《The Doves Amongst Demons》 Chapter I- A Future Queen (Scene 1) Sofia Paloma, princess and future queen of Eastamere, kept her head down, pulling her hood tighter to obscure her identity. A rolled map poked out of the heavily packed bag slung over her shoulder as flat shoes tapped against the smooth stones, each step echoing in the deserted streets of Palomia, Eastamere¡¯s capital. The full moon cast a silvery sheen over the city, cold and unforgiving. She was twenty-five now, no longer a child, and she was ready to go. She had avoided her father¡¯s royal guard patrolling the streets tonight, relying on her brother¡¯s rigid and predictable system. If Luis caught her, what would she even say? How could she explain this desperate escape to the knight who put duty before everything? He¡¯ll drag me back to the palace, Sofia thought, her heart sinking. Luis doesn¡¯t understand¡ªhe never will. And yet he was still her little brother. A gust of wind brushed through her white silk dress, making the bow of the pink ribbon around her waist flutter. She shivered, quickening her pace toward The Dove¡¯s Corner Inn and towards warmth. The inn¡¯s sign screeched as it swung, its shadow stretching across the street¡ªa dove, the crest of House Paloma, her father¡¯s emblem, and a symbol of peace for all mankind. Guilt gnawed at her, but she shook it off. I¡¯m sorry, Father. First, I¡¯m going to live. Sofia carefully pushed against the front door, relief flooding her as she stepped inside. Amiable conversations fluttered against her ears, mingling with the smells of spiced Eastamerean wine and summer beeswax candles. Each breath filled Sofia¡¯s lungs with heady perfume while the heat of a roaring hearth danced across her skin. She kept her hood up, wary of being recognised, unable to shake the feeling that each step away from the palace was a step further from the person she was supposed to be. It nagged at her. This was a betrayal of everything she had been taught to uphold. A wooden staircase lay before her, leading to the upper floor. Sofia climbed the steps, each creak of the wood echoing under her feet. When she found the room, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, finding a window overlooking the paved street Sofia had just travelled down¡ªa perfect view. ''Nicely done, Your Highness.'' A glass of red Eastamerean wine sat on a round table, its owner a young woman with the fiery hair of the Gallos. Esme turned to Sofia and offered a drunken smile. ''Trust you to start drinking without me,'' Sofia scoffed, lowering her hood. Esme shrugged. ''You shouldn¡¯t have taken so long.'' ''You don¡¯t have a brother who is captain of the royal guard.'' Esme placed another glass on the table and started pouring. ''Everything¡¯s better with some wine in the belly. Drink up, Your Highness. You¡¯re safe now. Luis won¡¯t find you here.'' With a small chink, the pair of them tipped their glasses towards their lips. Sofia took a moment to appreciate the smooth, sweet taste. In the long and dreary council meetings, Father had only allowed one glass so they could keep their wits about them when considering important matters of state. Yet she¡¯d heard the stories of when Father was her age, of when he used to drink whole barrels with his friends. Most of those friends were dead now, buried beneath the old battlefields that had once staged pivotal conflicts between their own kingdom and their neighbouring kingdom, Galia. The war had ripped their youths right from under them. The door burst inward with a resounding crash. For a moment, Sofia tensed, thinking it was her brother coming for her. She relaxed when she saw who it truly was, the third part of their journey. Her childhood friend, Fernando, stumbled into the room, his breaths ragged. In trembling hands, he clutched a weathered book covered with the fierce image of a snarling green dragon, its scales shimmering in the candlelight. Fernando¡¯s brow shone with sweat, his black hair tousled from his urgency. ''I¡¯ve got it,'' he said, holding the book in the air triumphantly. Esme rolled her eyes. ''He forgot his dragon book.'' ''Don¡¯t roll your eyes like that, Esme,'' Fernando said, ''It¡¯s the whole reason we¡¯re going on this trip in the first place!'' ''For you, maybe. For me, not so much.'' ''That doesn¡¯t matter,'' Sofia said, maintaining the peace between her friends, as she always did. ''The main thing is that we¡¯re here and we¡¯re doing it together. Look¡­'' Sofia reached into her bag and pulled out the map she¡¯d rolled up. She straightened it and placed it on the table, a map of the continent, a large, rugged, triangle-like shape. The Border Mountain Range cleaved through the land like a timeless scar, leaving Eastamere on the east side and Galia on the west. They would see it all. Her heart ached as she looked at it, thinking of her father¡¯s inevitable disappointment. He¡¯d put so much faith in her, named her queen when Eastamere had never had a queen. Lords protested and advised against it, but her father wouldn¡¯t hear of it. She was the firstborn child, and that was the way of things in his kingdom. I need this, Sofia thought desperately as she stared at her map, Father has to understand. A