Heir of the King

Damon woke up in an empty and silent room, with the smell of petrichor outside his window and a bubbling potion on a single furnace. One clay pot was placed above the crackling fire and on it, moss green liquid swirling clockwise.

The king held his forehead as he sat up. A slight groan escaped his lips, the reason being his body being sore.

“Anyone there outside the door?” – he called out, slightly annoyed with the idea that no one was there on the room to assist him.

The door opened, and two unfamiliar soldiers stood there with their hands hidden on their backs.

“You called for us, my king?” – said the younger one

“Where is everyone?” – Damon answered with another question.

One of the soldiers stepped closer and leaned in.

“Did you just wake up, my king?”

Damon frowned. What does it have to do with anything?

“Yes. My head’s still aching. Where are the witches?”

The soldier straightened his back. He realized the king had no idea of what has happened with the queen. And the great