The Treaty Room | short story
Amid threats of war, a negotiator arrives to barter peace. But what is the sound of peace? And does it smell like blood?
The hall was immaculately lit and possessed a vastness that was trumped only by the cacophony of sound that filled it. The gilded walls glinted with candlelight, every surface ornately carved and adorned with excruciating wealth – gold leaf and precious stones. The cold carrara beneath my muddy boots danced with veins of smoky inlay, the slates reflecting the light from the candelabras that lined the walls. The cubic ballroom was perhaps fifty yards by fifty yards, with the ceiling slightly taller. It rose up into oblivion, like a cathedral casting echoes of my own breathing back at me. It was quickened, though lost amid the horrid screams emanating from the pit just ahead.
I had come with haste to this château on a hill overlooking the countryside. The rolling green pastures separated the Autocracy from our quiet Republic, shielding from view the smoldering cities and derelict towns between us. Yet, I had the misfortune of traveling through them, witnessing their squandered glory and rueful abandonment; the roads heaped with ash and homes reduced to toothy ruins. Even the farms had been stripped of their livestock.
I was unanimously elected to settle the matter at hand, the Monarch having recently made it clear their intentions to reduce our metropolis to the selfsame cinder as our kinsmen. After penning a preamble and pact, I journeyed through the night, on foot and on horseback, to confront the reclusive ruler with only rumors of their cruelty to augment my apprehensions.
But what I witnessed before me was far crueler.
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