Chapter 12

Echoes of a broken mind

Baron Mono paused at the doorway as if savoring the weight of his next words. He turned back to face Alistair, his imposing figure silhouetted against the crystalline light. His voice, steady and deliberate, resonated with a finality that felt like the toll of a funeral bell.

"By decree of the Central Plateau Council, and by the authority vested in me as their emissary, thou art sentenced to execution," he said, his medieval tone returning for emphasis. "Thy punishment shall be carried out at the rise of the seventh moon—a month from this day."

Alistair's breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as the gravity of the sentence crushed him.

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You... you can't! A month? That's—no! I... I'll tell you everything! There's more—I'll prove it! I can give you names, locations—anything!"

The Red Ranger tilted her head slightly, her helmet's visor reflecting Alistair's panicked expression. She didn't speak, but her silence carried an air of disdain more cutting than words.

Baron Mono's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "Thou hadst thy chance to speak, Alistair. Thy confessions have already damned thee. Words are but wind now."

Alistair stumbled forward, his legs trembling. "Wait! Please! You don't understand—they made me do it! The cult—they'll come after you! They'll destroy everything if you don't let me help!"

The Red Ranger's voice was calm but unyielding. "And how many lives were destroyed because of your choices, Alistair? How many villages burned because you gave them the means to strike?"

The silence that followed her words was deafening.

Baron Mono adjusted his cloak, his modern tone creeping back in. "The Council does not negotiate with traitors. Your fate is sealed." He turned to the Red Ranger and gave her a curt nod. "Make the arrangements."

She returned the nod, her posture unwavering. "It'll be done."

As the door closed behind them, leaving Alistair alone in the crystalline chamber, he sank to the floor, his mind racing. A month. He had a month to figure out a way to escape, to prove his worth, to survive.

But as he sat there, trembling in the cold light of the crystals, a gnawing fear crept into his thoughts. He wasn't sure what terrified him more: the Rangers' unwavering judgment or the cult's wrath for his failure.

Either way, the noose felt closer every second.

--

The days in the Greymoot prison had dragged on for Alistair, each hour blurring into the next. The damp stone walls, the iron bars, and the ever-present chill of the cell reminded him of his fall from grace. He had once stood as lord over this town, commanding respect and fear. Now, he was a condemned man awaiting his execution, stripped of titles, power, and dignity.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the dimly lit corridor. He sat up, his heart pounding. A guard appeared, unlocking the heavy iron door.

"You have visitors," the guard said gruffly, stepping aside.

Alistair's breath hitched as his wife, Lady Rowena, and their son, Edmond, entered the room. Rowena's face was pale, her usual elegance dulled by exhaustion and grief. Edmond, barely ten, clung to her hand, his wide eyes filled with confusion and fear.

"Rowena," Alistair said, his voice cracking. He rose to his feet but didn't dare take a step closer, afraid she might recoil from him. "You came."

Her gaze was icy, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Of course, I came," she said, her voice sharp. "You are my husband, the father of my child. But do not mistake my presence for forgiveness."

Alistair's shoulders sagged, the weight of her words crushing him. He turned to Edmond, forcing a smile. "Edmond, my boy..."

The child took a hesitant step forward, his small voice trembling. "Papa... why are you here? Why can't you come home?"

Alistair knelt to be at eye level with his son. "Edmond, listen to me. I... I made mistakes. Terrible mistakes. And now I have to answer for them."

"But you're a lord," Edmond protested, tears welling up in his eyes. "You can fix it, can't you? You always fix things!"

Alistair's throat tightened. He reached out, but Rowena pulled Edmond back, her expression hardening.

"You cannot lie to him, Alistair," she said coldly. "Not anymore."

"I'm not lying!" Alistair snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his tone. "I'm trying to make him understand."

"Understand what?" Rowena demanded. "That his father betrayed his people? That he sold them out to a cult for power? Do you think he'll understand that?"

"I did it for us!" Alistair shot back, his voice breaking. "For you, for Edmond! I thought—I thought I could protect you!"

"Protect us?" Rowena's laugh was bitter. "You doomed us, Alistair. Do you think the people of Greymoot will ever look at me or Edmond without seeing your betrayal? You've destroyed our lives!"

The room fell silent except for Edmond's soft sobs. Alistair hung his head, the fight draining out of him. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I see now that I was wrong. But it's too late, isn't it?"

Rowena's eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. "It is too late," she said. "For you. But I will not let your mistakes destroy our son's future. Edmond and I will leave Greymoot. We'll start over somewhere far from here."

