The Prince of Aragon

APRIL 573 A.D, Kingdom of Aragon… “Your Majesty? They’re coming,” the palace advisor apprised in a grave voice, with his hand folded in front of his crotch, head bent in utter humility. “They’re almost at the door.” The King of Aragon, Juan IV, Sovereign Grand Master of the Celebrated Member of the Golden Sword did not bat an eye, perhaps that was the reason he was a man of such influence. Nothing seemed to faze him. Not even the announcement that a raging war was incoming. Or was it a masquerade? No one could say. The King’s right-hand man, the Earl of Preston, William Allen, most commonly known as Earl Allen felt a fleeting moment of panic, but he was not allowed to express his feelings. His loyalty was towards his King. “My Lord?” an exquisitely gorgeous woman glided inside the room with her glorious long hair mated in a traditional braid, her usually smiling face distorted in worry to show her distress. “The enemies have reached the door and our army is being defeated,” the beautiful Queen whimpered in misery. “How do we protect our people?” There was a salient reason why the people of the Kingdom loved her, Queen consort Cristina of Aragon, Her Royal Princess of Ravenglass – she was the perfect selfless ruler who cared about the lives of innocent more than anything else. “We can’t,” replied the King suavely with an equanimity which made admiration gleam in the eyes of Earl Allen. “We cannot save our people from the disaster coming our way. It’s inevitable.” When the King turned, both the Queen and the Earl sucked in a deep breath at the haggardly anguished look of defeat they perceived in the valiant warrior’s gleaming hazel eyes. “What are you saying, my Lord?” Queen Cristina queried with her hand at her throat in a futile attempt to ward off the bad news. Earl Allen looked terrified, but he could not move until he was dismissed by his King. Everyone was worried about their own safety; the moment was crucial enough to forego altruist thoughts. “Isn’t there anything we can do, your Majesty?” the Earl asked in almost panicked desperation. He had three daughters, all of marriageable age – ones which he had raised with utmost love and affection. How could he bear the thought of losing them? But, considering the affliction coming their way, would death be such an ordeal? “I’m afraid not, William,” the King said referring to his most beloved friend by his first name. Who knew it might be the last time they addressed each other - and under the circumstances, sticking to royal protocol seemed petty. “I’ve seen the man undead with my own eyes when a sword pierced right through his heart.” The queen gasped in shock. “Sorcery?” she asked in horror. “No idea, my love. I was afraid that my men were raving mad. When I went undercover on the battlefield yesterday, I saw his death scenes so many times with my naked eyes. Nothing can kill him.” Aldo Paolo Salvatore. The immortal tyrant who made mere human quiver at the mere mention of the name. His new target – the Aragon kingdom. No one was informed of the source of his power – but legends have mentioned that once he invaded a realm, the place was reduced to dust. Immortal was akin to invincible. It was reported that Salvatore had conquered multiple sovereign states and was unstoppable. The King of Aragon hadn’t been scared. The intrepid warrior had not been intimidated – he’d been infuriated that his best soldiers were being mercilessly slaughtered and had joined them on field. Myth, he’d discarded the rumors with regal arrogance – and that had been his downfall. Aldo Salvatore was a true martinet – no question of honor, propriety, or pity. He was one who would make the bravest maverick cower in fear. “We cannot simply sit here and allow him to slau**ter everyone one by one. What about the kids and women? Does he have any consideration for them?” Queen Clarissa questioned with her typical rationale even during the most trial of times. That situation did seem like the apocalypse was imminent. Decades of rightful monarchy rule to be annihilated by a savage. “I heard last night that kids are his favorite targets,” King Juan announced in a defeated voice. He didn’t want to scare the Queen more than she was, but the situation was dire – a hopeless battle lost in advance. How does one defeat a man who didn’t die? That was the last straw – upon hearing that ruthless reality, she collapsed on the sofa, her frail figure and generous nature not able to withstand such unfathomable bloodthirsty quest. “What about Novak? We cannot let that monster get to our son? We must save him under any circumstance,” she cried, the motherly concern shunning her poised elegant grace for once. “We must hide him,” the earl agreed hastily. “He’s too precious for the Kingdom to lose him.” There was no mention of saving his own daughters. Crown Prince Novak Juan V was merely ten years old, too young to defend his kingdom, but had already mastered swordery to even best some of the King’s most brilliant fighters. He was merely a boy tough, one who wouldn’t be able to stand alone against such a formidable adversary. “William, can you bring me my son?” the King requested in a humble voice. There was no longer any need for superlative arrogance when death was at the doorstep. The Earl inclined and quickly excused himself from the room. As soon as he