldn't help but wonder.

Just why... these people were so against Isaiah, even though the duke seemed like the most sensible among them?

"Because... if not for him, His Majesty wouldn't have such a hard life," Morro answered honestly, but like usual, his answer was unintentionally vague. "Although His Majesty's life had been hard from the beginning, the duke tolerated it."

"But it's not like you have a say in it if His Majesty had already decided on something, right?"

"You do not understand." Morro let out a deep exhale and frowned. "His Majesty's ambition is to die permanently, and the duke wanted to fulfill that wish. Although it hadn't been successful, we all hate it."

"Oh..." Ismael rocked his head, biting his tongue, eyes still on Morro's dejected figure. He wanted to ask more questions, but his gut feeling told him he shouldn't ask further questions. Sometimes, it was better not to know some things especially, when he didn't plan to bother with other people's business.

"I'm certain His Majesty will marry her once more and do a proper ceremony." He flashed Morro a kind smile, nodding reassuringly. "You still have a chance."

"I hope."

"Sir Morro, aren't you putting your life in danger if you do that?" this time, Climaco, who had strangely gotten close with Morro's friendly nature in such a short time, raised a question. "Didn't you say the duke and Sir Conan were strong in their own right?"

"It was worth the risk." Morro shrugged. "Also, I don't mind dying. Only humans do."

"Ah... haha, right."

With that being said, Climaco and Ismael spent another hour trying to make Morro feel better. Although in their minds, they weren't convinced that encouraging Morro to put dung on top of Isaiah's head was a good idea.

<strong>******</strong>

Meanwhile, inside the chapel...

Roman hung his head low. His eyes were lifeless, specks of fresh and dried blood on his cheek. He was exhausted, fighting for days without a second break to eat or at least breathe.

Slow claps pierced the still and thick air inside the dark chapel, with only the moonlight coming from the broken window as the source of light. But Roman didn't bother looking at who was clapping since there was only one person who was still conscious here.

Abel.

The seventh prince gazed down at Joaquin, who was lying underneath his foot. Joaquin put in a great fight and persisted for days. However, just like when they were both humans, Roman still stood victorious in the end. After all, Roman never rested all these years from swinging his sword and marching in the front line to fight for Joaquin.

"Amazing! Amazing!" Abel clapped happily, still sitting on the same spot on the steps up on the altar. His claps stopped when Roman raised his bloody sword and pointed at him.

"Last one," Roman breathed out, his chest moving in and out deeply.

"Huh?"

"You said the last person who is alive can live in this place free from you," he stressed, repeating Abel's words days ago. "There's still the two of us here and the only time I can live free from you is if you... die."

The side of Abel's lips stretched from ear to ear as amusement fastened in his eyes. And before he could speak, Roman already charged toward him with his sword forward.