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1055 Words
The hushed conversations of the Pack house guards, their faces illuminated by the flickering candlelight, were abruptly shattered as the tavern door swung open. In walked an imposing figure, dressed in ominous black attire, his face obscured by shadows.
The mysterious stranger scanned the room until his gaze locked onto Stanley, who, in his intoxicated haze, struggled to maintain composure. A disconcerting silence enveloped the tavern as the stranger's eyes bore into Stanley's, their intensity cutting through the air like a blade.
"I've been sent to fetch you, Stanley," the stranger declared, his voice cold and unwavering. "Come willingly, and perhaps your fate will be less severe."
Stanley, swaying slightly, attempted a slurred retort, "I won't go with you. I've got a duty, and I won't abandon it for whatever dark business you're involved in."
The stranger, unmoved, gestured to his cohorts, a silent cue for them to intervene. Two burly figures emerged from the shadows, their movements swift and precise. One seized Stanley's arm, while the other clamped a vice-like grip on his shoulder.
"Let go of me!" Stanley slurred, his words laced with defiance, but his attempts at resistance were feeble against the strength of his captors.
The guards, sensing trouble, rose from their seats, fists clenched. One of them, a seasoned warrior named Gruff, barked, "Release him, or face the wrath of the Pack house guard!"
In response, the intruders moved with a fluidity that betrayed a sinister expertise. In the blink of an eye, they dispatched the guards with brutal efficiency, leaving them sprawled on the tavern floor like discarded puppets.
Gruff, nursing a bruised jaw, managed to groan, "Who the hell are you people?"
The leader of the mysterious group chuckled ominously, "Professional fighters, my friend. A league beyond the likes of Pack house guards."
As the tavern patrons cowered in the corners, the stranger produced a black blindfold and approached Stanley. The drunken protests and slurred pleas echoed through the air, but they fell on deaf ears. The blindfold tightened around Stanley's eyes, shrouding his world in darkness.
"Remember this night, Stanley," the leader whispered, his voice a venomous hiss. "Your destiny takes a different turn now."
With that, they dragged Stanley out of the tavern, leaving behind a shattered group of guards and a tavern plunged into a tense silence. The night swallowed them whole, and the enigma surrounding Stanley's abduction loomed like an ominous storm on the horizon.
The shroud of unconsciousness lifted slowly from Stanley's mind, and as his eyes fluttered open, the world came back into focus. The first thing he noticed was the harsh, unfamiliar light that stabbed at his eyes. The sound of muffled footsteps and distant murmurs filled the air around him.
"Remove the blindfold," a stern voice commanded, slicing through the haze that clung to Stanley's senses. The hands that had bound him now worked to unravel the darkness, revealing a room adorned with opulent tapestries and an air thick with tension.
As the blindfold fell away, Stanley squinted against the sudden brightness. The realization hit him like a tidal wave as he found himself in the imposing presence of the king and queen, seated on an ornate throne. The gravity of the situation tightened his chest.
"Where is our son?" the queen's voice, through composed, carried an undertone of desperation that echoed through the room. Stanley felt a chill run down his spine as he gathered his thoughts to respond.
"Your Majesty, we've been searching tirelessly," Stanley began, his words cautious. "But the special forces – they took me. They said it was urgent."
The king's gaze bore into Stanley, his eyes demanding answers. "Speak the truth, Stanley. Our son's disappearance is a matter of utmost importance."
Stanley hesitated for a moment, gathering the strength to recount the events in the tavern. "They were the kingdom's special forces, Your Majesty. They blindsided us, and I couldn't resist. They were professionals."
The queen's fingers tapped nervously against the armrest of the throne, a silent manifestation of her anxiety. "Our son's Omega contest is approaching. We cannot afford any delays. The preparations must begin immediately."
Stanley, still disoriented from the abrupt change in surroundings, struggled to comprehend the urgency. "Your Majesties, I understand the gravity of the situation, but the forces that took me—"
The king cut him off with a steely gaze. "Our son's safety is paramount. You will face your penalty." "You Shall be executed!"
In the cold, unforgiving halls of the royal court, the weight of the king's decree hung like a heavy pendulum, swinging towards an inexorable end. As Stanley knelt, shackled and desperate, the specter of impending execution loomed over him like a shadowy executioner.
"Your Majesty, I beg you! Please reconsider," Stanley's voice cracked with desperation as he pleaded for mercy, his eyes locking with the unyielding gaze of the king.
The queen, sitting beside the king, a silent witness to this tragic scene, cast a pained glance in Stanley's direction. Her eyes reflected a conflict of emotions, torn between maternal empathy and the rigid demands of royal authority.
The king, however, remained resolute, his face a stoic mask. "Stanley, you were entrusted with the safety of our son. Your failure in this duty cannot be overlooked. The kingdom demands justice, and justice shall be served."
Stanley's pleas intensified, each word a desperate plea for clemency. "Your Majesty, I swear, I will find the prince. Give me another chance. I will dedicate my life to bringing him back to you."
But the king, unmoved by the heartfelt entreaties, raised a hand to silence Stanley's desperate cries. "The die is cast, Stanley. The kingdom cannot afford leniency in times of crisis. Your execution is a harsh reminder of the consequences of failure."
As the guards approached, their expressions hardened, Stanley's eyes darted between the king and the queen, searching for a glimmer of mercy that seemed to elude him. The queen, her eyes filled with sorrow, could only offer a silent nod, acknowledging the inevitability of the king's decision.
The air in the courtroom grew thick with the heavy weight of impending doom. Stanley's last-ditch efforts to plead for his life echoed through the grand chamber, but the king's decree remained the same.
Will Damian ever forgive himself when he gets to know about this?
- Writer