Alistair's head snapped up. "No! You can't leave! Please, Rowena, don't take him away from me!"

"You left us the moment you chose power over honor," she said, her voice like ice. "I am only doing what I must to save what's left of our family."

Edmond broke free from Rowena's grasp and ran to Alistair, throwing his arms around his father's neck. "Papa, don't let them take you away! Don't let them take me!"

Alistair held his son tightly, tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry, my boy," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

Rowena watched them for a moment before stepping forward and gently pulling Edmond away. "Say goodbye, Edmond."

"No!" the boy screamed, struggling against her grip. "I don't want to go!"

"Edmond," Rowena said firmly, her voice softening just enough to calm him. "We must go now."

Alistair reached out as they turned to leave. "Rowena, please! Take care of him. Tell him... tell him I love him."

Rowena paused at the door, her back to him. "I will tell him. But he will grow up knowing the truth of who you were. That is my promise."

With that, they left, the sound of the heavy iron door slamming shut echoing in Alistair's ears. He sank to the floor, his body wracked with sobs.

For the first time, he truly felt the weight of what he had lost—and what he had taken from those he loved.

--

Alistair sat in the cold silence of his cell, his sobs eventually fading into ragged breaths. The void left behind by his family's departure seemed to crush him, leaving him hollow. He stared at the stone floor, tracing the cracks with his eyes, his mind adrift.

For the first time in weeks, he found himself wondering if he deserved to see them again. If, perhaps, Rowena was right to take Edmond away. The thought tore at him, but the more he dwelled on it, the more he couldn't deny the truth. He had betrayed everyone—his people, his family, even himself.

A faint sound broke through the oppressive quiet: the shuffle of boots against the stone corridor. Alistair looked up as a shadow stretched across the floor outside his cell. The guard had returned, this time with a hooded figure trailing behind him.

"You have another visitor," the guard said, his voice tinged with disapproval. "This one insisted on seeing you. I'll be outside."

The hooded figure stepped inside the cell, and the guard locked the door behind them before retreating down the corridor.

Alistair narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the visitor's face beneath the hood. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

The figure pulled back their hood, revealing a young woman with striking hazel eyes and a calm, almost detached expression. Alistair's stomach dropped. He knew her—or rather, he recognized her resemblance.

"You..." he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're one of them."

"Tsuyen," she said, her voice measured, as if she were correcting a student. "Though I doubt my name matters to you."

Alistair recoiled slightly, his back pressing against the damp wall of his cell. "What do you want? Haven't your lot done enough?"

Tsuyen tilted her head, her gaze piercing. "That depends on your perspective, Lord Alistair. You call it enough. I call it unfinished."

His throat tightened. "I already confessed. What more do you want from me?"

"I want answers," Tsuyen said, stepping closer. "And not the half-truths you gave under pressure. I want to know the whole truth. Who else in Greymoot is involved? How long have the cultists been infiltrating the Moot region? And most importantly—why did you think they wouldn't discard you the moment you outlived your usefulness?"

Alistair's lip curled. "I've already told your kind everything I know."

"Have you?" she asked, her tone sharp. "Because the pieces we've gathered paint a different picture. A story of greed, desperation, and betrayal. But it's incomplete. And I suspect you know more than you're letting on."

Alistair's hands clenched into fists. "I don't owe you anything. You've already stripped me of everything I had."

Tsuyen sighed, her voice softening just a fraction. "And yet, here you are, clinging to your pride even as the noose tightens around your neck. I'll give you one chance to make this easier for yourself. Cooperate, and your execution will be quick and painless. Refuse, and... well, let's just say the council isn't known for their mercy."

Alistair swallowed hard, his bravado faltering. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Tsuyen's expression didn't waver. "You've seen what we're capable of. Do you really want to test us?"

For a long moment, the two stared at each other in silence. Then, finally, Alistair let out a bitter laugh. "Fine," he spat. "You want the truth? The cult approached me years ago. They promised me power, protection—everything I needed to secure my hold over Greymoot. I didn't ask questions, and they didn't offer explanations. It was a transaction, nothing more."

"And the others?" Tsuyen pressed.

"There were whispers," he admitted reluctantly. "Other lords, merchants, even some of the clergy. But I didn't dare dig too deep. The less I knew, the safer I thought I'd be."

Tsuyen's eyes narrowed. "And yet, here you are."

Alistair glared at her but didn't respond.

She took a step back, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she turned toward the door. "Thank you for your cooperation, Lord Alistair. Your confession will be added to the council's records."

As she reached for the door, Alistair's voice stopped her. "Wait."

