The words rang out in the large throne room of the Kou Empire palace, followed be a chorus of cheers among the soldiers. Ren Gyokuen stood atop her pedestal as Empress Gyokuen, revered leader of the Kou Empire. She had been, of course, the one to announce such news. Everyone who didn't know better cheered and praised the grand armies of the militarist nation - those who did know kept their tongues quiet. They didn't want to let on that Sinbad's death meant that Al-Thamen had won, and that darkness would soon spread across the lands.
Judal didn't care about that, in fact he wanted the world to become corrupt and tainted. All the better to be thrown into war and chaos - the two things he craved the most. Yet he stood among the crowds, hands balled into fists and silent. Crimson eyes stared at the ground, widened from shock as the words registered in his mind.
Sinbad was… dead?
No, no, it must've been a lie, for the Sinbad he knew would not have fallen so… easily.
Was he… upset? No, that couldn't have been it, he didn't get upset, not over stupid kings. Yet, it hurt, deep down there was a sense of hurt and anguish that clawed at his insides. Sinbad, huh…. Conqueror and High King of the Seven Seas, Ruler of Sindria, the First Class Singularity with Seven Djinns - dead.
There was feeling, yes, but nothing romantic. There was no broken heart, no love, nothing - and he told himself this, reassured himself with this, for he didn't understand why he felt something so negative. Ah but, there was something that stuck out - he had decided on Sinbad to be his king, and a magi's word was binding.
Unknown to him, Judal had created a connection with the king of Sindria - one filled with hate and violence but nonetheless, a connection. There would be no king to pester, no violet hair to muss, no silken sheets to take and strew about a lavish room. His king was gone, and therefore a part of him, Judal, was gone as well.
The depraved magi turned heel and walked out, shoving people out of his way with a scowl as he exited. The rukh, the black rukh, swarmed around the fallen like moths attracted to the flame that was the black sun.
A shout, no a yell, of frustration echoed throughout the night sky - for it had been a proper celebration, taking place in the hours of dwindling light - followed by the large thump that was Judal's fist striking the trunk of a tree.