Lord of the Foresaken
Chapter 62: SCHISM OF KINGDOMS

Chapter 62: SCHISM OF KINGDOMS

Blood seeped between the cobblestones of the Grand Chamber of Justice, pooling in dark crimson lakes that reflected the fractured light from shattered stained glass above. Three days had passed since the massacre that had exposed the rot within the kingdom’s heart. Lord Reed stood amid the carnage, his amber eyes fixed on the defaced royal emblem—once proud and pristine, now marred by blasphemous sigils etched in dried blood.

The smell of death clung to everything. Bodies had been removed, but the stench remained—a miasma of decomposition, spilled viscera, and the peculiar acrid odor that emanated from those who had been possessed. Reed’s sensitive goblin nose detected nuances others missed: fear, betrayal, and something else—something ancient and patient beneath it all.

"Seventeen dead nobles, twenty-three royal guards confirmed as cultists, and six members of the King’s inner council missing," reported Lady Serena, her voice hollow as she joined Reed. Her armor, once white and gleaming, was now stained with patches of rust-brown despite attempts to clean it. A fresh scar ran from her temple to her jaw—a memento from a possessed courtier with unnaturally sharp fingernails. "Chancellor Blackwood’s quarters were emptied. He took everything of value before the trial even started."

Reed nodded, his expression grim. "He had been planning this for months, perhaps years. The trial was merely theater—designed to keep attention focused on me while their final preparations continued elsewhere."

The heavy oak doors groaned open as Lord Everett entered, accompanied by a contingent of battle-weary knights bearing the insignia of three different noble houses. The unusual alliance was not lost on Reed—houses that had warred for generations now stood together, united by a greater threat.

"The King has made his declaration," Everett announced without preamble, his voice echoing in the cavernous chamber. "The kingdom is officially fractured."

Reed turned, tension visible in his powerful green shoulders. "His exact words?"

"All nobles, knights, and common folk must declare allegiance by the next full moon—either to the Crown and the ’traditional order,’ or..." Everett hesitated, his weathered face betraying rare uncertainty, "or to the Alliance of Dawn, under your banner, Lord Reed."

A heavy silence descended upon the chamber. Reed’s expression remained unreadable, though a muscle twitched at his angular jaw.

"The King acknowledges the threat," Serena added, "but refuses to believe his daughter is the epicenter. He claims she has been taken by conventional kidnappers—agents of neighboring kingdoms seeking to destabilize us."

Reed’s laughter was sharp and without humor. "Conventional kidnappers who leave no trace, who possess royal guards with ancient magic, who transform men into vessels for entities beyond our comprehension? His denial will doom us all."

"Nevertheless," Everett continued, "he has granted you autonomy to pursue your... theories. Your dominion in the Western Marshlands has been formally expanded to include all who wish to follow you. A gesture of respect, he claims."

"A convenient way to gather all dissenters in one place," Reed growled. "Should we fail, he merely needs to burn one forest rather than hunt traitors throughout the realm."

The massive chamber door opened again, admitting a steady stream of figures—representatives from across the kingdom. Noble houses that had once looked upon goblins with disdain now approached Reed with bowed heads. Merchant guilds whose profits had thrived under generations of human rule laid treasures at his feet. Scholars from the Royal Academy, their arms laden with ancient texts, sought his counsel.

Most surprising were the tribal emissaries—orcs from the northern mountains, elven delegates from the eastern forests, even a small contingent of mountain trolls, traditional enemies of goblins for centuries. Reed watched them enter with narrowed eyes.

"They seek protection," observed Serena.

"They seek knowledge," corrected Reed. "They’ve felt the stirrings. The old races remember what humans have forgotten—the last time the Herald walked these lands."

An elderly orc chieftain approached, his tusks worn with age, body covered in ritual scars that told the story of countless battles. He dropped to one knee before Reed—an unprecedented gesture from an orc to a goblin.

"The dreams have returned," the chieftain spoke in the guttural common tongue. "My shamans bleed from their eyes when they attempt to commune with ancestors. The spirit world writhes in agony. We require no prophecy to know what comes." He raised his scarred face to Reed. "Our warriors stand ready, Goblin Lord."

Reed placed a hand on the chieftain’s shoulder—a gesture of respect that visibly shocked many human onlookers. "Rise, Chieftain Gorkath. Your people have always been fierce. Now we must all be wise as well."

The proceedings continued into the night as more arrived, pledging loyalty not to Reed personally but to the desperate alliance he represented. By midnight, the scorched and bloodied Chamber of Justice had transformed into a war council unlike any in recorded history. Species that had waged genocidal campaigns against one another now clustered around tactical maps, sharing information and resources with grim determination.

At the center of it all, Reed directed the chaos with surprising efficiency, his centuries of military experience evident in every command. A goblin-crafted map of the kingdom stretched across the judge’s platform, annotated with reports of strange occurrences, unexplained disappearances, and confirmed sightings of the possessed.

