Provocations

“Well, that was quite the spectacle, wasn’t it? You missed out on the best part.” A voice rang out in the vast hall, emanating from the shadows of an adjacent chamber.

Rohan turned slowly, his entire being became a tempest of rage and hatred as he face the owner of that voice —Murtagh.

Murtagh’s eyes sparkled with a malicious glint, and a wicked smile curved his lips as he stepped into the hall. His boots clacked coldly on the smooth stone. The magic of their late father, Nordros, had passed to him, and he ascended to the position of High Lord too. This newfound power had only intensified his cruelty.

Rohan’s words were a low, deadly warning as he fixed Murtagh with a withering stare. “You are treading on very thin ice if you’re still standing here, defying me, challenging my Court.” His gaze was a storm, a force of nature, unyielding and merciless.

Murtagh let out a twisted chuckle that held a sinister edge.”Oh, how I still feel the sweet memory of your sister’s blood on my hands. Such a delightful sensation.”

At that very moment, dark threads of power began to swirl between Rohan’s fingers, coiling like serpents, a silent declaration of his indomitable power. The tension in the room thickened to an almost suffocating level. Helius unsheathed his sword with a swift, metallic hiss, the blade gleaming dangerously. Ororfin’s daggers gleamed in his hands, a silent promise of lethal precision.  Elegil and Beltarion readied their magic.

Rohan’s voice cut through the room like a blade through the night. “No,” he stated firmly, his voice unwavering as he locked eyes with Murtagh. “Murtagh is mine.”

Murtagh’s scornful grin only widened. “So be it, boy. Show me what you’re made of.”

Rohan smirked back at him. “Oh, I will. And I’ll show you what you’re made of too – guts and gore.”