Before everyone's astonished eyes, Azar walked straight toward the throne. Daresmar instinctively reached out to stop him, but Azar paid him no mind and kept going.
"Sir, please stop—" Before he could finish, a loud bang rang out, and he went flying, crashing into one of the hall's pillars with a tremendous thud. Everyone watched it all unfold in an instant, too afraid to say a word. They simply stood there, staring at him in silence. Azar reached the throne and crouched down. Slowly, he extended a hand and gently stroked it, as if caressing a young woman's tender skin. Suddenly, there was a creak, and everyone's heart jolted. Azar had split the throne in half with a burst of force. A book fell out. He picked it up gently, tucked it into his robes without even looking at it, then turned and headed for the hall's exit. As he passed Azshara, he said, "Let's go home." His voice was gentle, as though none of what had just happened had taken place—as though he had merely taken his wife out for a stroll. But Azshara knew her husband was struggling to suppress his anger. Following behind Azar, she left them with one last instruction: "Take care of everything else."
"Yes." Several voices answered. Azar frowned. He had heard Number Zero's voice!
In the bedroom, Azar lay on the bed beneath the crystal chandelier, which gave off a faint pink glow. He and his wife had picked it out together while shopping on the second day of their marriage. They had both thought pink would suit the bedroom and kindle their desire for each other. All these years, neither of them had been willing to replace it. Now, as Azar gazed at the exquisite chandelier, his heart filled with rage. He slowly raised a hand toward it. He was going to destroy it! Let it end. Let it all be over. He slowly closed his eyes, and a tear slid down his cheek. He hadn't cried in a long time, but now his heart was wounded, and he wept. He opened his eyes and abruptly sat up, as if he had made up his mind. Just as he was about to act, a figure stepped in front of him. "If you're going to destroy it, you'll have to kill me first!" She straightened up and lifted her belly slightly, as if to say, You'll have to kill our child and me, too! Kill her? Impossible. He slowly lowered his hand and asked coldly, "Do you even care?"
"I care! I do!" Azshara shouted hysterically. "You can hit me, you can curse me, but please don't doubt my feelings for you! For the child's sake, please forgive me. I did it for our family." By the end, Azshara was practically begging.
"Yes! You knew I cared about you, about our love, about our family, about our child. That's why you dared to use me without restraint to satisfy your ambition!" Azar roared. He stopped holding back his emotions; he needed to let them out. He was consumed by frustration, not because he had miscalculated, nor because of his wife's ambition, nor even because of his uncle's death. His heart ached. He felt crushed. His own wife had used him and deceived him! I'm the one who loves her, the person closest to her. Why didn't she tell me? Why? Why was I the last to know?
"I did it for your own good. You couldn't be involved in this!" She was still trying to stand her ground.
"Could we really have stayed out of it? All you did was make yourself look guiltier!" Why did women always assume things would go their way? No intelligent person would believe Azshara had been trying to seize power. They would assume it had been Azar's idea, and that he had held back only out of respect for family ties. No one would care about the tangled details. Everyone who knew she was the king's disciple was dead, leaving no witnesses. What, you say, Azar? Do you think he would speak up? And even if he did, would anyone believe him? She had planned for everything. She truly was an extraordinarily clever woman. More importantly, she had succeeded, and she would give the story a fitting ending. The king realized his mistake and hosted a banquet to apologize to everyone; the High Priest grew resentful and tried to take his place, launching a palace coup during the feast; Azshara, in defense of the kingdom's rightful order, put duty before her ties as his disciple and brought him to justice. And what about Azar? He watched from the sidelines, then, when it was all over, stepped up to the throne and took out a book. The story could also be told this way: The king was a good man who had worked for the future of his people ever since the Great Migration. After founding the kingdom, he let the people live in peace, and the nation prospered rapidly. His death was tragic. The people would pity him, mourn him, and give him a grand funeral. The High Priest was a schemer whose every effort had been for power! He would be despised, and the Temple of the Moon would suffer a tremendous blow. Everyone connected to him would be caught up in the fallout. His death would deserve no sympathy. And Azshara? The beauty and brains of the elven kingdom, renowned for her virtue, her sense of the bigger picture, and her decisiveness. Let's make her our queen. Earl? Sorry, you've been overlooked. But what exactly had he taken? Why had no one known there was something hidden there—not a single person present? How had he known? Could he become king? No. He could wait in the reserve list; perhaps he'd get another chance.
In just one short month, Azshara had taken care of everything. No wonder she would become the Light of Lights in the future; her abilities were truly top-notch. Even Azar had to admit that she had done a beautiful job. We had to believe that geniuses existed in this world. Hard work and foreknowledge of the future couldn't dim their light; they only made them shine all the brighter.
Azar left, taking his trusted followers with him, and departed the royal city. They were going to Eldre'Thalas, back to their own place. He was hurt—hurt in his heart—and needed to return to his nest to cry alone and heal alone. He was a loser, a loser in the struggle for power. All his plans had paved the way for someone else. He had tried hard, but his opponent was stronger. He had only himself to blame for being so naive. He had underestimated the allure of power. To be honest, he couldn't even be sure he would have resisted the temptation of the throne without knowing the future. He had thought about it for a long time and concluded that he wouldn't have. So he needed to review his mistakes and learn from them—not to harm others, but to protect himself. He didn't want to be used again or treated like a fool. Once was enough. Failure wasn't frightening; what was frightening was failing without seeing it.
But could things really go as he wished? Would this truly be the only time in his life he felt such heartache and sorrow? Men always had trouble getting past matters of the heart, didn't they?
End of Volume One.
Before you continue