In an unknown place in the fae-land….
"Exile him…exile him! Exile him!"
The words kept ringing in his ears like an earworm.
'Get out of my head!' He wanted to shout out, but the words were stuck in his throat, and he could barely make any sound out in that moment. In the span of a few hours, his already sickly face had turned ghastly.
Sunken cheeks and hollow eyes etched with defeat, Syla sat slouched in a then creaking wheelchair, hands trembling as he attempted to wheel himself forward over the uneven, dust-choked ground.
There was no one to help him now … no guards to carry him or help ease the movement of his permanent transport, no advisors whispering clever lies, no soft hands of a wife nor innocent giggles of a child to soothe him.
