The Evil Ladies Form An Alliance

CHAPTER 29: Troubled Men

The grand throne room of the Alvier Empire was a spectacle of magnificence and tension. Ornate chandeliers cast a golden glow over the gathering of nobles, whose jewel-toned garments glittered like a field of restless gemstones. Each noble stood stiffly, their expressions a mix of reverence and discomfort as they bowed to the emperor seated on his throne.

The emperor, an embodiment of timeless pride in the royal lineage, regarded the assembly with a sharp gaze. His silver hair, untouched by the years, framed a face that bore only faint wrinkles. Blessed by the god Eutheus, his body was a marvel of health, and his presence exuded authority. Yet, as his piercing eyes scanned the room, his composure faltered.

His gaze landed on Duke Matheus Hawthorne, slumped in a chair to the left like a ragdoll abandoned by a child. The Duke’s usually commanding aura was nowhere to be found. Instead, he looked disturbingly lifeless. To his right, Duke Clifford Wildenbrige of the second Ducal house seemed equally out of sorts. His disheveled appearance and the dark circles under his eyes gave him the look of a wilted flower desperately clinging to life.

The emperor’s brows furrowed. “What in Eutheus’ name has happened to the great dukes of my empire?” he muttered under his breath.

The nobles, sensing the tension in the room, exchanged uneasy glances. The atmosphere felt like a ballroom where no one dared to dance. The emperor rose from his throne, his movement drawing all eyes to him, and prepared to bestow the highest honor upon the empire’s hero.

When Marquess Ashton Henstone entered, the emperor froze mid-step. The sight before him was... troubling. Ashton looked like a ghost of himself—pale as snow, his posture limp, and his eyes devoid of any spark. He stumbled forward awkwardly, propelled only by the determined shoves of his vice-captain, Enoch, who looked half-annoyed and half-exhausted.

The emperor’s mind raced. "Did he encounter a soul-eating monster on his expedition? Is he cursed?" He glanced back at the two dukes, their haggard appearances now forming a suspicious pattern. "Have the pillars of my empire all been struck by some ungodly plague?"

Clearing his throat, the emperor decided to push forward with the ceremony. He held up the badge of heroism and began his speech, his commanding voice ringing out.

“We are gathered here to honor the brave man who has led our empire to triumph!” His words echoed through the hall, but even he couldn’t ignore Ashton’s zombie-like shuffle as the Marquess approached. “Marquess Ashton Henstone, the sword of the kingdom, whose heroic sacrifice has delivered our people into a future free of fear!”

Ashton bowed stiffly, like a marionette with tangled strings, while Enoch rolled his eyes in the background, muttering something about “someone needing a drink.”

The emperor pinned the medal of valor to Ashton’s chest with a mixture of pride and concern. “A medal of valor for our great hero!” he declared, raising Ashton’s limp arm as the crowd erupted in applause. Yet, the clapping was perfunctory, and murmurs of discontent rippled through the noble ranks.

The emperor, unshaken, pressed on. “Marquess Henstone’s name will be etched onto the Golden Stone, the pillar of heroes!”

This proclamation sent a ripple of shock through the room. The Golden Stone, a sacred monument where only the names of the empire’s greatest noble heroes were inscribed, was about to welcome its first common-born name. The nobles whispered furiously, their masked indignation barely concealed.

“He’s not even a duke!” one hissed.

“A territory for a commoner?” another grumbled.

But the emperor, firm in his decision, silenced them with a steely glare. “Marquess Henstone will also be granted a vast territory and a handsome reward for his unwavering service to this empire!”

As the emperor continued his speech, detailing Ashton’s numerous feats, the room filled with reluctant claps. But the man of honor stood unmoving, his eyes glazed over. Enoch leaned closer to whisper, “You look like a sack of potatoes that’s been left out in the rain."

The ceremony had ended. As per the insistence of the emperor, a banquet will soon be held in honor of the heroic act of Ashton.

Outside the imperial palace, Enoch faced a unique predicament. He stood beside Ashton’s horse, Thunder, a massive dark steed with a commanding presence. Draped across Thunder's back was Ashton himself, tied up like a sack of grain ready for transport.

A young knight nearby looked on with a mix of shock and concern. “Sir, are you sure this is... appropriate?” he asked hesitantly, his eyes darting between the bound hero and the nonchalant vice-captain.

Enoch waved a dismissive hand, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Don’t worry, this man will spring back to life soon enough. He always does.” He gave the young knight a reassuring pat on the shoulder, though it did little to ease the man’s unease.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” the knight stammered, his voice laced with anxiety. “Is it really okay to have the empire’s hero tied up like a sack of potatoes on his own horse?”

Enoch paused, turning to glance at Ashton’s disheveled form slumped across Thunder’s saddle. His usually composed face was pale, his limbs limp, and the ropes binding him only added to the absurdity of the scene. Enoch smirked.

“Potatoes?” Enoch mused aloud, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I think he looks more like a loaf of stale bread.” He shrugged. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. Thunder here knows how to take care of his master. Right, Thunder?”

As if on cue, Thunder neighed and gave an enthusiastic swish of his tail, as though confirming his loyalty.

The knight’s jaw dropped slightly. “I... don’t think that’s the point.”

Ignoring the knight’s lingering doubts, Enoch mounted his own horse and grabbed Thunder’s reins. “Come on, buddy, let’s get this hero home.” He gave Thunder a playful pat on the neck.

As they began their slow departure from the empire, Enoch cast a glance back at Ashton. “You’d better wake up soon,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m not carrying your sorry hide into the banquet hall looking like this.”

The young knight watched them ride off, still dumbfounded. “That’s the empire’s hero?” he whispered to himself, shaking his head.

Thunder trotted dutifully along, as if unfazed by the bizarre cargo he carried. Ashton, meanwhile, remained motionless, his noble aura now replaced with the dignity of a very tired, very overworked sack of potatoes. The absurd sight was destined to become a tale whispered among knights for years to come, a reminder that even heroes could have their moments of complete and utter humiliation.