Hope for the Future
Draconi
Francesco rose grandly from his chair.
"My Lords! Ladies! Please," he implored the assemblage, "we must stand together!"
The Royal Council, representing the nobility from every shore of Britannia, had gathered again in Castle British. Events of late were chaotic, dividing their time and resources away from each other. The militia of a half dozen cities had been sent scurrying across the land, trying vainly to meet each new threat – often only to arrive just as their foes departed.
Even the Elves of Heartwood had been attacked. A single man adorned in dragonscale armor had appeared in their midst, and, for all reports, had done nothing until he had been provoked. "Oh, but what a response," Francesco inwardly mourned, noting the casualties and devastation wrought high up in their sacred wood.
"Seems perfectly reasonable to me," a woman spoke, standing to counter him, "It's your fault, after all, is it not?"
After all he had done, tried to do, won and lost, he knew they condemned him. For an experiment gone awry, for rumors of the Shadowlords loosed on their world, and for the ceaseless attacks on their sovereign territories.
"And if it is, I will bear it! But we must act as one!"
The noblewoman leaned forward over the table and hissed, "What good is acting together when we have nothing left to give! Our cities, not yours. Our cities are the ones besieged!"
"Let us hear our lord the treasurer!" called Ambassador Casca.
Voices rose in a torrent of dissent, arguments erupting around the table. Francesco stretched out his hand and, surprisingly, they quieted. Francesco had the answer, they thought. He always seemed to know what to do.
Francesco did know. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He would soon speak, proposing that the larger cities volunteer their own local militias to serve with the kingdom's, creating a military force the likes Britannia hadn't seen since the wars of Lord British's time. They would rush to the defense of the smaller townships and secure the hearts, minds, and, most importantly, the lives of the oft neglected people.
Britannia would be stronger that ever. In a way, their struggles and conflicts had at last offered them a chance to heal into a stronger nation, even without the heroes and legends of the past.
Someone screamed.
Francesco looked down at the shining blade protruding from his chest. It was transparent, with small rivulets of crimson blood streaming down the edges, distorting the image of his feet like glass. Glass... He opened his mouth in silent surprise, the blade shattered, and darkness rushed in from the corners of his vision.
Swords were drawn. The nobles rushed, at first, against the invaders cloaked in their dark robes. Panic set in after the third or fourth man died, impaled on a breaking sword, or sliced apart with ease by the merciless and silent enemy.
The guards were long dead. The doors of the chamber too far away to escape in time, but the survivors tried, desperate for escape, rushing together and falling together. The doors opened! The last noble crawled forward, looking upwards into the horrified face of a guard who had heard the confusion from outside.
The guard turned jumped back and turned.
Later, some would wonder whether the last sentry had cowered and attempted to run, or if he had bravely attempted to warn the castle. The assassins in their cloaks had little care for heroic tales, and simply slaughtered everyone who had seen them.
The Royal Council was no more.
