The moment that flash of white light dissipated, Sylas collapsed to the floor like a rag doll. All the clones ceased moving too, as they all slowly disintegrated into whisps of white smoke. The only one of them to survive was the second clone Galahad had made near the start of the fight.
He looked at Epsilon, still smiling. But it wasn't wild or animalistic like before, it was soft, calm, with maybe even a hint of sadness.
Soon enough, he fell to one knee before collapsing completely. He didn't fade away like the others, so maybe he would be fine.
'He's out too.'
Suddenly paining in his abdomen, Epsilon quickly rolled himself over and turned onto his back, stopping the bleeding from getting any worse.
"You better not die. I still need you to fulfil that contract."
'I'm here bleeding out and your still fussing about that? At least cheer me on or something!?'
"I'm sorry I expressed worry for you, next time I'll stay silent and watch you bleed to death."
He let out a small chuckle. If Gracia were to loose, there would be nothing left to stop the wraith from killing all of them. He'd die, and he wouldn't even be able to struggle.
'Why do I think she'll lose?'
His eyelids started to grow heavy, staying awake now becoming a chore. He tried his best to stay up as long as he could, focusing on breathing and even pinching himself, but not even the pain from the stab wounds all over his body could keep him awake.
"Whether I bleed out or Gracia loses, I could die anyway. Might as well let it be in my sleep."
**
While Epsilon dreamt another Nightmare, that being of the sins of the Wraith, Bob's thoughts were contemplating about other things. More Specifically, the fragment of his memory he recovered from his human life.
It was strange, it came to him the moment he finally made that contract with Epsilon. And yet he still couldn't recall his real name, nevertheless his true name if he ever did have one.
The throne room stretched vast and cavernous, as though built to dwarf the very souls of those who dared to step within. Shadows clung to towering stone pillars, while fractured shafts of pale light pierced through a high, fractured windows, illuminating swirls of dust that hung heavy in the air.
At the far end stood the throne itself—raised upon a staircase of worn marble, draped in banners that cascaded down. The seat loomed beneath an arch of spires and complex chandeliers, their wax still warm with fire burning brightly in each of them.
A single man sat on that throne, draped in a heavy fur mantle clasped with gold and adorned with intricate jewellery. He was broad-shouldered and burly, with his gaze remaining stoic. His dark hair, bound into braids that frame a stern, bearded face. and his piercing gaze carrying the weight of countless battles and unspoken judgment.
He did not wear a crown, his presence was enough to spell out what he was.
"I'm a king. I've lived so far as such, and yet, why do I feel that I am not?"
The stone door at the far end of the corridor slowly opened, and quickly slipping in was a gentle looking old man. His silver hair was combed neatly back, and he was dressed in a crisp butlers suite.
Slowly walking towards the steps, he spoke,
"Is it that you're doubting, your majesty?"
The King raised a hand,
"Didn't I tell you that you may call me by name when we're alone? Bob."
The old man chuckled.
"It is best that a servant doesn't forget their place. Especially in times of war like now."
Eventually, Bob reached the foot of the stairs where he halted before bowing down on one knee.
"How is it on the frontline anyway? Sitting here is making me restless."
Bob sighed,
"It's not looking too good, your majesty. Titus suggested that you shouldn't act to keep "him" from personally making a move too, but that isn't preventing his three generals from appearing on the field. We've had success in recent months, but as long as those three remain, our victory doesn't seem probable."
He paused, before shakily saying,
"There's even talks that one of them is on their way here right now."
The King glanced out the window, staring at the pale blue sky.
"Have any of the other kingdoms in the neighbouring realms responded to my call?"
With visible disappointment, Bob shook his head. The King asked,
"Is it because they're afraid? Not of me, but of my siblings and father? They do not wish to associate with me as foolish as it might be, because of the silly conquest those dolts have started?"
The king rubbed his hand against his forehead, as the stern demeanour he maintained weakened just a little. Then, looking at his other hand, he gazed at the golden oil lamp resting within it. His grip around it grew tighter, and his breathe grew a little Shakey.
'Maybe it's time to use it once more. There are still two left.'
Before he could make a choice, the entire castle rumbled and shook. At first it was a low groan, like the castle itself was sighing. Dust shifted down from the vaulted ceiling, drifting in pale beams of torchlight. Then the tremor deepened—flagstones shift beneath their boots, and the iron sconces rattled against the walls with a metallic clatter.
"It seems they're here already."
Slowly arising, he couldn't hide the anger on his face. His rage boiled, with his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his face twitched, and his eyes—dark and glassy—burned with a fury that made the light look pale.
Despite his best attempts to hide his anger, his will still seeped from out of his body, and into the walls of the throne room. They cracked, shivered, filling the place with his animosity.
Bob began to suffocate, and noticing his butlers suffering, the king quickly calmed himself.
"I suppose I should go and greet him?"