small splodge of wine leaked into the parchment, staining the southern sea crimson. ''Great,'' Sofia groaned, her heart sinking, ''You¡¯ve just ruined my map.'' Esme shrugged. ''It¡¯s just parchment. You¡¯ll see the real thing soon enough.'' Sofia¡¯s eyes lingered on the wine stain, her heart fluttering with frustration and regret, her mind trapping her father¡¯s pained expression, refusing to let him go. ''Where are we starting?'' Fernando asked, peering at the map. Sofia blinked and forced herself to focus, pushing her doubts aside for the moment. ''Here.'' She pointed to one of the cities on the southern point of Galia¡ªNymerium. ''Nymerium has good inns and a clear path north. From there, we can begin our journey.'' Fernando smiled. ''Excellent,'' he said, glancing down at his book, ''I hear Nymerium has history with dragons.'' Esme scoffed. ''The dragons are dead, Fernando, how many times must I tell you that?'' ''Alright then, what about the frozen north?'' Fernando planted a finger into the northern section of the continent, coloured white. ''They say the wizard Cronus and his army of orcs still live.'' Esme snorted in hearty laughter. She was right, of course, no one had seen a living dragon or any orc army for decades, but there was so much more to see. They could travel to the northern provinces of Galia and Eastamere, climb the Border Mountain Range, visit the ancient burial sites of the elves. Anything to escape, just for a little while. Doubt gnawed at Sofia¡¯s resolve, her body itching to move to the harbour. The longer they stayed here, the more likely Luis would find them, and smash her hope into pieces. Bam! Bam! Bam! Sofia froze, the knock at the door rumbling throughout the entire room. ''Sofia,'' a voice called. Bam! Bam! Bam! ''Sofia, are you in there?'' Sofia¡¯s heart plummeted. Her brother¡¯s voice reverberated through the walls, each word a hammer blow. No, she wanted to curse, to shout at the Gods for being so cruel, and herself for being so stupid. She snatched her map from the table, rolling it up tight before the door swung open, revealing a pair of knights wearing the gold-plated armour and white cloaks of the Eastamerean royal guard. One of them swanned forward, his sweeping dark hair perfectly combed. ''What are you doing here, Luis?'' Sofia asked, struggling to cling to her confidence as a knot tightened in her gut. ''We¡¯re carrying out our duties as knights of the royal guard,'' Luis said, serious as ever. ''What are you three doing here?'' ''Nothing,'' Sofia said as a thousand excuses flew through her mind, none of them good enough to convince her brother that nothing was going on. ''Hmm¡­'' Luis stroked his chin. His gaze remained fixed, the silence more accusing than words. Luis had always been a stickler for duty and honour, but ever since Father had promoted him to captain, he had only grown worse. ''I¡¯ll ask you again,'' Luis said, an icy chill growing in his voice as he stepped closer, ''What are you doing here?'' Sofia looked her brother in his sharp brown eyes, eyes that missed very little. She opened her mouth to spout some lie to him, some silly excuse that Luis probably would never believe even if he drank enough wine to sink a ship. But the words never came, and the truth lay for all to see. ''Well, I suggest you wrap it up and come with me,'' Luis said, before Sofia could say anything, ''Father¡¯s called an urgent council meeting, and he wants you to be there.'' Sofia¡¯s heart sank, her freedom disappearing like smoke in the wind. Yet curiosity itched at her brain. ''Did he say why?'' she asked her brother. ''Father is going to make peace with Galia.'' Luis¡¯ words hung in the air for a moment as an eerie gust of wind forced its way into the room, making their candles flicker. Sofia¡¯s stomach churned, and in the distance, she heard a faint noise that sounded alarmingly like a cry for help. Peace with Galia? She could hardly believe it. No doubt some members of the council would think that impossible. Some were still recovering from the wounds of their last war, twenty-three long years ago, when Sofia¡¯s father was a young man and the newly crowned king. ''Now come on,'' Luis said, marching closer, ''Father is waiting.'' Sofia¡¯s breath hitched as the blinding gleam of her brother¡¯s armour shone in her face. She wanted to tell him that he couldn¡¯t make her go anywhere, that she wanted to stay with her friends and continue her adventure. But her mother¡¯s voice whispered in her mind¡ªYou are the blood of the dove, and the blood of the dove runs thick. She let Luis take her arm and carefully escort her towards the door, her destiny weighing her down with every step. Sofia heard Esme say something to Luis, but he quickly shut the door behind her, barring Sofia from her friends. (Scene 2) A chill set about the air, gnawing at Sofia¡¯s skin as she sat at the polished oak council table, her fingers tracing an intricate carving of a dove on her chair¡¯s armrest. Bold colours divided the room¡ª the lower half gleaming in a fresh, black coat, with the upper half painted in a dark red. Stained glass windows depicting the ancient time of the elves stood to Sofia¡¯s left, the moonlight