forum Royal Affairs (O/O Closed)

Started May 08, 2023 by @LolaBug

tune

(Unfortunately for you both, he will not be getting her back right now. It's time to suffer 😇)

(I feel no guilt for this lol)

(you're terrible)

(you should feel guilty!!! maybe ill get revenge for this)

(I know I am lol)

(No guilt!!! And I have no doubt that you will XD)

(afhjkasdhf i forgot to respond)

His heart wasn't beating. It was frozen stuck in his chest as he watched his Ophelia being stuffed into a carriage and there was nothing he could do. He wasn't fast enough. He wasn't deadly enough. Soldiers were swarming around him, preventing him from getting to his Ophelia. More and more were attacking the king but all he could think about was the carriage riding away from with his wife inside.

He might die right then and there if there wasn't the possibility that his wife might survive this. He would tear his enemies apart with his bare hands if it mean getting his wife back. Nothing was off the table now. They were about to find out how much of a monster Kaillas truly could be.

The carriage faded in the distance until he could see nothing less. There was more blood on the floor than he could see than the marble below. Bodies were piled upon bodies and it was all too easy to trip over them if one didn't watch their steps. It was utter chaos in the palace. His immediate attention was needed and action need ed to be taken, but all he could think about was his wife being dragged away.

He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He was spiraling and there would be no way to save him until his wife was in his arms.

(It's all good! lol)

A sudden, brutal blow to Ophelia's head sends her world spiraling into darkness as she loses consciousness during the carriage ride. The pain is searing, and her mind drifts away as her body goes limp. She remains blissfully unaware as the enemy soldiers carry her out of the carriage and into the heart of their hidden hideout. Many hours have passed and the sun is starting to dip lower into the sky. Dark clouds cover the sky and a low rumble of thunder sounds off in the distance.

When she regains consciousness, she finds herself being dragged through in an unfamiliar, dimly lit corridor, her head throbbing and disoriented. The harsh odor of damp stone hangs heavily in the air, and her wrists and ankles are bound in unforgiving iron shackles. She winces in pain as the soldiers continue to guide her deeper into the winding labyrinth of the hideout.

Finally, they reach a small, dank cell, the heavy door looming ominously. Ophelia is thrust inside, her feet stumbling on the cold, uneven stone floor. The dim light within the cell casts eerie, flickering shadows, and her vision is still clouded. The sound of the door slamming shut reverberates through the cell, leaving her alone in the cold, desolate darkness, a prisoner in this hostile enemy hideout.

Ophelia's terrified eyes sweep around the dimly lit cell, taking in the harsh reality of her surroundings. The damp stone walls, slick with moisture, seem to close in on her, and she shivers from both fear and the chill in the air. Her wrists and ankles throb painfully from the iron shackles that bind her, causing her to wince with each movement.

The meager straw pallet in one corner offers little comfort, its coarse texture scratching her skin as she reaches out to touch it. The musty smell of the straw mingles with the dampness, making her stomach churn. The flickering lantern barely illuminates the cell, and its feeble light casts eerie, shifting shadows that dance across the rough stone walls.

Her breathing is shaky as she takes in the bleakness of her surroundings, the stark reality of her captivity sinking in. She's scared and in pain, her head still throbbing from the earlier blow. The cell feels like a grim, unforgiving prison, and she clings to the hope that somehow, she'll find a way to escape this nightmarish situation and reunite with her beloved Kaillas.

His home had been turned into a battlefield. The one place that was supposed to be safe now a reminder that he was not invincible, even behind his stone walls. Bodies had been dragged out of the palace and into the courtyard, two piles separating the invaders from his citizens. The bodies that could be recognized would be sent off to their families for a proper burial. Those that couldn't or had no family would be buried in the palace graveyard. Blood still covered the palace floors. Kaillas doubted the stains would ever truly be gone. So much wreckage. So much carnage. And yet he couldn't care about any of it other than his missing wife.