She paused but didn't turn around.

"Do you think... do you think they'll ever forgive me?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Tsuyen was silent for a moment before she spoke, her tone devoid of sympathy. "That's not for me to decide. But forgiveness doesn't erase consequences. Remember that."

With that, she knocked on the door, and the guard returned to escort her out. Alistair was left alone once more, the echoes of her words reverberating in the cold, empty cell.

Alistair sat in the suffocating silence of his cell, his thoughts spinning in a storm of despair. Forgiveness, she'd said, wouldn't erase consequences. The truth of that statement settled like a weight on his chest, crushing him.

His confession to Tsuyen replayed in his mind. The names he didn't dare speak, the alliances he had forged in shadow, the lives ruined by his greed. He wondered if they had been watching from behind that mirror—his enemies, his peers, his people. If they had listened to his words and judged him already.

The door to his cell creaked open, startling him. The guard entered with a tray of food and water, setting it down without a word. Alistair's stomach churned at the sight. He hadn't eaten much since his imprisonment; the guilt and dread gnawed at him more than hunger ever could.

"Time to eat," the guard said curtly, stepping back toward the door.

Alistair stared at the tray. "Why bother feeding me?" he muttered. "A month from now, it won't matter."

The guard paused, his expression unreadable. "Because the council says so. And until the day comes, you're still breathing."

With that, the door slammed shut, and Alistair was alone again. He eyed the tray with contempt before shoving it aside, the metal plate clattering against the stone.

His thoughts turned to Rowena and Edmond. Their faces swam before him, vivid and full of life, and his chest tightened. He hated himself for what he'd done to them, for the betrayal they must feel. Would Edmond even remember him when he grew older? Would Rowena ever speak his name again, even in anger?

Alistair buried his face in his hands. "I didn't want this," he whispered to himself. "I didn't want it to end like this."

The hours dragged on, the flickering light from the enchanted crystals casting long, shifting shadows on the walls. Eventually, the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor again.

This time, it wasn't the guard.

The footsteps were softer, measured, accompanied by the faint rustle of fabric. The figure that appeared outside his cell was unfamiliar—a man dressed in finely tailored robes, his face obscured by a hood.

The man gestured to the guard, who unlocked the cell door without hesitation. Alistair's heart pounded as the stranger stepped inside, his movements deliberate, almost predatory.

"Lord Alistair," the man said, his voice calm and cold. "You've caused quite the stir."

"Who... who are you?" Alistair stammered, his bravado crumbling under the stranger's piercing gaze.

"A representative," the man replied, his tone making it clear he wouldn't elaborate. "Of those who still have questions for you."

Alistair felt a chill creep up his spine. "I've already told them everything," he said quickly. "There's nothing more to say."

The man tilted his head, as if studying him. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you've simply been selective in your truths. Either way, I am here to ensure nothing has been overlooked."

Alistair swallowed hard, the weight of the man's presence suffocating. "I-I don't know anything else. I swear."

The man took a step closer, his shadow falling over Alistair. "We shall see."

With a flick of his wrist, the man produced a small crystal orb, its surface swirling with faint, glowing tendrils of light. Alistair's eyes widened as the orb began to pulse, the light growing brighter with each beat.

"Your confessions will be recorded," the man said. "And if you have omitted anything... we will know."

The orb's light intensified, bathing the cell in a harsh, unrelenting glow. Alistair tried to shield his eyes, but the light seemed to pierce through him, illuminating every dark corner of his mind.

He screamed as the memories were pulled to the surface, dragged forth by the orb's power. Faces, voices, secrets he'd buried deep—all of it laid bare in an instant.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the light vanished. Alistair collapsed to the floor, trembling, his breath ragged.

The man studied the orb for a moment before slipping it back into his robes. "Thank you for your cooperation," he said, his tone devoid of warmth.

As he turned to leave, Alistair managed to croak out, "What... what happens now?"

The man paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "Now, you await your fate."

With that, he was gone, leaving Alistair alone once more in the darkness.

--

Alistair sat frozen on the cold stone floor, his body trembling as the man's footsteps faded down the corridor. A pit of dread opened in his stomach as realization struck him with all the force of a hammer blow.

The Night Heralds.

He had heard the whispered stories in his youth, tales of a shadowed order operating outside the bounds of kings and councils. They were ghosts, wielding forbidden knowledge, their loyalty bound not to crowns but to the cryptic and terrible balance they claimed to protect. The heraldry of the night—an ancient sigil long outlawed—was said to mark their presence.

And now, one of them had stood in his cell.