"The pattern is clear," Reed stated, addressing the assembled leaders. He traced a gnarled green finger along the map, connecting incidents that formed a perfect spiral centered on the royal palace. "The Herald’s influence spreads outward in methodical waves, targeting positions of power first—nobles, military commanders, spiritual leaders. They’re building a hierarchy of control."

"How do we identify those who have been turned?" asked Baron Kelther, still pale and trembling from his own possession and subsequent purification. "Not all show obvious signs like those who attacked during the trial."

Reed nodded to Lyra, who stood silently at the chamber’s edge. The young woman stepped forward, her unassuming presence belying the incredible power she wielded. Since the battle in Whispering Grotto, the blue light emanating from her had grown stronger, more focused. What had been erratic flares were now controlled beams she could direct with increasing precision.

"Lyra’s gift reveals them," Reed explained. "But we cannot rely on a single weapon, no matter how powerful. Lady Dalia’s enclave has developed an alchemical compound that reacts violently to the corrupted blood of the possessed."

Lady Dalia, her dark robes still singed from recent magical combat, held up a crystal vial containing amber liquid. "Three drops on the skin will cause no reaction in the pure. In the tainted, it burns through flesh like acid and emits a distinctive purple smoke."

Murmurs rippled through the assembly as Dalia passed identical vials to key representatives. "Production is limited by rare ingredients," she cautioned. "Use it only when certainty is required."

"What of offensive capabilities?" demanded a scarred knight-captain from the borderlands. "Identification means nothing if we cannot destroy these abominations."

"Conventional weapons have limited effect," Reed acknowledged. "The possessed feel pain but ignore it. They continue fighting with lethal wounds that would incapacitate normal beings." He gestured to an array of weapons laid upon a side table—blades of unusual design with runes etched along their lengths. "These have been treated with a combination of purification rituals from multiple traditions. They will not merely wound the flesh but sever the connection between vessel and possessor."

Lord Everett stepped forward, his experienced military mind already assessing strategic implications. "We’ve identified three categories of enemy: willing cultists who serve the Herald while maintaining their own minds, unwilling vessels completely possessed and controlled, and sleeper agents—those infected with the corruption but not yet activated."

"The third category is most dangerous," Reed added. "They appear normal, remember nothing of their corruption, and may include our closest allies. The transition can occur instantly when triggered."

The assembly fell silent, each member contemplating the horrifying implications. Friends, family members, trusted advisors—any could be unknowing weapons waiting to be deployed.

"We must establish secure strongholds," Reed continued after allowing the reality to settle. "My domain in the Western Marshlands offers natural advantages. The ancient wetlands contain minerals that disrupt magical communications. The Herald’s whispers cannot penetrate certain regions."

The tactical discussion continued well past midnight, the alliance solidifying not through friendship or trust but through desperate necessity. As dawn approached, Reed dismissed the council for a few hours of needed rest, though he himself remained studying the maps.

Lady Serena approached quietly, her exhaustion evident in the dark circles beneath her eyes. "You should rest as well. Even goblin lords require sleep."

Reed did not look up from the maps. "Sleep brings visions I would rather avoid. The Herald... probes at my consciousness."

Serena stiffened. "Are you saying you’re—"

"No," Reed interrupted firmly. "But having faced his servants directly, a connection exists. Faint whispers at the edge of dreams. I believe he tests for weaknesses, seeking entry."

"All the more reason to rest with proper wards in place," Serena insisted. "You cannot lead while depleted."

Reed finally straightened, conceding with a nod. As they turned to leave the chamber, a commotion erupted at the entrance. Guards rushed in, supporting a blood-soaked messenger who had clearly ridden through the night without rest.

"Report," Reed commanded, instantly alert despite his fatigue.

"Western... outpost..." the messenger gasped, blood bubbling at his lips from internal injuries. "Overrun... not by warriors but... civilians. Hundreds of them... eyes black as midnight... moving as one... toward the marshlands." He coughed violently, crimson spattering the floor. "They... they carried something... a casket of obsidian glass... within it..."

"Within it what?" Reed demanded, grasping the dying man’s shoulders.

The messenger’s eyes widened with his final horror. "Princess Elysandra... but changed. Her skin... translucent like wax... veins black as ink... and her eyes... gods save us... her eyes were open but... nothing human remained in them."

The messenger slumped forward, his final breath escaping in a rattling sigh. Silence gripped the chamber as all eyes turned to Reed.

"They’re bringing the vessel directly to us," Reed stated, his voice unnaturally calm. "The Herald knows where we’ve gathered. This was never a sanctuary—it’s a trap. We’ve assembled everyone who could oppose him in one location."

As if in confirmation of his words, the great chandelier above them swayed ominously, crystals tinkling in an unfelt breeze. Dust sifted down from the high ceiling as the ground trembled beneath their feet.

Reed’s amber eyes lifted slowly to the vaulted ceiling, where something dark and viscous had begun to seep through the ancient stones, forming symbols that burned the mind to witness directly.

"It appears," Reed said grimly as the assembled leaders reached for weapons, "that the Princess has arrived early."