Ambrose had taken over directing the palace. He was barking around orders and trying to calm the chaos. It was evident to everyone that Kaillas couldn't be counted on. No, the kidnapping of his wife had incapacitated him. He couldn't think of anything, see anything, than those men taking his wife. They could be hurting her, torturing her, and he had no idea where she was.

Elora and Katya were safe. Terrified and traumatized but safe. Only half of his advisors and councilmen were accounted for and alive. And yet he couldn't bring himself to care about his council. His people, any of it.

He had given the order that those remaining of his council, that were able, to meet him in his council room. he watched as their terrified and grim faces sat around the table. The looks of anger as he had torn them from their loved ones. He didn't care.

"The queen has been taken. We are not going to rest until we get her back."

(Guess who got off of work over two hours late today?)

Ophelia's trembling hands trace the bruises on her arms, remnants of the forceful encounter that led to her confinement. The chill of the cell intensifies her vulnerability, but her thoughts remain fixated on accessing the damage. Panicking will only make things worse. She winces as she inspects a tender spot, the pain a stark reminder of the dangers that surround her.

The muted glow filtering through a small, barred window casts a feeble light on her pallid face. Every creak and distant sound amplifies her anxiety, a constant reminder of the uncertain fate that looms. Her gaze drifts downward, where her clothing clings to a subtle swell. A mix of apprehension and tenderness washes over her as she instinctively shields her unborn child. She’s worried sick that this is going to end poorly for her baby.

The concrete floor offers little comfort, but she eases herself into a corner, seeking comfort in the embrace of her own arms. She longs to be far away from here, safe and happy with her husband.

——

In a lavishly adorned chamber, King William and Queen Charlotte feign shock as the messenger delivers the fabricated news. Their faces, etched with concern, betray nothing of the sinister orchestration that unfolded at their command. The deceitful performance unfolds seamlessly as they absorb the supposed tragedy, concealing the treacherous secrets beneath a façade of grief.

Tension hangs in the air as the messenger recounts the fabricated tale of kidnapping and kingdom turmoil. The king and queen exchange subtle glances, their eyes reflecting the dark satisfaction of a plan executed flawlessly. The room, adorned with opulence, becomes a stage for their deceptive drama, concealing the puppet strings that connect them to the chaos outside.

Behind the veil of parental distress, a calculated scheme unravels. As the messenger departs, they exchange a cold, triumphant smile—an unspoken acknowledgment of their sinister mastery over the unfolding tragedy, a macabre dance of power and deception. No one will ever suspect the grieving parents of such a heinous crime.

Kaillas hadn't left that room. He hadn't left that room as night fell. He hadn't left that room as his advisors all filed out, to catch sleep or check up on loved one. Messages had been sent to their spies in all directions. Only a few had written back and they were negative. His agitation and fear was rising with every passing moment that there was no word of his wife. And yet he still did not leave. Not even when his sister tried to coax him out. He did not leave.

Maps were spread out on the table. All possibly enemies had been marked. Riders had been sent out in every direction, trying to find the path the kidnappers had left. And yet they were empty handed. Everyone came back with nothing. There was nothing. His pregnant wife was out there somewhere, in pain and scared, and yet he was here, no closer to finding her as he was hours ago.

Hours. It had been hours. She could be dead for all he knew. He held onto the belief they were using her as bait to get to him. To get something from him. He had held up hope that he would be receiving a ransom letter soon. He would give anything to get his wife back. Anything.

"Kaillas," there was a murmur in his ear and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Kaillas, you need to wake up."

Kaillas's body ached. His neck and back hurt from he falling asleep over the table. His eyes opened groggily. He couldn't tell he time. He had no idea where he was for a moment as he found his bearings. And when everything came back to him, he shot up, almost hitting Ambrose in the process. "Have you found her? Do we have a lead?"

Ambrose looked at him grimly and shook his head. "No, we haven't. But you're presence is required."

