THE LAST SECRET OF ROSHAM

The Silent Procession

Twenty soldiers, unmistakably Bradford’s men, stood in rigid formation at the harbor of Rosham. Their eyes were fixed on the massive modern ship that had just anchored, its steel hull glinting faintly under the pale light of the overcast sky. The vessel had been under constant surveillance since it first appeared on the horizon, its every movement tracked by watchers who knew that its arrival would mark the beginning of something significant—perhaps even catastrophic.

From the ship’s towering frame, a man emerged. He looked no older than thirty-five, his posture calm yet deliberate, as though he carried with him the weight of unspoken authority. In his right hand, he held a leather bag, worn but sturdy, likely filled with clothes and the essentials he would need for his stay in Rosham. The guardian at the front stepped forward, received the bag without a word, and gestured toward the waiting chariot.

The chariot, black and polished, stood ready with two horses harnessed in silver-trimmed tack. Mark climbed aboard with a quiet grace, his expression unreadable, his movements unhurried. He sat as though this was the safest place in the world, though the silence of the harbor told another story.

Rosham’s main entrance, once alive with merchants, fishermen, and children running along the docks, was now a graveyard. Mark’s eyes fell upon the bodies—scattered, broken, abandoned. The stench of decay lingered in the air, carried by the sea breeze. This province, being the first line of defense, had been the easiest to attack. When the assault came, panic spread like wildfire. Families fled toward the inner provinces, desperate for safety, but many never made it past their own doorsteps.

In Kentaki, where more survivors had gathered, whispers filled the air. Curtains shifted as fearful eyes peered from behind windows. They dared not look directly at the man in the chariot, for they believed he was the cause—the singular, direct reason for the devastation that had befallen them.

Among the silent onlookers was Dawn. She stood at a distance, her face composed, her expression carefully neutral. She watched the chariot roll past, her demeanor betraying nothing, as though she were simply another resident of Rosham, touched by fear.

At the gates of Hules, two guardians stood watch. Unlike before, when Dawn had passed through unguarded gates,now soldiers lined the path from the gates to the grand house, their armor gleaming, their posture rigid, their presence a display of respect and submission.

Mark was received with a reverence he had never known elsewhere. A woman servant, her hair streaked with gray and styled in a neat perm, approached him. She was dressed in an elegant but modest gown, her hands folded tightly before her. She led him into the house without once lifting her gaze. Her head remained bowed, her silence heavy, her movements precise.

Mark studied her uneasily. Her refusal to meet his eyes unsettled him. Was she truly human, or one of the demons whispered to inhabit Rosham? This city was infamous for its people’s supernatural abilities, their dark magic woven into every corner of its history. Perhaps it was right that Rosham should be destroyed—that was, after all, part of the mission.

Inside the room prepared for him, Mark’s gaze was immediately drawn to a massive painting. The figure in the portrait was regal, commanding, a ruler of Rosham he had never seen before. The painting had not been there during his last visit. Perhaps Bradford had placed it deliberately, a reminder that even in ruin, Rosham’s power lingered. It was a silent attempt to instill fear, to remind him of the city’s authority.

The room itself was lavish. Two ornate lampstands flanked the bed, their soft glow more decorative than functional. A large mirror was set into the wall, concealing the entrance to the bathroom behind it. A polished dinner table stood nearby, adorned with bowls of fresh fruits—rare delicacies absent in Mark’s world—and a jug of deep red wine.

As his eyes wandered, taking in every detail, the door opened. A man entered, his bearing stern, his presence commanding. He was followed by a soldier carrying Mark’s bag. The soldier placed it carefully at the closet door before stepping back.

“This is your room,” the man said coldly. “You are not permitted to enter any other bedroom. You may, however, move freely through the rest of the house. Orders from above must be followed without question.”

His tone was clipped, his demeanor unwelcoming. He was not here to offer kindness, only to enforce rules.

Mark said nothing. He simply let himself fall onto the bed. The mattress was soft, the sheets cool and clean. Exhaustion overcame him, and within moments, he drifted into sleep.

Two hours later, the silence of the room was broken. The door creaked open after several unanswered knocks. Mark stirred, his eyes heavy, his body reluctant to wake. Slowly, he sat upright, rubbing the fatigue from his face.

And then he saw her.

A woman stood before him, younger than he, her beauty striking in the dim light. Her presence filled the room, delicate yet commanding. Her eyes held a quiet intensity, her posture graceful, her expression unreadable. She seemed almost otherworldly, as though she belonged to Rosham itself—an embodiment of its secrets, its allure, and its dangers.

Mark’s breath caught for a moment. The air between them shifted, heavy with unspoken meaning. She did not move, nor did she speak. She simply stood there, watching him, as though waiting for something—perhaps for him to rise, perhaps for him to understand why she had come.

The room, once silent and still, now felt alive.

Gwendoline stepped forward with a quiet elegance, her voice carrying a refined grace as she spoke. “I am Gwendoline, one of the private assistants of His Highness, Sir Bradford, sent here to provide you with service.” Her words flowed like silk, measured and deliberate, each syllable carefully placed. Mark found himself momentarily taken aback, surprised that there were still people who could wield expression with such poise, perfectly suited to the gravity of the moment.

With a subtle motion, Gwendoline lifted her hand and swept it forward in a commanding yet fluid gesture. At once, five young ladies entered the chamber. They moved in unison, their steps light and deliberate, as though rehearsed countless times. Each was no older than her teenage years, their faces composed but shadowed with the faint weariness of those bound by duty rather than choice. Whether they had been compelled into Bradford’s service by circumstance or by his will, it was clear they belonged to him now.

In their arms, they carried polished silver trays that gleamed under the soft light of the chamber. Resting upon each tray was a neatly folded garment, its fabric rich and lustrous. The colors—red, silver, gold, white, and blue—were not chosen at random. They were the royal hues of Rosham, shades forbidden to commoners under penalty of public condemnation and punishment. Only the king, his nobles, and those he favored could dare to wear them. The sight of such garments, so casually presented, carried with it both privilege and danger.

The young attendants approached the bedside table with careful precision, lowering the trays one by one under Gwendoline’s watchful eye. The fabrics shimmered faintly as they were set down, catching the light in subtle waves, as though alive with the weight of their significance.

Once the task was complete, Gwendoline turned her gaze back to Mark. Her expression softened into a smile, though her tone remained formal. “The king has offered you these five royal outfits. You are obliged to wear them whenever you step beyond this room, for the five days you are expected to remain here. Should your stay be extended, more will be provided.”

Her words lingered in the air, heavy with both command and courtesy. Then, with a graceful bow, she pivoted smoothly on her heel. The faint rustle of her gown accompanied her departure, and as she crossed the threshold, her smile lingered like a trace of sunlight, leaving the room touched with both warmth and unease.

The chamber fell silent once more, save for the quiet presence of the folded garments—symbols of power, privilege, and the unseen chains of obligation.