Bosomella looked at the second loop of magical twine. Awaiting some other prisner. Her mistress sagged against the cart, silent, her eyes closed. Unwilling to test her bonds again.
After an hour of pounding the great battering ram against the castle gates, the king appeared upon the main balcony.
The largest monk rose to address their elderly monarch: “You have failed to bring your son before us as you so promised in your youth. You know that we remain bound by blood to the oaths between us. Bring him now that he may choose. His crown or his pledge. His royal position or his first born son.”
The old king’s face suddenly seemed like powdered chalk and he staggered back against the wall. But then his son was beside him. Steadying his arm and staring down at the cowled figures below.