By the following morning, the situation in Surbrind had escalated.
The death toll had climbed through the night with merciless speed. News channels displayed endless streams of names across the bottom of their screens: children, infants, pregnant women, fathers, sons, daughters. The list never seemed to stop. Every refresh brought more dead, more missing, and more bodies being pulled from the ruins of the market.
Interviews flooded every station. Mothers clutched bloodstained clothing as they screamed through tears. Men stood in the rubble with hollow eyes, asking why military weapons had been hidden beneath places where their children bought fruit and sweets.
The grief was evolving into rage.
Citizens who had once praised the crown were now demanding answers.
And at the center of it all sat King Draven Deema.
The palace remained untouched by war, polished floors gleaming under chandeliers while fountains sparkled peacefully outside. It was almost insulting. Ministers stood in tense silence in the royal hall watching the king carefully and waiting for him to speak.
The silence in the room had become unbearable.
Then suddenly…
Crash!
The king swept his coffee mug off the table with violent force. It shattered across the floor, dark liquid splashing over the polished white stone. Several of the ministers flinched.
Servants rushed forward immediately, kneeling to clean the mess with trembling hands and lowered eyes.
King Deema's chest rose and fell sharply.
This was not how things were supposed to go.
Yesterday, he had felt triumphant and untouchable watching Dilrik waste missiles on empty bases and believed he had outsmarted an enemy nation.
Now the streets were drowning in funeral processions.
And worse, his own people were beginning to hate him.
"I need to take a walk," he said at last, his voice suddenly calm despite the fury twisting beneath it. "Perhaps my mind will settle afterward."
The ministers exchanged quick glances.
A walk?
The country was collapsing into outrage, and the king wanted fresh air.
But no one dared question him.
"We will await your return, Your Majesty," one minister said carefully.
The king ignored him completely.
A servant hurried forward with his coat, draping the expensive fabric over his shoulders. Then the king turned and strode from the hall without another word.
---
His pace quickened the farther he moved from the palace corridors.
He crossed through the royal gardens, past fountains and statues, until the elegant scenery gave way to a grove of orange trees planted generations ago by his grandfather. Their branches sagged beneath ripe fruit no one had bothered harvesting.
Beyond the grove was an opening where Isaac's cage sat.
The rotating guards immediately dropped to one knee the moment they saw him.
"Greetings, Your Majesty." They choruses.
The king dismissed them with a flick of his hand, retrieved the small key hanging from the locket around his neck, and inserted it into the door.
The iron door groaned open, and he stepped inside.
Isaac was sitting at his desk, writing calmly on a sheet of paper as though none of what was going on was his business.
"Good day, Father," Isaac greeted without looking up.
The king did not answer the greeting just like usual.
"Why is your plan suddenly failing?" he questioned.
Isaac's pen paused for a second.
Then he resumed writing.
"I don't recall asking you to boast on public platforms, Father."
The words landed with quiet brutality.
The king's jaw tightened instantly.
Because Isaac was right.
That ridiculous smug little message declaring victory to the world had provoked Dilrik into retaliating ruthlessly.
But hearing the truth spoken so plainly made humiliation crawl beneath the king's skin.
Silence stretched through the room.
Only the scratching of Isaac's pen remained.
Finally, the king spoke again, his tone rougher now.
"You have another solution?"
"I do."
Isaac finished the note he had been writing, then calmly set the pen down.
"You already know what the real issue is," he continued. "The public no longer sees your confidence; they see cowardice. You hid behind civilians and then celebrated before the bodies cooled."
The king's face darkened.
"You speak boldly for someone in chains."
Isaac muttered casually.
"Yet you still come to me whenever you're drowning."
The atmosphere turned tense immediately.
"You have a solution or not?" the king snapped.
Without another word, Isaac lifted the paper from the desk and extended it toward him.
The king snatched it quickly and began reading.
As his eyes moved across the page, the tension slowly melted from his expression. Relief replaced it, then satisfaction.
By the time he reached the end, he looked almost pleased again.
But when he lifted his gaze back to Isaac, he became filled with unease again.
His son was becoming harder to control.
"You've grown considerably, Isaac," the king said slowly.
Isaac's expression didn't change.
"You need a bride," the king continued. "Someone loyal. Someone who can accompany you and bear your children."
Isaac replied flatly and straightforwardly.
"I never asked for one."
"You need one."
The king's tone sharpened with authority.
"So you will have one."
And just like that, he turned and walked out.
The iron door slammed shut behind him with a thunderous clang.
Outside, as he strode back through the orange grove, his thoughts churned violently.
Isaac was slipping further from his grasp.
The realization had begun so quietly years ago, but now it felt undeniable. His son obeyed him less and less emotionally, even if he still complied outwardly.
That frightened him, and because of that, he needed to place eyes beside Isaac permanently.
A wife loyal to the crown.
Someone beautiful enough to keep his attention and someone obedient enough to report everything.
A watchdog disguised as a bride.
—-
At noon, the Royal Board finally released its official statement.
Every news channel interrupted programming to broadcast it.
"People of Subrind and the International Community,
We acknowledge the profound grief and anger sweeping through our nation. While the tragedy at Central Market remains a direct consequence of Dilrik's aggression, we also recognize the public concern regarding the placement of military assets near civilian populations.
Those defenses were positioned to provide immediate anti-air protection to vulnerable districts. However, we acknowledge that placing military equipment within civilian settlements greatly increased the danger faced by innocent citizens.
His Majesty has ordered the immediate relocation of all military assets away from populated zones. Furthermore, the Defense Council responsible for the placement has been dismissed effective immediately.
We mourn every innocent life lost. The pain of this tragedy belongs to the entire nation. Our focus now is the safety of our people, aid for victims, and securing an immediate ceasefire to allow national mourning and recovery."
---
The statement worked.
The flames of public outrage cooled into exhausted grief.
People still argued and debated.
Dilrik had bombed a market.
Subrind had hidden weapons beneath civilians.
Both nations had blood on their hands now, but neither was willing to claim accountability.
The screaming fury that had consumed the internet began fading into numbness.
What remained was sorrow.