Ophelia lies on the cold, unforgiving floor of the dimly lit cell, her body aching from the harsh treatment she endured earlier. The stone walls seem to close in on her, the dampness seeping through her thin clothing, chilling her to the bone. The flickering light overhead casts eerie shadows, creating a disorienting dance of darkness that mirrors the turmoil within her mind. She clutches her bruised arms, a futile attempt to shield herself from the overwhelming sense of vulnerability that consumes her.

The air is thick with the acrid stench of despair and fear, a haunting symphony of distant sobs and muted cries echoing through the cold corridors. Her heart pounds in her chest like a desperate plea for freedom, each beat a painful reminder of her dire predicament. The metallic taste of blood lingers in her mouth, a souvenir from the ruthless encounter that led her to this forsaken cell. She shivers, not only from the physical pain but from the lingering dread that snakes its way through her thoughts, feeding on the uncertainty of what awaits her in this desolate night.

As the hours drag on , her every attempt to find comfort in the darkness is thwarted by the gnawing ache in her bones and the haunting whispers of her own anxieties. The cold, unyielding reality of her surroundings threatens to suffocate her spirit. She listens to the distant footsteps of the night watch, each step a reminder that she is at the mercy of forces beyond her control. The flickering of the torches lining the hallway become a cruel companion, casting distorted shadows that seem to mock her pain. In the depths of the cell, she battles the physical torment and the torment of her own thoughts, yearning for the first light of dawn to bring with it the promise of release from this abyss of terror.

Ophelia awakens to the harsh reality of her confinement, the dim light filtering through the barred window offering little comfort. As she gathers her strength, a sense of urgency propels her into action. She scans the confines of her cell, eyes desperately searching for any means to reach out to her husband, who must be frantic with worry. The stone walls around her seem to mock her futile attempts to find a way out. Every inch of the cell is scrutinized, each crevice inspected for a hidden escape or a chance to send a message. Yet, her efforts yield no fruit. The cell remains unyielding, its secrets well-guarded against her desperate search. Anxiety tightens its grip on her chest, the weight of isolation pressing down on her shoulders.

With a heavy sigh, she slumps against the cold wall, defeated. The absence of any communication lifeline leaves her feeling helpless and vulnerable. She replays the events leading to her imprisonment in her mind, grappling with the bitter truth that, for now, escape and communication with her husband remain elusive. As the cell's cold silence envelops her, she clings to the fragile hope that some unforeseen opportunity will arise, a glimmer of possibility in the oppressive darkness of her predicament.

The last thing Kaillas wanted to do was talk to anyone. He wanted to take a horse and ride out until his wife was safely in his arms and their enemies dead at their feet. But he was smart enough not to jump into action without a plan. If he rose off wandering aimlessly, he was more likely to end up dead himself or if Ophelia wasn't dead yet, she would be soon if he was unaccounted for. And if a ransom letter was sent for him, he couldn't very well do anything with it if he wasn't available.

He peeled himself away from he table and looked down at himself. His clothes were still soaked in blood, some of it his but most of his enemies. Ambrose pursed his lips as he looked at his appearance but didn't say anything. Not yet. His presence was required immediately. The court had gathered, those that were still alive, and questions needed to be answered.

Kaillas stepped into the throne room where his people were gathered. He stepped onto the dais where his throne sat. Where his wife's throne sat. And he vowed he wouldn't sit on his throne until his wife sat on hers first. Until then, he would stand. He wouldn't know a minute of comfort until his wife was bathed in comfort.

He cleared his throat. "So far, no one has come forward to claim the attack on our home yesterday. Our assailants are a mystery as of yet, having slipped our grasp amidst the chaos. The one thing we do know is that they came for something. For someone. The queen. They have our queen and our heir. We will stop at nothing until we have found these men and retrieved our queen and avenged our dead. We will show no mercy. We will obliterate our enemies and no one will dare to try to march on us again."

The metallic clank of the cell door announces the arrival of her tormentors. Two masked figures emerge, their eyes devoid of empathy, carrying an air of malevolence that chills the already frigid air. Ophelia, terrified and in pain, instinctively recoils as the harsh reality of her captivity manifests.

