The princess's voice cut through the quiet moment, her tone steady and defiant.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't believe in any of it. I refuse to. Fate and karma are excuses the weak use to explain why they can't change their lives. Everything can be bent with enough power."
The old man looked at her, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, but he did not argue. Instead, he shrugged and murmured, "To each their own."
Leaning back, he let the conversation settle into a lull, as if letting her words sink into the air.
Listening to their conversation, Zarak could see the princess was more than just a royal with titles and luxuries. Her tone carried ambition, a drive to shape her own destiny rather than submit to some unchangeable fate.
He could sense that her spirit would not be confined by abstract concepts like fate. Each word she spoke was sharp, unyielding.
As the carriage rolled on, silence filled the space. Only the sound of air swooshing cut through the quiet, lulling them into a sort of contemplative calm.
Then, after some time, Zarak leaned forward, breaking the silence.
"Princess," he said, "if you can't use the imperial army to go after those dark-robed attackers, why not place a bounty on their heads?"
She looked at him, curiosity sparking in her gaze. "A bounty?"
"Yes," Zarak replied,
He recalled things he had seen during his travels. There were guilds in each city, and there were bounty hunters and mercenaries who took on these types of jobs.
If one offered a reward, something substantial, one could draw out people skilled enough to deal with the task.
The princess's expression turned thoughtful as she considered his suggestion. Slowly, a small smile tugged at her lips.
"That's... an interesting idea," she admitted. "A bounty could bring the right kind of people. It might even be enough to lure out skilled fighters who know how to handle them."
They continued chatting as the carriage sped along the road. Zarak's questions about the capital seemed endless, and the princess answered each one with care, her words painting vivid pictures of the grand city, its towering walls, bustling marketplaces, magnificent temples, and the intricately constructed paths leading to hidden places only the locals knew about.
The conversation flowed easily between them, each sharing glimpses of their knowledge and curiosity, though Zarak could tell the princess chose her words with care, like she was guarding secrets.
He respected that restraint; she had an air about her that suggested wisdom beyond her years, a quality he found strangely comforting.
Finally, the carriage slowed to a halt, and a guard's voice called from outside, "Madame Emissary, we've arrived at the designated location."
The princess turned to Zarak and the old man, a gentle smile softening her face.
"It's time for us to part ways," she said, her tone formal but carrying a warmth that suggested gratitude.
Zarak nodded and stood up, preparing to leave the carriage. But before he could step out, the princess spoke again.
"Do you need any financial aid?" she asked, her eyes sincere. Princess knew since Zarak came from the mountains, he might not have anything on him. Giving him some aid might make it easier to navigate the capital.
...
Meanwhile, far from the peaceful road leading to the capital, a different scene unfolded in a dimly lit chamber.
Shadows twisted around a single flickering candle, casting an eerie glow on the stone walls lined with ancient symbols and arcane carvings.
The symbols, barely visible in the faint light, spiraled across the floor and walls in intricate patterns, each one filled with otherworldly energy.
Suddenly, the carvings pulsed to life, their glow shifting from a dull shimmer to a sharp, fiery radiance.
A cloaked figure appeared from thin air, collapsing onto the cold stone floor beside the candle.
Blood trickled from his mouth, pooling in dark streaks on the ground.
For a moment, he lay motionless, as still as a corpse, until, impossibly, his eyes snapped open.
The blood that had pooled beneath him began to retreat, like time was reversing itself, slipping back into his veins.
The figure rose slowly, pressing a hand to his chest as if checking for a heartbeat.
His eyes darted around the chamber, fear flashing across his face before he managed to calm his breathing.
"Master," he muttered, his voice barely audible, echoing softly in the empty chamber. "What... what was that skill?"
Though the room was empty, a voice resonated in his mind, deep and commanding, heard by him alone.
"That is a secret art from the immortal realm—the lost art of the Soul Reaper King."
The cloaked figure clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing under his hood. "But why couldn't I sense it coming?"
A pause, and then the voice continued, calm and steady.
"It's not a physical attack, nor does it rely on spiritual energy. It strikes at the soul itself."
The figure's face darkened, a flicker of dread tightening his expression. "If it attacks the soul directly, how can anyone hope to fight against it?"
"There are limits,"
the voice replied.
"This technique cannot harm a soul stronger than the caster's. It also fails against those with soul-protecting artifacts. It only affected you because you've only fused half of your soul with the dark one. Once the fusion is complete, such attacks will have no effect on you."
The figure's gaze turned cold, a dark, intense resolve burning in his eyes. "Zarak... don't let me see you again."
With that, the carvings on the floor lit up once more, bathing the chamber in an intense, spectral glow.
Then, in a sudden flash, the cloaked figure vanished, leaving the room in near darkness. The candle flickered weakly, its flame reduced to a faint, lingering glow as the symbols faded into silence once again.