Her chamber door burst open, startling them both. Instinctively she pulled the covers up to her chin, heart pounding. Sir Praxton, with no concern for modesty, leapt from the bed. His sword, never far from hand, swept from its place at the bedside in a practiced motion. “Who dares disturb the Queen?” He demanded, his voice laced with indignation. As his eyes swept the room he recognized the intruder. Prince Regent Kasiam, accompanied by four armed guards, bearing unsheathed blades and dressed in the Regent’s black livery.


    “Sir Praxton, good. I had hoped that I’d find you here,” the Regent said. His pitched and wheedling voice was a stark contrast to his imposing physique. “Sheath your blade Sir, there is no need for violence.”


    “Kasiam, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” Queen Amira demanded, putting all of her royal authority in the words.


    “Your Highness,” Kasiam replied as he bent his waist in a mocking bow. “Truly a simple matter, easily resolved. Instruct your man to disarm and please accompany us.” The regent’s eyes lingered on the Queen’s barely covered body, his reassuring words did little to ease her apprehension.


    Doubt flickered on the Queen’s face as she glanced from the Regent to her lover and the staring guards. “No, Kasiam,” she replied with a firm resolve. “You will explain yourself, now!”


    The Regent gave her a truly menacing look. “I’m afraid I will not, Your Highness. It is a delicate matter of great importance to the realm and best handled in private.” He nodded to his men who advanced into the room at his signal, indifferent to the Queen’s modesty. “Sir Praxton, I implore you to stand down and sheath your sword.” Kasiam’s penetrating gaze lingered on the knight.


    A silent exchange passed between Queen Amira and her protector, a small nod from her. Chase raised his sword, a gleaming menace to all in his path, his stance unwavering. The Regent’s men moved cautiously, their initial confidence faltered as they faced the knight. Despite his nudity, Praxton was a force to be reckoned with. His skill with a blade was legendary throughout Reald and the Regent’s men realized the gravity of the situation.


    The four guards, their blades gleaming in the dim light, surrounded Praxton. Their assault was relentless in the hopes of overpowering him. The knight parried and countered them with ease, his skill unmatched. Blows were exchanged as the air filled with the clash of steel. One of Kasiam’s men fell, his lifeblood staining the marble floor. Another clutched at his side wounded and presently out of the fight.


    Despite his abilities, Chase was outnumbered. A well-placed blow pierced his sword arm and sank into the flesh, leaving him vulnerable. Another guard took the opportunity, his blade slicing across Praxton’s torso, leaving a red patch as it cut into his flesh and drew a cry of pain. The wound was shallow, but blood flowed freely now, weakening the knight.


    Overwhelmed, Sir Praxton fell to his knees. A kick from the injured guard sent him tumbling and his sword clattered across the floor. He lay there, helpless, his body ravaged by the wounds.


    “Take her, now!” The Regent commanded his lackeys. Two of them moved to obey while the injured man held Chase at bay with a sword point to his chin.


    The Queen struggled against the guards in a panic, her arms flailing in a desperate attempt to ward them off. The coverlet slipped, revealing her nakedness to all, her breasts swaying with her movements. Her vulnerability coupled with the sight of her lover bleeding on the floor drained her remaining will. A small hope remained that perhaps the commotion would alert others within the palace. She realized however, that Kasiam had likely taken precautions to ensure their privacy, leaving her at their mercy.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    With defiance in her eyes the Queen rose from the bed, her regal bearing undeterred by the circumstances. She wrapped the coverlet about herself, a makeshift ward against the leering eyes. The guards grasped her arms, restraining her movements. She met their gaze with a challenging glare.


    “What of this one, Sire?” The injured guard questioned.


    “What of him?” Kasiam replied, indifferent, a twisted sneer on his lips. “Lock him up, he’s no longer a threat. If he dies, so be it.”


    Despite his immobility, Chase remained defiant. “You’ll not get away with this. When the council learns of this treachery, they will deal with you.”


    “The council is not an issue,” Kasiam scoffed, his laughter echoing through the chamber. “Those opposed to me have met the same fate as you. Others have chosen wisely to support me. Your affair with our Queen is done.”


    With out another word the Regent turned to leave the room, his men on his heels. Queen Amira’s heart was heavy with defeat as she reached out for Chase, her hand brushing his. The guard, cautious despite his advantage, pressed the sword point against Sir Praxton’s neck, drawing a fresh bead of blood and preventing any further heroics from the knight. The remaining guards pulled the Queen away.


    Amira gave a sorrowful final glance at her lover, casting a message of defiance. “Resist when you can, escape,” the command was full of hope. With that she was gone, leaving Chase with his captor.


    “Get up, put something on.” His guard barked with evident impatience.


    In pain and weakened from blood loss, Chase struggled to rise. His wounds were severe and he knew his chance of survival was slim. These men would not tend to his injuries, they would leave him to perish, buried in the dungeon. With effort he pulled on his leggings, forgoing a shirt.


    Once dressed suitably enough for his guard he was urged forward, the sword pressed insistently against the small of his back, a killing blow should the guard use it. As they navigated the silent halls Chase’s mind raced, who would aid him if he escaped? He knew his survival was tenuous at best, yet his determination was fueled by thoughts of his captive Queen. Her helpless vulnerability, ignited a fierce resolve within him.


    With a swift and calculated move Praxton collapsed to the floor, feigning a renewed bout of weakness. A groan escaped him, lending conviction to his ruse and momentarily distracting his captor. The guard, showing some concern for his well-being, lowered his alertness to access Chase’s condition.


    Chase lashed out, seizing the opportunity he’d fabricated. His arms wrapped around the guardsman’s legs. Pain shot through his injuries, but he ignored it, his focus unwavering. The guard was knocked off balance and tumbled to the floor. With a desperate lunge Chase reached for the guard’s sword, a fierce struggle for possession of the blade ensued.


    With one hand grappling for the blade, the other reached for the guard''s chin. Chase forced his opponent''s head back at an unnatural angle. The guard though, despite his own injury, proved more resilient than anticipated. His counter efforts to control his sword grew more determined. Desperate, Chase gave up his attempt to wrest the blade and instead redoubled his efforts on the guard’s neck. His hands tightened around the man’s throat.


    Realizing the futility in the struggle, Praxton summoned his last reserves of strength. With a final, mighty effort, he slammed the guard’s head against the hard marble. Again and again he repeated the brutal tactic, the blows sending echoes through the empty corridors. His first impact dislodged the guard’s steel helmet, the subsequent strikes drove his head into the unyielding floor and smashed his skull to a bloody pulp. Ichor pooled on the floor, a bright crimson stain on the once pristine marble.