A cry of desperation escape her lips as the assailants close in. They show no mercy, one of them grabbing her by the shoulders and shoving her against the wall, the other callously clamping down on her trembling hand. Her pleas for mercy are met with callous silence. The cold blade of a dagger gleams ominously in the dim light as it descends towards her delicate pinky finger, slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening precision. Pain erupts, a visceral agony that paints the cell in hues of torment.

Tears stream down her face, a silent testament to her suffering. Each anguished sob reverberates off the unforgiving walls as the excruciating reality unfolds. The metallic tang of blood mingles with her desperate pleas, creating a haunting symphony of despair. The once intact hand is now marred, a cruel reminder of the brutality inflicted upon her.

The two men release her and toss a small scrap of fabric at her feet before leaving. Not a single word was spoken during this interaction. Not a clue as to what they want from her.

In the aftermath, her cries continue, a haunting melody that lingers in the air. The severed pinky, wrapped in a stained cloth, becomes a grotesque symbol of her pain. As the assailants retreat, leaving her to grapple with the aftermath, the cell door clangs shut, sealing her in a world where agony reigns supreme.

Hours later, a envelope arrives for the king. A severed finger adorning the queen’s ring is sealed inside along with a note.

”Stop your search.”

(did you just cut her finger off??? ah- why would you- you're a monster)

Kaillas was pacing. He couldn't go to their rooms. It smelled too much of her. Her things were everywhere and the very sight, the very smell of it would bring him to his knees. He couldn't go to his office. All he would see is his wife curled up on that couch reading while he worked, the two of them curled up behind his desk. Kaillas bending her over.

Everywhere he turned, the ghost of his wife was there. Every corner he turned, every room he entered, all he could see was his wife. His wife who was suffering, alone and terrified without him. He didn't know what was happening to her. There was nothing. No word. He was losing his mind and it had been less than a day already.

What he wouldn't give for this nightmare to be over? He would offer up his own soul if only it meant that she was back at his side, safe and sound. If he closed his eyes, he could see her. He wanted to reach out and grab her. But as soon as he got to close, she faded from his view.

There was a rapid knock on the door before it opened, Ambrose stepping through looking frantic. "We got something."

That was all he needed to be told before he was striding down the hall to his council chamber. His men were all standing around the table, voices overlapping one another. "You're not going to like it, Kaillas," Ambrose said from behind him but he ignored him.

His councilmen parted, revealing what was on the table.

A finger, that so clearly belonged to the dainty hand of his wife. Her ring. And a note.

Kaillas was suddenly very still. Her finger. They cut her finger off. He couldn't stop staring at the severed appendage. He was going to make them hurt. He was going to hunt every person who ever laid hands on his wife, every person that ordered for her pain, and he was going to kill them all, so, so slowly. Their screams would fill the halls and he would feel no joy until hey felt everything they had put his wife through and more.

(…….I only cut off one finger so it’s not that bad lol Just prepare yourself. This is only the beginning haha)

Ophelia stares in shock at her recently severed finger, blood pulsing in sync with her frantic heartbeat. The metallic tang hangs heavy in the air as she desperately fumbles for something, anything, to staunch the crimson flow. She’s panicking but she knows that she has to stop the blood. She can’t risk passing out. Not here. Not now.

Her trembling hands find a torn strip of fabric from her clothing. With hurried movements, she wraps it tightly around the injured hand, wincing as the pressure exacerbates the pain. The stark contrast of red against the fabric intensifies, a vivid reminder of the fragility of flesh and bone. She fights to maintain composure, her breaths shallow and uneven.

As she ties the makeshift tourniquet, her gaze never leaves the empty space where her finger was just a few short minutes ago. The cold stone floor beneath her is stained with droplets of blood and tears.

She sits huddled in the dim confines of her cell, the stone walls seemingly closing in on her with every passing second. The air feels suffocating, thick with the weight of her mounting despair. Her hands tremble uncontrollably, the remnants of fear etched in the lines of her face.

