The palace gates spread wide open as the night had crowned its place.
The riders and soldiers entered. But they didn't return with the triumphant energy of men returning from a successful hunt, but with the stiff, uneasy posture of soldiers carrying bad news.
They wondered how Their Majesty would take the news. The horses' hooves clattered against the stones far too loudly in the heavy quiet of the courtyard.
Oren hung between the men, barely conscious.
Then, the men came down.
Oren's boots was dragged across the ground, as they led him to the Throne Room, leaving faint streaks of dried blood behind. His head lolled forward and his dark hair matted to his face. His breathing was so shallow and labored and one would fear he was about to die soon.
Tight ropes bound his wrists and broken arrow shafts still jutted from his shoulder and side, snapped short but not removed entirely.
