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V. THE WITNESS
He dries the ink on the book’s last page, and carefully sets it on the shelf with the others. It’s the only section of the palace library that he tends to himself instead of leaving to a servant.
Every word is a record of Louis’s life, a witness of the centuries gone by.
He writes because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s forgotten something important. Living so long will do that to a person, Louis supposes. Every year feels exactly the same as the last, and after a while all the events between them start to blur. Every now and again he’ll take a day or two to seclude himself in here and just read over his own words. His life, his experiences.
But the books only go back so far. The beginning of Louis’s life is a blank haze, and no amount of self-reflection or journaling has changed that. Occasionally, he’ll have a dream that leaves him wondering what he’s missed: the impression of seven gathered in confidence, the sense of urgency, of light sharpened into a blade against the darkness. It doesn’t mean anything. But it always leaves Louis feeling like there’s a hole in his chest.
“My lord?” There’s a tentative call, a slight knock at the door. One of Louis’s footmen peeks his head into the library. “There’s news.”
With a sigh, Louis nods and follows him out. These days, “news” is typically not a good thing.
The reports are given over tea. The lavish spread, delicately arranged in tiers on the too-long table, is a stark contrast to the messenger’s tone as he goes through the latest updates from the rest of the continent.
Red Snowfield seems to have found some stability again after the bloody rampage enacted by its king. But very little information is available about what exactly happened—some say the Shadows multiplied, rising in greater numbers when Ivan returned to the palace, leaving him no choice but to slaughter anyone in his path; some whisper that the king had gone mad under the pressure, no longer able to discern friend from foe. Louis knows part of the truth—he was there, when King Ivan had decided to cast his lot with the cursed crown. But he sips his tea, contemplating.
King Dann’s palace is beseiged. They were holding strong, for now, but their last line of reinforcement and supplies was finally cut off by the Shadows. The fall may be imminent, though there’s rumors aid from the Forest of Mist. Something must have changed King Arthur’s mind if he’s traveling himself to help Dann, something that shifted his priority away from defending his kingdom alongside his knights. The smallest spark of hope kindles in Louis’s chest, though it’s nearly smothered again as the other reports about the River of Boundary are read. Death. Far too much death.
Tension is mounting in the Sea of the Desert. King Jahan returned home after Chiwoo’s coronation and hasn’t been heard from since. The official story, given by the head advisor in a statement to the people, is that he was waylaid by bandits in the desert; scouts and rescue parties were dispatched immediately. It all seems off to Louis. He can smell a conspiracy from a mile away, and this has the stench all over it. But there’s little he can do, save for pacing in the gardens after tea.
The next day, his informants tell him that King Mujin is going to surrender to the Shadows, and Louis sits with his books in silence, unable to crack a spine and read. The River of Boundary seemed to be doing fine—relatively, anyway—in their fight; Louis knew that Mujin was particularly equipped to drive back and dispel such foes. That he would suddenly choose to give in doesn’t sit right. There’s more to the story there, but Louis isn’t there to unearth it. He’s in his library, sitting, waiting.
Then there’s the Eternal Falls—already well on its way to ruin, if the state of the place after Chiwoo’s coronation was anything to go by. Their defenses were already dwindling, the ever-present and disorienting cloud cover no longer enough to ward away evil. Now, a dark storm seems to hang over the palace, the usual cloud cover now a choking shroud of lightning, and even Louis’s informants can’t get too close. Though he’d hate to assume the worst, to write off the Falls as dead and gone—
It’s all too much, all of a sudden.
It’s the fifth straight day of such reports—it’s not looking good, Your Majesty; perhaps we need to rethink our own strategies, Your Majesty—and Louis can’t stomach going about his usual activities. He finds himself in the palace library once more, and though he digs through journal after journal, he finds no help or solace. Only vague nightmares, too long past to recall with any clarity, and reminders of all the times Louis ignored the world and squandered his time.
Time, time—there’s simply no more time.
So he does what he always does, when confronted with these things that feel too big for one mortal body to hold—he writes.
The letter isn’t long, but it takes him hours to get it just right. He rereads it, rereads again, signs it, seals it. He makes five more copies. On each, he writes the name of a king. Then, he hands them to his valet, who bows and takes them in both hands like they’re precious gemstones. Or perhaps just especially fragile glass. Louis supposes both are correct.
They can’t keep on as they are. If the seven kingdoms don’t unite, they will all fall to the Shadows. They’re already losing Chiwoo’s and Dann’s, and the others aren’t faring much better. Even Louis, usually confident in his kingdom’s defenses and his own immortality, knows that the situation is truly dire. So he reaches out—not for the first time in history, but potentially the last—and he prays that the others reach back.
Louis could swear that his reflection, flickering with firelight in the mirror, is judging him for his actions. He could swear those critical eyes follow him around the palace the next week, and the next. All he can do is let the phantom gaze watch him while he waits.
The world keeps turning, and the world keeps burning, and all he can ever do is wait.
Then the mail begins to trickle in. Messages responding to his invitation, each of the kings accepting his offer to meet and discuss terms of an alliance. Three letters arrive, and Louis doesn’t expect more, because the latest report from the front says the Eternal Falls is finally overrun, and that Arthur was able to get Dann out of his crumbling palace. Jahan is still missing, but the latest reports imply he escaped a coup by his advisior—perhaps he’ll appear, perhaps not. Either way, within the next few days, the Rose Garden will have royal guests at last.
The palace flies into a flurry to prepare, setting up guest suites and perfecting the grounds and planning a brilliant masquerade ball to mark the occasion. Louis gives his input when required, and when he isn’t needed by the coordinators, he makes his own preparations—how to convince these men to put everything on the line and help each other.
Finally, finally, the kings arrive. All are weary from their journeys; not just the distance and hassle of travel, but the added threat of Shadows ambushing on the road have the kings exhausted. Jahan does show, looking worse for wear as he trudges in with Arthur and Dann. Ivan and Mujin appear as kingly as ever, though there’s clear unease in their eyes. Louis has them shown to their rooms, and they will speak at a luncheon on the morrow.
It goes about as well as he expected. Which is to say, not well at all. He can’t blame them—too long they’ve been fighting this formless threat, and old feuds thought to be put aside still rear their heads. No one trusts each other.
Not yet, anyway. Despite the strengthening dread, Louis is a patient man.
That night, he walks the gardens once more. The moon overhead tells him it’s nearing midnight. The witching hour. A time of shifts and changes. Louis feels it, deep in his bones. Things are about to change. I will make sure of it.
As he lingers by the fountain, the oldest thing on the palace grounds aside from Louis himself, he hears the slight scuffle of footsteps behind him. He turns, curious, and his breath goes still when he finds a hooded and cloaked figure with a hand on a sword hilt approaching him slowly.
No, Louis thinks, though he can’t make the words come out of his mouth. No, we’re too close. Not now.
Metal glints in the moonlight. The sword is drawn slowly, intently, and though he should be filled with fear, the sight gives Louis pause.
It looks familiar.
The would-be assassin steps closer. Louis finds his voice. “What is this?”
Light briefly flickers across shadowed eyes—the same eyes Louis has felt on his back these many weeks, watching and judging him.
Louis watches the figure pull down the cloak hood, watches his rapier clear its sheath.
“Inevitability,” replies the specter, hollow and bitter, and the shadowy form lunges.
In reflex, Louis steps back and grinds time to a halt. But he forgets what he’s fighting, the reaction instant while the realization is delayed. So though he reaches for and engages his power, the sword still falls toward him. Right as the world around them should fall still, the blade pierces Louis’s chest.
The world stops.
And everything shatters.