A solitary beam of light filters through a small, barred window, casting fragmented shadows across the cold floor. The metallic tang of anxiety fills her senses, and her breaths come in uneven gasps. The distant echoes of footsteps in the corridor serve as a disorienting backdrop to the storm brewing within her.

A cascade of thoughts overwhelm her – the uncertainty of her fate, the isolation in this unforgiving cell, and the haunting echoes of her own fears. Tears well in her eyes, yet she fights to contain the impending breakdown, the desperation clawing at her chest.

(kahdsfksd only. What do you have planned???)

He was going to chain them all in his dungeon. He'd have them all separated, behind stone walls so they couldn't see one another but they could hear. They would be able to hear the screams and wonder if they would be next.

He was going to take his time with them. He would torture them personally. He wouldn't let anyone else touch them. No, this was personal. They had taken his wife. They had hurt her. they had cut off her finger. No. No one was going to touch them but him.

He would take his time with each of them, learning their weaknesses and exploiting them. He wouldn't stop until he had broken them all. He would take a blade to their skin and peel it off. He would rip out their finger and toenails. He would break their fingers and crush their kneecaps. He would have the royal physician heal them just enough to keep them from dying so he could do it all over again the next day.

Their blood would bathe his skin and he would feel no satisfaction until they were begging for death, and even then, he wouldn't give it to them. They would not find the sweet relief of death. Not until he had repaid them for everything they had done to Ophelia.

He picked up the queen's ring and held it to his lips, kissing it. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. I will find you, even if it's the last thing that I do.

(You told me not to tell you so you’ll just have to wait and see XD <3 )

Draped in dark cloaks and hidden beneath hooded disguises, King William and Queen Charlotte navigate the winding corridors of the castle with an air of sinister secrecy. Their footsteps echo ominously, the regality of their true identity concealed as they approach the dungeon. The torchlight casts eerie shadows on their disguised faces, rendering them unrecognizable to any who might witness their clandestine visit. As they stand before their daughter's cell, the disguised monarchs exchange a silent understanding.

The stretch of blood is strong in the air and yet they remain unfazed. This is all part of their plan. Soon they will bring Kallias’ kingdom to its knees. It doesn’t matter how many people die. They will get their way. Now satisfied that their soldiers were successful in capturing the right person, they leave the dungeon, not wanting to remain in the filth of it all.

A second letter soon arrives at the kingdom.

——
King Kaillas,

Your once illustrious kingdom now stands at the precipice of ruin, a fate orchestrated by the shadows that dance in the periphery of your false majesty. We have plucked the jewel from your crown, the radiant queen, now our prized possession.

Oh, the irony that your precious lineage now teeters on the edge of obliteration. A kingdom for a queen, or perhaps more fittingly, a throne for an heir. We demand not just gold, but the very essence of your dominion. Ten million gold coins may buy you a momentary respite, but your kingdom's fate is sealed, regardless of your compliance.

The rendezvous for this meager transaction is set at the desolate ruins of your once-grand palace, a symbol of the decay that now engulfs your realm. Bring the gold, King Kaillas, but know this – it is but a drop in the vast sea of your impending demise.

Should you foolishly seek aid from the realms beyond, rest assured that the cries of your beloved queen will be the last lullaby she hears. The price of defiance is not only her life but the unraveling of your dominion. We shall revel in your kingdom's descent into chaos, orchestrated by your own feeble attempts to resist the inevitable.

Time wanes, King Kaillas, and so does your kingdom's feeble grasp on its illusion of grandeur.

A letter came for Kaillas not long after. This time, it was not covered in blood nor any body parts attached with it. He felt a moment of relief, knowing his wife wasn't missing any more body parts. At least, he assumed she wasn't. He prayed she wasn't. He would rather carve out his own heart than she lose another limb or even suffer a single cut.

He opened the letter and read it silently. He read it again. Then a third time. Then he handed it to Ambrose to read while he thought silently. He would do anything to get his wife back, even hand over his crown. The money was a significant amount. Enough that it would cripple his economy. It would be the start of a downward spiral for his kingdom.

