Seeds of Doubt

The rough-hewn wooden rafters of the small cottage offered little comfort, yet Gordon found himself staring at them for hours, the rough grain a stark contrast to the polished marble of his former throne room. The memories were a persistent, icy tide, lapping at the edges of his new existence. King of Rustle. Assassinated. The sharp, agonizing pain, the betrayal in familiar eyes, the suffocating darkness that followed. And then, the void. The gentle, yet undeniably powerful presence of Ruidoso. The gift of a new life, a new world.

But now, another name echoed in the quiet chambers of his mind, a name that sent a chill deeper than any winter wind: Torh jojo. The god of death. Ruidoso’s brother. The architect of his demise. The pieces, once scattered and incomprehensible, were beginning to coalesce into a terrifying mosaic. Why? Why him? What grand, cruel game was being played with his soul?

He rose from the straw-filled mattress, his small, undeveloped limbs feeling strangely alien. The air in the cottage was thick with the scent of dried herbs and woodsmoke, a far cry from the perfumed halls of his palace. He walked to the single, small window, peering out at the unfamiliar landscape. Rolling hills, dotted with hardy, wind-swept trees, stretched out under a sky that seemed bluer, more vibrant, than the one he remembered. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but a knot of unease tightened in his stomach.