King of The Land

Justice always seemed to be a fascinating term that captivated the minds of every ruler, and it was no surprise that King Roosha was obsessed with it as well. He was known as a man of peace and great vision, and during his reign, the lands knew prosperity more than anything else they saw in the world. Yet, there was one thing which no matter what title or crown he wore, he would be powerless to do anything to change, and that was an heir to his throne. Though he had many wives, the heavens did not bless him with a child, save for Nura, his jewel in the whole entire world. She was nineteen years old with dark brown eyes that sat in her round face. Her face rivaled the smoothness of milk that complimented her silky black hair. She was truly the envy of the entire kingdom, as none could rival her beauty. One day, the King grew tired of dealing with the nobility and their demands, and decided to retire to his chambers. Then, he heard a knock on his door. “Come in.” Then entered Nimrud, who was quite tall and had short silver hair that sat atop his dark brown eyes. “My liege, an opportunity has . . . arrived in our lands just a moment ago, and I thought it worthy enough for your ears,” he said. “Out with it, Nimrud. I've told you a dozen times, there needn't any formality between us.” Nimrud's face wore a gentle smile. “You are my King, and I, your servant.” “You are my friend. My most worthy advisor, and there are no titles among friends is there?” the King asked. “No, there aren't,” Nimrud said as he took a pause. “My liege, I know how dearly you must think about the fate of the kingdom, and I perhaps have found a . . . way to offer insight into our problem.” Roosha stood in his place, and turned pale. His heart raced up at the chance that perhaps someone or something was found by his advisor that would solve his problem. “What is it?” he asked. “A rather interesting individual has just made her presence known in our town. People say she is a witch -- that can foresee the future. Perhaps we can arrange for her to come and investigate.” The King sighed, he must have felt desperate to even consider listening to the words of a witch. Would that it be enough, he didn't fully know, but perhaps his soul yearned for some sort of peace, however temporary it may be. “Arrange it, Nimrud,” he said, and then frowned. And so, Nimrud nodded and made his way out of the chambers of the King, leaving him to his thoughts. The next day, the King awoke from his slumber, and couldn't wait until he put on his royal cloths, he stood in silence, eying down his crown made of gold. He sighed, but lifted it and placed it on his head. He made his way to the court. Over by Nimrud's side, the witch was waiting. She was old and her face was filled with wrinkles, she was dressed in all black and had purple hair. She held a green orb. “Good morning, I trust you have slept well?” Nimrud asked. The King nodded. “As well as I could. Let's get this over with shall we?” he looked at the witch with gleeful eyes. He shut them, and then opened them again. “Very well,” the witch said, before she placed her orb on a table nearby. She then uncovered a dagger she had underneath her dress. Nimrud staggered, but the King waved at him, and he remained still. “I will need a bit of your blood, my dear,” she said before she handed the King her dagger, followed by a smirk on her face. “I swear by my honor, if you try anything-“ The King said, before he interrupted himself with a moan. The dagger had cut through his palm, and blood came dripping on the witch's magical orb. The witch's face wore a big cold smile, as she relived the King from the dagger, but then she used her tongue to savor every bit of blood. She cleaned it dry. A cold chill ran down the King's spine, his face turned pale. He wasn't well versed in these techniques the witches use. But alas, his mind was clear: this had to be. Moments after, the orb began to emit a stench of rotten flesh. It was enough to drive any person that even thought of coming near to turn around, and then glowed a form of yellow. “What is this?” the King gawked. He stood still, his legs were frozen. Though he wouldn't care to admit it, but he was trembling. If anyone asks, it's cold he thought to himself. Appearances meant everything to him, for he was a King nonetheless. The witch began to hum and followed a rhythm as she waved her arms gently above the orb. She closed shut her eyes. “I see your future. I see it . . . there are death, poison and more death,” she said. “What!” the King cried. “What of my heirs? Will I have a son?” he asked. “No . . . your line will end soon, and your daughter will perish at the sight of the new moon,” she said, as she opened her eyes. She took a deep breath. “What is this madness?” the King cried as he turned towards Nimrud. “Guards!” he yelled, as his guards came to his side. “Execute her right away!” he commanded without a moment's hesitation. “Where is my daughter?” he asked Nimrud. “I believe she is in her quarters my liege . . .” Nimrud replied, but amidst the anger of the King, he could say very little.