When old King Groff drew his sword and pointed it at the enemy we all expected death: glorious, song-worthy death, but death nonetheless.
When the enemy fled, routed, His Majesty was the only one among us not to seem surprised. When the enemy reformed, regrouped on the plains below, the King understood: fear of him was the only thing keeping them at bay.
He called the witches, and they came, and the King was turned to stone. We moved him, the statue of him, up to the bluffs overlooking the enemy, and there he stands.
Ten years, they’ve stayed away.