Murder

Overlooking the dense forest sat the balcony of marble. The elder prophet ran his rough hands over the railing, a quiet sigh escaping his chest. However, the stillness was interrupted by the rapid banter of hurried footsteps. Selfar cast a glance behind his shoulder, his stern expression creasing into a worried frown as he beheld the king. Masel-yon leaned against the threshold, gulping in air as if he'd run all this way to him. He was frail as a ghost, and wisps of his golden hair hung unattended in his face. His irises were a pale, sickly yellow. They'd been yellow since he'd been crowned. He swallowed the lump in his throat, stilling his feelings. "You need me, Caul'aul?" He hesitated, noticing that the young king had to force himself not to break into tears at his words, and even then a few drops slid down his pallid, tortured expression. "I'm so sorry."