A scream clawed at his throat, but it refused to come. Alistair could only breathe shallowly, the air heavy in his lungs, as the weight of the man's aura seemed to linger even after his departure.

Why had the Night Heralds come for him? Had they been watching this entire time, waiting for his betrayal to ripen like spoiled fruit? The thought filled him with an icy dread.

He glanced at the dim light of the enchanted crystals, his mind racing. He could still feel the residual pull of the orb's light, probing his thoughts, dredging up memories he'd tried to bury. He'd been certain there was nothing left to reveal—but what if the orb found something he hadn't even realized he knew?

Slowly, his hands crept to his hair, pulling at it as if trying to banish the intrusive thoughts. He had confessed everything to the Rangers, even at the cost of his pride, his legacy, and his freedom. What more could they want from him?

But then the other possibility crept in, dark and insidious: What if there was no escape from the Heralds? What if they did not care about his confession, his suffering, or his punishment by Greymoot's council? What if they had claimed him already?

The thought clawed deeper, burrowing into his mind. The man's measured movements, his piercing gaze, the unnatural way the orb had stripped him bare—it was unlike anything the Rangers or the council could have produced.

"No," Alistair whispered, his voice shaky. "No, they can't..."

His breathing quickened as the shadows of the room seemed to grow longer, their edges twisting and curling like phantom claws. His mind began to spiral, the oppressive silence punctuated by the faint echoes of his own confession in the crystal-lit room.

He could hear the screams of those he'd betrayed, the roar of the flames from the cult's attack, the sinister whispers of the false promises they'd made him. All of it folded back into the face of the Spinosaurus-helmeted Yellow Ranger staring him down. And behind her, those shadows—those unrelenting, patient shadows.

"I did everything you asked!" he suddenly screamed, his voice cracking as he stared wildly at the one-way mirror. "I told them everything! Everything!"

There was no response. Only the weight of his own voice, bouncing back at him, and the cold, indifferent light of the crystals.

The shadows in his mind took on more vivid forms. Cloaked figures standing at the edges of his cell. The sensation of being watched, always watched, never alone.

His breathing hitched as he crawled into a corner, clutching his knees to his chest. "They're still here," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. "They never left. They're watching... waiting..."

Madness crept over him like a suffocating blanket, the weight of his guilt, fear, and shattered ego bearing down until he could no longer distinguish reality from paranoia. Alistair's mind fractured under the strain, his whispers turning into unintelligible mutterings as his wide, bloodshot eyes darted around the room.

By the time the guards came to check on him hours later, he was muttering incoherent apologies to the shadows. The Night Heralds, it seemed, had claimed him after all.

The guards hesitated at the door to Alistair's cell. One of them, a younger man with a nervous grip on his halberd, glanced at his senior. "Do you hear that?" he whispered.

The older guard furrowed his brow, tilting his head toward the faint, erratic murmurs leaking from behind the iron door. "He's talking to himself," the older man muttered, his voice gruff and unconcerned. "Madness takes many forms. Nothing unusual after what he's done."

But the younger guard couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The pitch of Alistair's voice fluctuated like a man arguing with invisible company, sometimes low and pleading, sometimes high and desperate. The rhythm of his speech was unnatural, like fragments of different conversations mashed together.

"We should call for the warden," the younger guard suggested, his fingers tightening on his weapon.

The older man snorted, shaking his head. "The warden doesn't have time for this. His sentence is already decided. Let him stew in his guilt."

Still, they both paused before unlocking the cell, exchanging an unspoken agreement to remain on guard. When the door finally groaned open, the light from their torches spilled into the dim cell, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

Alistair was huddled in the farthest corner, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. He rocked slightly, his head bowed, but his mutterings didn't stop. If anything, they grew more frantic as the guards stepped inside.

"I told them everything," he mumbled, his voice trembling and barely audible. "It wasn't my fault. I—I was loyal. They promised..."

The older guard tapped the butt of his halberd against the floor, the sharp sound echoing in the confined space. "Get up, Alistair," he barked. "Your family's coming to visit. At least have the decency to face them like a man."

At the mention of his family, Alistair's head shot up. His bloodshot eyes were wide and wild, darting between the guards with a mix of fear and confusion. For a brief moment, it seemed as though he might comply. But then his gaze shifted to the shadows behind them, and his expression twisted into one of sheer terror.

"No!" he screamed, scrambling further into the corner as if trying to escape something unseen. "They're here—they're still here! Don't you see them?"

The younger guard froze, a chill running down his spine. "What's he talking about?" he whispered, his voice barely steady.

