Chương 6: Prologue: The Masked King

Helvis, on the other hand, met Roman's gaze and offered a small smile. She placed her hand in his, accepting the invitation to dance. The room fell into a brief silence as Reeve and Roman guided Shi and Helvis to the center, where the soft music played.

As the dance commenced, a subtle transformation unfolded. The healer girls, initially reserved, began to move with more ease, following the lead of their Gamaaloth partners despite their imposing figures.

The onlookers watched with a mixture of surprise and admiration as the two worlds, initially hesitant and distinct, began to blend harmoniously on the dance floor. The atmosphere shifted from tension to a shared moment of connection.

The dance became a metaphorical bridge, connecting the healer girls and the Gamaaloth, transcending cultural differences and past grievances. In the fluidity of the dance, unspoken understanding blossomed.

The two girls, on the verge of being captivated and falling in love, were enveloped in the rich scent of wine emanating from their bodies, mingling with the traces of blood on their armor-clad attire. Tears welled up in the eyes of the healer girls.

Arnulp approached the young healer girl named Lavatri, his target since arriving in Cescil. He reached out for her hand, and despite Lavatri's attempts to pull away, Arn's grip remained firm.

"Care to dance with me again?" he asked, his speech slightly slurred from the effects of alcohol.

Lavatri sensed the strong scent of potent wine emanating from Arn's body, and it mixed with the lingering smell of blood on their armor. Tears welled up in the eyes of the healer girls as they observed the surreal scene unfolding.

Before Lavatri could voice her rejection, Arn took the lead and pulled her into the center of the grand hall. His movements were erratic, guided more by intoxication than rhythm, and Lavatri desperately wanted to break free from his grasp.

However, Arn's hold on her waist was unyielding.

In response, Lavatri retaliated by gripping both of Arn's arms, deliberately digging her nails in with a mix of frustration and defiance.

Arn winced in pain, but he showed no signs of stopping. His mind seemed to have been cast far behind his head, lost in the fog of alcohol.

As the festivities unfolded, Ragnar steadfastly maintained his anonymity behind the sturdy mask that concealed not just his face but his entire form.

Whispers about the Gamaaloth painted them as not only ruthless but also adorned with scales and wolf-like snouts, sporting sharp, menacing teeth.

Contrary to the monstrous image, the rest of the Gamaaloth soldiers looked perfectly ordinary, some even remarkably handsome.

Despite the evident normalcy of his fellow Gamaaloth, Ragnar opted to keep his face veiled. Sophia couldn't help but delve into speculations, questioning why the Gamaaloth prince persisted in hiding his visage.

Perhaps, she pondered, there existed a perceived ugliness beneath the armor and mask, a reason compelling him to shroud his appearance in mystery. The curiosity lingered in Sophia's mind, and the enigma surrounding Ragnar's concealed face fueled her imagination with intrigue and wonder.

The wedding ceremony unfolded in a peculiar setting, resembling more of a battlefield than a celebration.

Attendees adorned in battle-worn armor moved through the venue. The thick stench of iron-rich blood lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of rusted weaponry and the acrid odor of burnt flesh—a fire from dragons.

Every person present bore the marks of conflict—tarnished copper, dirty teeth from prolonged periods without the luxury of bathing in the midst of battlefields, and the distinct aroma of singed flesh.

The atmosphere was charged with an unusual intensity, an amalgamation of the joyous occasion and the lingering echoes of past grievances.

Why was Ragnar in such a hurry to marry her? To the extent of conducting the wedding ceremony on the same day as the massacre.

People said Ragnar's haste in marrying Sophia was fueled by the urgency of the situation. The looming massacre and the uncertainty of the battlefield pushed him to solidify their union amid the chaos.

"Is that true?" Sophia wondered silently.

As Ragnar approached her, Sophia's gaze fixated on him, her vision haunted by the swirling images of Elder Cryica's severed head. A throbbing pain pulsed through her head, and she groaned, feeling a tumultuous churning in her stomach.

In the midst of the ceremony, a wave of nausea overwhelmed Sophia. She retched and cried simultaneously, unable to contain the pain that had gathered in her heart.

The union, originally intended to be a beacon of joy, now unfolded against a backdrop of anguish, mirroring the turbulent emotions that permeated the war-torn landscape.

Sophia caught a fleeting glimpse of Ragnar sprinting toward her, his face etched with profound concern, while the throbbing in her head intensified. It was as if both sides of her skull had just been pounded by the relentless beats of a distant drum.

"Why? What is causing him such worry?" she wondered.

Sophia stumbled as her vision blurred. In that moment, Ragnar stood before her, just as her legs lost their ability to support her weight.

Ragnar swiftly caught her, preventing her from collapsing.

And then, there was only darkness.