King Lorhan stormed through the kingdom, with his guards trailing behind him and a city of people who wore their fear on their sleeves. “Bring me my council—now!” he screamed, his face the apitamoy of boiling rage as he headed toward the meeting room.

  As the king arrived, he pushed open the brown oak wood door, revealing a mountain of a metal table that stretched far and wide. At the top of the table was the king chair, and above it—paintings of some of some of his greatest victories hung high, for all to see.

  The king took his seat first at the table. As he sat there, he looked around, pondering on Aleorn’s future. But he was not allowed to ponder for too long as his council members began to fill up the room. Men—woman, the greatest minds planet Arleon had to offer gathered under one room to talk strategy as they have done for centuries.

  As the council members took their seats, you could feel the tension in the room; it was like an odar that clung to their skin, with no way to to get rid of it. The king looked down the table, scanning his advisors’ faces, men—woman he had trusted with decisions that changed the course of planet Arleon over and over again, rooted in fear—it was oozing off of them. Each person his eyes fell upon dropped their head, not wanting the responsibility to advise their people on what to do next.

  But there was no deviating here, no absolving responsibility. They all had a duty to their kingdom, one they had answered the call to many times before.

  King Lorhan rose from his seat and cleared his throat before addressing his council. “I understand you are scared,” he said. “We’ve all heard the stories of La Mort’s greatest feats. The pain and suffering he has inflicted on his enemies, but I implore you to remember who you are—who we are as a people.”

  “We know exactly who we are, my king,” a young Arleon woman interrupted. “We are a race of great warriors and great minds, but what we are not—is ready for a war with La Mort.”

  “I second that,” an elderly Arleon man said. “La Mort takes worlds for fun; it’s what he lives for. We are prideful, a race full of great warriors, but tell me this, my people—which warrior on this planet can match up to La Mort?” he asked. “And there isn’t only one of them. His son—the whispers across the galaxy tell of a fate far—far more evil than his father’s tale.”

  King Lorhan slammed his fist into the table. “So what do you suggest? We roll over and hand them everything we built? Hand them over everything our people spilt blood and lost their lives for—because if my memory pertains, I did not see La Mort spill that blood with us,” he snarled, refusing to keep his cool any longer.

  “No, my king,” said another Arleon man. “We simply give him the keys to our kingdom, until we find a way to remove the infestation permanently. Do we really want to roll the dice when the majority of our people feel they have lost the war before it has already begun?” he continued. “I know what your father and his father before him meant to you, what their legacy means to not only you but our people, but times change, my king, and if we don’t adapt we risk becoming extinct like all the rest who choose to rise up and oppose La Mort without a true path to victory.”

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  King Lorhan’s head lowered as he once again took his seat. “So it’s settled then—we surrender,” he said. “It’s what you all are alluding to but are too scared to put into this world, so I’ll do it for you—we will surrender.”

  The king’s advisor placed a consoling hand on his king’s shoulder. “It’s not what we want, my king; it is simply necessary for our people to live, my king,” he said. “We will all look at you the same, my king. A king makes the tough decisions in the face of judgement, and you have done that here today, my king. You can hold your head up high.”

  King Lorhan rose from his seat and headed straight for the door. Opening it, he began to walk through, pausing halfway. “The meeting is adjourned. You may now all leave,” he said. “La Mort and his men will have our answer in due course.”

  Forty-eight hours had passed, and La Mort’s men were at the king’s gate, his men stood armed—ready beyond the gates and above. But in the city, the people of Arleon waited with baited breaths. They were told of the king’s decision to surrender, but as a prideful, hard-working race many wondered—what that meant for them, what would their future hold once La Mort and his men wandered beyond their gates and laid down their law.

  But the waiting was over. King Lorhan stood atop above the gate, looking down at the general with his men.

  “So, King Lorhan, what says you?” the general said, refusing to hide his enjoyment at the king’s disdain toward him. “It is time to give your answer, my king. No more deliberating, no more hiding beyond your city walls.”

  “Do not rise to him, my king,” his advisor said. “He merely means to rile you up. We’ve made our decision, and we cannot let the words of one man change course for our people, my king.”

  “Awwww, now the advisor speaks for the king,” “you see that, boys?” the general said, turning to his men, mocking the king. “The king takes orders from his advisor now. Tut-tut-tut. Ohhhhhhh, how the mighty have faaaallen.”

  King Lorhan’s lip began to quiver under the tidal wave of anger he tried to bury beneath the surface. But all a tidal wave needs is a little bit of daylight to break through.

  “You mock and poke and mock and poke, boy,” King Lorhan said. “You are merely an errant boy doing the bidding of your master, and you stand there and try to mock me.”

  “Hmmph,” the general’s head cast to the side in amusement at the king’s words. “My king—if my words offended you, I deeply apologise. It is often said in the court of truth that the statements which ring true cut the deepest. And my king—your scars lay bare for all to see,” he said. “I did not mean to expose you as a fraud—oh King of Arleon.”

  The king’s heart began to beat to the drum of war. Words that reached him no longer penetrated his ears. He looked to his men on the right, then to the left. His men screamed and begged, pleading that their king see sense, but when he looked down and saw an Arleon battle spear on the floor, he could taste the flesh in his mind as it pierced through La Mort’s men.

  Without a second thought, he lunged down for the spear. His people’s eyes wandered in horror as he threw it up in his hand before standing.

  “My answer, you ask,” the king said. “Here’s my answer.”

  The king pulled back his arm and launched the spear, soaring through the air, and it did not miss. The spear hit the man standing to the right of the general, piercing straight through him and holding up his body upon it.

  “War,” the king screamed as he pounded his chest towards the general.

  “As you wish, my king,” the general said. “Men in position. Ataaack!”