left, Queen Clarissa jumped in the arms of her husband. “Oh, Juan. Isn’t there anything at all we can do? We cannot solicit the help of my Kingdom?” The Kingdom of Ravenglass wasn’t one of the most prestigious domains in history, but it was famous for having intrepid soldiers with unwavering staunchness towards their sovereignty. “I refuse to martyrize your people along with mine. Here is not the question of a greater army, but we’re facing an unbeatable enemy. But we could send Novak to your mother. It might be risky if that brute’s men find him out, but we have no other option.” “He would be safe with my mother,” Queen Clarissa agreed with relief, not really caring about her own life. “Ohhh, there are so many people I want to save. What about William’s daughters? And George’s sons? Or Helen’s…” The king was shaking his head resolutely before his wife had even stopped talking, a dead giveaway of his affliction to those who were close to him. King Juan, ruler of the purest breed never failed to be politically correct. “We cannot save everyone. Novak has both the skills and courage to fight that monster if we succeed in saving him. And he’s my heir. He will avenge us. I refuse to allow my kingdom to dissolve into nothingness like the other realms.” “No!” the Queen croaked in horror. “I don’t want him to carry that kind of legacy. I am sending him to my mother so that he can live with my brothers instead. I don’t want him to waste the rest of his life on the past. Juan, please promise me. Please.” The promise of King Aragon was as irreversible as steel being melted into a sword, and for the first time in the history of that Kingdom, the crowned King hesitated before giving his word. Before he could respond, there was a hustle at the door, and Earl Allen stumbled inside with both his hands on the shoulder of a small boy. “Sir William, what on earth…?” The desperate plea in the eye of the man stopped the woman right in her tracks, and she gasped in horror when a dark figure loomed behind the newcomers. Aldo Salvatore. As formidable as the name sounded, the man left an even greater impression as he strode inside the palatial room like he was already the owner. There was a scar which started from his forehead to his right eye, seeming to have been carved on his skin. With the tissues open, it looked more like a thread of silver which glowed under the moonlight. “Your majesty,” he drawled with sarcasm his voice grave and brittle, producing a mocked curtesy as his men surged forward to grab the queen and the king without giving them time to react. With an arrogance that would have any miscreant proud, he marched in the room with superior confidence, the slow movements giving the impression that he had no bones at all, dark shadows under sunken eyes and hardened features. “Speak,” he commanded harshly. What’s your last wish?” he was addressing the King without any regards to the other occupants of the room. “What will take to spare the life of my Queen and Prince?” the King all but begged for the sake of his beloved. Salvatore’s wounded eye gleamed dangerously. “Stop addressing them as such then,” he informed brusquely. The King of Aragon bent his head in humility, making the Earl feel ashamed of himself as he watched his King beg for mercy. “What will it take to spare the life of my wife and son?” he corrected himself in a groggy voice. The malefactor smiled with triumph, the glimmer making the right pellet almost translucent, the very depiction of evil. “Be, and it is,” he delivered hubristically like he was a divine being. With a straight nod towards his men, the King watched in absolute helplessness as Salvatore walked to the small boy and slit his throat with his sword. Then without even flinching, the head of the Queen rolled on the floor next to that other one. In the space of one second. It was such a traumatic moment that everything froze in place for a long time as blood oozed everywhere on the clean marbled floor. “What have you done?!” the King rasped in a strangled voice. “What have you done, you monster?” His cobalt eyes darkened with displeasure at the display of spirits, the black ink pools containing dark iniquitous shadows. Without a word, he moved towards the King in that same imperial swing, and the earl watched in horror as he beheaded a third person in front of his eyes. Within minutes. Without even flinching. Touching the tip of his glowing sword to his index finger, Salvatore stared at the weapon, not even bothering to look in the eye of the quivering man in front of him. “So, what will it be for you, Earl?” he asked in that same tone full of disdain. “Please, don’t cut off my head. I will serve you, my Master until the day I die.” The grin which flashed on Salvatore’s gaunt face was pure wickedness and immorality combined, as his eyes roamed over the nobleman. “Your wish is my command,” he said in a mischievous tone before plunging the sword deep inside his heart. “This is how you serve me.” It was said that the Kingdom of Aragon never had the time to mourn their King’s death as there was no sight of a surviving soul in the entire state within days after His Royal Highness was so brutally assassinated. With time, the name Aragon was only mentioned in history parchments as great warriors, the Kingdom was henceforth known as the ninth realm of Emperor Salvatore.