27Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx9WBjlpvjqOUTSKIRTS OF THE VILLAGE — WHISPERING TRAIL-
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-Hours Later-
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Felix rides with his black carriages, flanked by knights in dark armor. He holds a scroll — a warrant drafted by Benjamin, High Priest of the Great City. Metro’s name is written boldly across it… even a sketched likeness of his face.
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The Whispering Trail narrows beneath drooping willow branches. Rain from earlier still clings to the leaves, dripping onto the muddy path.
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Theron’s golden carriages slow down in pace— and collide head‑on with Felix’s black armored procession.
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Both lines of horses rear and snort. Wheels screech. Soldiers shout commands.
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The two caravans come to a full stop on the wet, shadowed pathway.
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Theron and Felix are the first to step out of their carriages.
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They walk toward each other beneath the whispering willows, the forest swaying from the light wind gust. Metro follows a few steps behind Theron, cautiously.
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Father and son stop face‑to‑face.
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Felix snaps sharply, voice cutting through the damp air.
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Felix:
“Where were you? On the day of the appointed feast in the City… why didn’t you come? When I prepared a feast for all my sons — and all my people?”
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Felix’s eyes shift past Theron.
He studies Metro — really looks at him — and his expression twists into disbelief.
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Felix:
“Where are you going with this elf?”
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He steps closer, staring into Theron’s eyes with a cold, piercing intensity.
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Felix:
“What are you doing!? And where are you going with this son of liars?”
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Theron swallows hard. His voice trembling despite his effort to steady it. He explains everything — where they are headed, why Metro needs to go to the Great City, the vision, the urgency. He even tries to justify his absence from the feast, citing affairs from his own state.
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But the more he speaks, the more Felix’s face darkens.
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When Theron finishes, Felix’s fury erupts.
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Felix:
“Theron… you are going to deliver these traitors — Wake up and Pay attention!”
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He points at Metro like he's pointing at a disease.
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Felix:
“They have robbed our fathers. And now their children come among us with cunning deceit and lying tongues — to rob us of our property!”
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Felix’s voice drops into something colder.
Something final.
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He glares at Metro.
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Then to Theron.
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Felix:
“Slay him.”
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Felix’s command hangs in the air like a death sentence.
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Felix:
“And then we will talk at the Village Lodge.”
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Theron’s jaw tightens. He steps back from his father, voice trembling but resolute.
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Theron:
“I will not slay him. And I am not returning to the village. I am going to the Great City to release Metro’s kin.”
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(beat)
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“I know they are just men.”
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Felix’s face twists with rage.
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In one violent motion, he draws his sword — steel flashing beneath the willow canopy — and raises it to strike down his own son.
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Metro moves before anyone can breathe.
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He steps between them, hand outstretched.
A white flame ignited around him, swirling like living fire, illuminating the forest floor.
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Metro:(raises his voice)
“What are you doing! You cannot slay your own son! He's your family!”
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Metro’s voice intensifies, carrying something older, something not entirely human.
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Metro:
“If you slay your son — an innocent man — his blood will cry out against you to God. Vengeance will come upon you… and perhaps you will lose your soul.”
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Felix’s eyes burns with fury.
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Felix:
“I know that if I kill my son, I will shed innocent blood… but it is YOU WHO SEEKS TO DESTROY HIM!”
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He swings his sword at Metro.
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Steel meets Metro’s daggers in a burst of sparks. Felix strikes again and again, but Metro holds his ground, white flame pulsing with each impact.
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Metro flashes light movements, deflecting a final blow — and his dagger slices quickly acrosses Felix’s arm.
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Felix staggers back, clutching the wound. His arm falls limp, useless. He stares at his bleeding arm, then at Metro — the realization dawning:
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Metro could kill him.
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The King’s Guard steps back a full pace, fear rippling through their ranks.
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Metro rises quickly, daggers in hand, white flame still flickering around him. He steps close enough so that Felix can feel the heat of his breath. Metro’s blade hovers at Felix’s throat, inches from ending a dynasty.
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Felix’s voice cracks.
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Felix:
“Spare my life… please. Spare me.”
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Metro’s eyes burn with purpose.
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Metro:
“Listen to me. I will kill you… unless you grant that my brothers be cast out of prison.”
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Felix’s fear deepens. His pride shatteres.
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Felix:
“If you spare me, I will grant you anything you ask… even half my territory in the state.”
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Metro doesn't blink. He doesn't lower his blade. He speaks with the authority of someone who has seen visions, someone who carries fire in his blood.
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Metro:
“If you grant that my brothers be released from prison… and that Theron maintains his position over the state… and that you are not displeased with him, but allow him to act according to his desires in whatever he sees fit—
then I will spare you.
Otherwise…”
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He presses the blade closer.
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Metro:
“…I will cut you down to the ground.”
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Silence.
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Felix exhales, eyes bulging — a trembling, broken sound — he begins to rejoice simply because he's still alive.
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When Felix realizes that Metro has no desire to destroy him — and when he sees the fierce love Metro holds for his only son, Theron — he’s struck in astonishment. A stunned, childlike wonder.
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Felix’s voice softens, trembling with relief.
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Felix:
“Because this is all you desired — that I release your brothers, and allow my son to retain his kingdom — I will grant it as you have requested. From this time forward, my son shall keep his estate. I will govern him no more.”
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He places his good hand over his heart.
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Felix:
“ I will grant your wishes concerning your brothers. They shall be cast out of prison. And you — and your brethren — may dwell with me in my kingdom if you wish to.”
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The fear is gone.
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The hostility melted.
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He looks at Metro as though seeing him for the first time.
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The guards lower their weapons easing their stances, steel lowering in a slow ripple of surrender.
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Theron releases a trembling breath, the kind a man gives when he realizes he is still alive.
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Metro steps back, the white fire fading from his skin like a final warning swallowed by the wind. And then — almost cautiously — the golden carriages and the black ones alike begin to move again, wheels crunching over frost‑stiff earth as the procession reforms.
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The willow canopies thin.
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Branches part.
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Light spills across the path.
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The forest narrows into an open trail.
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The tension lingers behind them like smoke, but the road ahead stretches clean and bright toward the Great Hall.
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