By the following morning, the situation in Subrind had spiraled into something far worse than mere chaos.
The death toll had climbed through the night. Names streamed across news tabs in an endless streak: children, infants, pregnant women, young mothers, fathers, and sons. It was an uncountable list, each life a wound carved into the nation's chest. Every news interview with victims featured the same expression: people with tears streaked faces, voices cracking as they lamented the dead, fingers pointed at their own king for sacrificing them for a pointless war.
The accusations grew louder with each passing hour. Citizens who had once rallied behind the crown now called for answers, for someone to explain why their children were dead because the king had hidden weapons beneath their market stalls.
King Deema watched it all from his palace.
The room was draped in the finest silks, the morning light seeping through windows that overlooked gardens untouched by the chaos in the country. His ministers stood before him in a trembling row, waiting for the words that would salvage what remained of his reign. The silence was so heavy that you could almost hear the heart beating.
Then suddenly the king swept his coffee mug from the table.
It shattered against the marble floor, dark liquid splattering across white stone and the ministers flinched but did not move. Servants rushed forward immediately, kneeling to gather the broken pieces, their hands swift and their eyes fixed on the floor.
He had not expected this. None of this. The situation was worsening with every ticking second, spiraling beyond his control, and the anger he had been bottling since yesterday's humiliation could no longer be contained.
"I need to take a walk." The king rose from his seat, his voice deceptively calm. "I believe my mind will settle after."
The ministers exchanged glances. This was no time for walks or clearing one's head. The situation was slipping through their fingers; without an immediate response from the crown, the people would conclude that their king simply did not care whether they lived or died.
But the king was already accepting his coat from a waiting servant, allowing himself to be draped in the rich fabric.
"We will be waiting, Your Majesty," the second-in-command said carefully.
The king did not respond. He walked out without a backward glance.
---
He moved through the palace with purpose, his steps quickening once he left the graceful hallways behind. Past the gardens, through the forest of orange trees that had been planted by his grandfather, their branches heavy with fruit no one was ready to harvest. Finally, he emerged before the structure that housed his son.
The guards were rotating positions when he suddenly appeared, and when they sighted him, they dropped to their knees in unison.
"Greetings, Your Highness."
The king waved them off without a word. His hand went to the locket around his neck and retrieved the key within. He approached the iron door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
Isaac was at his study table, scribbling something on a paper with extreme focus.
He had returned to Subrind only minutes ago, but there was no sign of it in his appearance or surroundings, nothing to suggest he had been anywhere but this cage.
"Good day, Father," he said, without looking up.
The king, like usual, didn't bother with the greetings. "Why is your plan suddenly failing?"
Isaac's pen paused, just for a moment. "I don't recall asking you to gloat on social media platforms, Father."
The words hung in the air, damning. The king's jaw tightened; he knew Isaac was right, but hearing it spoken aloud, in that flat voice, made the truth of it burn.
He said nothing.
Isaac resumed writing, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the now silent room.
"You have a solution?" The king asked; his voice came out rougher than he intended. "I know you have a solution."
"Release a statement." Isaac did not pause. "It's that simple."
"I need content." The king stepped closer, his shadow falling across the desk. "You know that better than anyone."
Isaac set his pen down. Without a word, he lifted the paper he had been writing on and held it out to his father.
The king snatched it, his eyes scanning the words with the desperation of a drowning man grasping for a rope. As he read, the tension in his shoulders eased. The lines of worry on his face softened. His eyes lit with relief and triumph.
But then he looked up, and his gaze settled on his son with a new expression, his mind filled with something that had been forming for some time now.
"You are already so grown, Isaac," he began slowly.
"You need a bride. Someone to accompany you. Someone to bear your offspring."
The words were delivered like a gift, but there was nothing generous in the king's eyes. Isaac's expression remained the same and he said flatly.
"I never asked for a bride."
"You need one." The king's voice hardened. "So you will have one."
He turned and walked out before Isaac could respond, the iron door clanging shut behind him. In the sudden silence, Isaac sat motionless, not a single expression on his face until he suddenly retrieved Sienna's pink handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it hard to his nose; he was boiling inside but refused to let it show on his face.
For some reason, the king's unease kept growing; the feeling that Isaac was slipping from his control, though that seemed impossible, gnawed at him. He could not risk it. He would find the most loyal woman among his people, the strongest, the most devoted, and plant her at Isaac's side for her to serve as his leash.
---
At noon, the Royal Board finally released a statement across all platforms.
"People of Subrind and the International Community,
We acknowledge the profound grief and anger sweeping our nation. While the tragedy at the Central Market is a direct result of Dilrik's unprovoked aggression, we must address the internal concerns regarding the placement of military assets.
Equipment was positioned in public areas solely to provide immediate anti-air protection for our citizens. We admit that the placement of these assets within a civilian settlement was a grave oversight that only increased risks to the public.
The King has ordered the immediate relocation of all military hardware to remote zones and has dismissed the Defense Council responsible for this placement.
The blood on our streets is a burden we carry. Our priority is now the victims and the absolute removal of military presence from civilian life. We seek an immediate ceasefire to allow for national mourning."
---
The flames of public outrage still cooled significantly with that statement. There were no more clear lines of blame. Dilrik had struck a market. Subrind had hidden weapons beneath it. Both had blood on their hands, and now both claimed the higher ground.
The debates continued, but the fire had gone out of them. What remained was exhaustion, grief.