The older guard frowned, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Nothing but the ramblings of a broken man," he said, though his tone betrayed a flicker of unease.

Alistair's hands clawed at his hair, his voice rising in hysteria. "You don't understand! They never left! They're watching me—they're waiting for me!"

"Enough of this," the older guard growled, striding forward and grabbing Alistair by the arm. "On your feet."

Alistair flinched at the contact, his body rigid with panic. But he didn't resist. Instead, he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet, his eyes darting around the room as though expecting the shadows to pounce on him at any moment.

As the guards escorted him out of the cell, his mutterings continued, quieter now but no less frantic. "They won't let me go... They'll come for me... They'll come for all of us..."

The younger guard glanced nervously over his shoulder as they left the cell. The shadows seemed to shift in the torchlight, and for a brief, irrational moment, he thought he saw a figure standing in the corner where Alistair had been huddled.

He quickly shook the thought from his mind, following his senior and their prisoner down the dimly lit corridor.

Behind them, the cell door creaked shut, and the oppressive silence of the dungeon returned. But in the darkness, it felt as though something lingered—a faint, lingering presence watching from the corners, just as Alistair had claimed.

--

A month has passed.

Alistair stood at the edge of the scaffold, his hands bound tightly behind his back, his head held low in a mocking semblance of respect. His heart thundered in his chest, but it wasn't from the shame or fear of the public execution awaiting him. No, the madness had crept in long ago. It twisted his thoughts, warped his perception, until he could hardly tell what was real anymore. His life had been a series of moves, a game, one he believed he could control—until the final miscalculation had come.

His thoughts drifted, slipping like sand through the cracks of his mind. The crowd below him had gathered, their eyes fixed on him. He could feel their judgment, their contempt, their quiet satisfaction. He had betrayed them all, sold them out for the promise of power, and now they would be free of him. But something gnawed at his insides, something darker than regret. It wasn't just the finality of his actions, the price of his betrayal. It was the nagging realization that he hadn't really won anything.

His family—his legacy—flashed before his eyes, those long-lost memories of a time when he had been loved, respected. Those moments when he had truly believed he was destined for greatness. But now, all of it felt like a distant dream, slipping further and further away as the noise of the crowd and the finality of the moment closed in on him. His breath quickened.

He remembered his first steps into the fold of the cult. It had seemed so simple then, so clean. He would be a part of something larger, a force of destruction to be reckoned with. But it hadn't gone as planned. The power had been intoxicating, but the cost had been so much higher than he ever imagined. He could still hear their voices—the Night Heralds, whispering, promising, lying. Their promises of control, of immortality, had seemed so sweet. Yet, now they felt hollow, mocking even in the silence of his final moments.

Alistair's mind flitted back to the cult's magic, to the whispers that had once seemed so empowering. The magic that had kept him going, even when the guilt started to sink in. When his mind began to unravel. Madness, he thought bitterly. That's what it was. Madness disguised as power. But I never wanted to be a puppet for them. The realization hit him with the force of a hammer: he'd been controlled all along. The Night Heralds had always been in charge. He had just been too blind to see it, too far gone to recognize his own unraveling.

Then there was the fear—the gnawing fear—that came when the doors to his cell had closed behind him, that strange sense of being watched, of being followed. He had heard the voices, but they were too faint, too distant to make sense of. Was it the cult's lingering influence, or was it something else? Something darker still? He didn't know, and it scared him more than anything else ever had.

Now, as the voices of the crowd rose, as the executioner read the charges that would condemn him, Alistair found himself wondering if any of it had been worth it. The promises, the lies, the power. All of it had crumbled into dust.

The whip cracked, and his thoughts shattered. Alistair was dragged back to the present, the reality of the situation sinking in like a stone. The final moment was upon him.

And then, the silence.

A piercing moment of calm before the storm.

He thought of his family, of the faces that would never forgive him. He thought of his name, now forever tarnished by betrayal. He thought of the rangers—their arrival, their fight, their victory over the cult. He had been part of a world much bigger than him, a world where he had no place, no future.

The crowd gathered below him was now a blur, their expressions indistinguishable to him. They were no longer people. They were just a sea of faces, waiting for the inevitable. His last thoughts were fragments, chaotic, disjointed. Had I ever truly been in control? Or was it all a lie?

Alistair's knees buckled, his body dropping like a stone, but not before a final, deafening thought rang through his mind. The cult's whispers had stopped. The madness that had plagued him, that had guided him for so long, had quieted. And in that silence, in that eerie calm, he could finally hear the one thing that had eluded him all along: the truth.

It didn't matter anymore.

He was dead.