They had a rat in the palace. More than one, likely. He would task Azriel, in secret, with finding out these spies and disposing of them properly. he needed to find out who they worked for and why would be nice to know but not necessary. It didn't matter why, because he was going to kill whoever had done this to his wife.

He would need to deploy his armies. But how could he deploy an army he couldn't pay? He would have to make it work. He might hand over this ten million gold, but he would get it back, and then some. He was going to decimate whoever this was. They thought they could cripple him, by taking his wife and wealth. Little did they know, it would only make things worse for them.

He was going to get his wife back, no matter the cost.

"Ambrose, prepare for the transaction." No one spoke a word, even though many in the room did not agree with this. "Pay them their ten million in gold, put pay it with copper instead." It would still equal their requested ten million, but the copper coins would be more of a hassle. And would hopefully leave a trail. the instructions never specified how it had to be paid.

Desperation claws at Ophelia as she paces within the confines of her dim cell. The oppressive air presses down on her, fueling the urgency of finding a way out. She scans every nook and cranny, her eyes darting from the barred window to the sturdy cell door. Time is slipping away, and a plan must materialize from the fog of desperation that clouds her mind.

She examines the edges of the window, running her fingers over the cold metal bars. The initial attempts to force them open yield no success. Panic threatens to engulf her, but she forces herself to breathe, to think. Her gaze shifts to the cell door, and she contemplates the possibility of overpowering the lock. The quiet hum of distant footsteps outside becomes a constant reminder of the ticking clock.

It isn’t long before she comes up with a plan. She has no idea if it’ll work or not but she has to try. She needs to get out of here. Kaillas must be worried sick about her. And that’s if he’s even still alive. Fear gnaws at her as the thought threatens to consume her.

Ophelia, her face contorted in a convincing display of agony, clutches her stomach, simulating the pains of premature labor. The cold, unyielding cell feels like a trap, but her behavior has captured the guard's attention. He hurries off to summon help, believing her distress to be real. Seizing the moment, Ophelia pushes herself off the floor, her fingers deftly snatching the keys hanging from the guard's belt.

With the metallic jangle of keys, she unlocks the cell door, stepping into the dimly lit corridor. The freedom she craves is within reach, but the rush to escape clouds her judgment. As she hurries down the corridor, a sharp pain shoots through her side – an unintended consequence of her haste. She winces but presses on, the urgency of escape overriding the searing discomfort.

The corridor becomes a blur as she navigates through shadows, her side and hand throbbing with every step. She stumbles, the pain momentarily overwhelming, but sheer determination propels her forward. The act of feigned labor has taken a toll, leaving her physically strained and vulnerable. Yet, she persists, a resilient figure moving through the labyrinth of confinement, escaping the cell but not without the tangible reminder of the sacrifices made for freedom.

"Your Highness, you can't do this. You will cripple us. We will never recover." One of his advisors cried out.

Kaillas turned very slowly to him, a cold death on his face. "You would rather I leave my wife in the clutches of these men? Men who would cut off the finger of a defenseless, harmless woman? You want to leave my wife with them?" His voice was steady, calm. His advisors backed away, knowing that his treasurer had stepped over the line. "I will pay them their ten million in gold and I will get my wife back. And then we will go to war and I will kill anyone who dared to put their hands on my wife. We will take back our gold and then some. I will take over their kingdom, their home, whoever these cowards are. I will take everything from them just like they took everything from me."

Because Ophelia was everything. She was everything to him. His whole world. Her and their baby. He would do anything and everything for her. He would hand over his crown as long as it meant that she was safe in his arms. He just wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to nurse her back to health. He wanted to hold her hand and curse the day they took her lovely finger from her hand.

"If anyone else has anything to say, you can join the corpses in the yard. I will not be kept from my wife." He would not take another wife. He would not marry another for he could never love another. Ophelia was not replaceable, despite what others might think. He would have her or no one.

(sorry that's so short, i wasn't sure what to write)