giving their blue and green robes an ethereal glow. A single gaping fireplace sat in the corner, light cobwebs surrounding it, casting eerie shadows that crept across the room, inching ever closer. Sofia¡¯s gaze shifted uneasily to Lord Serben Diae, seated beside her. He adjusted his posture, his thin smile gleaming like polished steel under the dim, flickering light of the chandeliers. His green eyes pierced through the gloom, their sharpness contrasting with the soft light. ''Thank you very much for attending tonight¡¯s council session, princess,'' he said, ''Your father will appreciate it.'' Sofia managed an awkward smile for her father¡¯s old friend, her stomach tightening into a knot. A groan resonated from across the table. Lord Keylor Gallo, another one of her father¡¯s loyal councillors¡¯, presence was like a storm cloud gathering. His grey hair tumbled like a cascade of rain, and his thick brows were furrowed in an unyielding scowl. His fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly that the knuckles were white, as if he could crush the wood beneath him. The black council chamber door creaked open, and a hearty guffaw fluttered in, making Sofia flinch. The king graced the room with a jovial air, his golden jacket shimmering against the dark wood panelling. He carried his halberd like an old friend, the metal catching the light with each stride. Behind him, the golden knights of his royal guard marched in, their armour clinking softly. They took their positions, standing still like statues. Sofia quickly rose and followed the council in bowing her head to her father, her legs trembling slightly. Once everyone was seated again, Sofia¡¯s fingers resumed their tracing of the carved dove. ''I¡¯m sure by now you have all heard my plans,'' Father said with a smile. ''Have you forgotten who the Galians are, Your Majesty?'' Lord Gallo¡¯s voice thundered, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. The noise made Sofia jump, her heart racing in response to the sudden outburst. ''I defended the border from King Rickard¡¯s¡­ ambition. I¡¯ve seen what they¡¯re capable of under tyrants like him!'' He scoffed. ''They don¡¯t know what peace is!'' Her father¡¯s gaze transformed instantly, the warmth of the caring storyteller of her childhood replaced by the steely resolve of King Geraldo II. His voice, when he spoke, was a low growl that seemed to shake the chamber. ''I defended our country against the Galians as well, Lord Gallo,'' he said, gripping his halberd. ''I fought them rather than shouting commands from behind high walls. Do not presume to know more about King Rickard¡¯s brutality than I.'' The intensity of her father¡¯s glare made Sofia hold her breath, as if the sheer force of it might ignite the old lord into a ball of flame where he sat. ''That does not conceal the truth,'' the king continued, his voice firm. ''I promised my wife I would end the tensions between our kingdoms. Now that the chance is within reach, I cannot waste it, not after all we¡¯ve lost.''You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Mother¡¯s dead, Father, Sofia thought miserably. We¡¯ll never know what she truly wanted. Lord Serben leaned forward, his gaze darting between her father and Lord Gallo. ''Correct, Your Majesty, peace is the priority. We must take this chance¡­ although¡­'' Her father¡¯s attention snapped to Serben. ''Although, what?'' ''I would exercise caution. Lord Gallo has the right of it. The Galians aren¡¯t as driven for peace as we are. Many still see you as ¡®The Devil¡¯s Cobra,¡¯ the man who relishes battle¡­'' ''I am not that person anymore,'' Father said firmly, the pain of that name etching across his face. ''I know that, Your Majesty,'' Serben said softly, ''It is simply the reality of our situation.'' ''Do you suggest I send someone else to make peace in my place?'' Father asked sharply, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing. ''Wonderful idea. I¡¯m sure King Rickard will appreciate that very much.'' ''Respectfully, Your Majesty, I didn¡¯t say that,'' Serben said, ''I only meant we should proceed with caution.'' Sofia¡¯s mind whirled with the implications of their words. Her father¡¯s determination, Serben¡¯s measured concern, Gallo¡¯s blunt warnings ¡ª they all swirled together, a cacophony of conflicting advice that left her feeling more lost than ever. And then, as sudden as a bolt of lightning, Father¡¯s gaze shifted to look directly at her. ''Sofia, what do you think?'' Sofia froze, her breath catching in her throat as the council chamber fell into a tense silence. All eyes turned to her, their gazes sharp and expectant. She had always known this moment would come ¡ª the moment when her voice would matter, when her opinion would shape the future of Eastamere and the continent as a whole. But now that it was here, all she could feel was a bone-deep terror threatening to paralyse her. Father discreetly tipped his head, inviting her to speak freely, but the gesture, meant to encourage, only intensified the pressure. I remember when your father became king, Mother¡¯s voice soared through her thoughts, he was just like you, all scared and on edge. Look at him now. Her mother had always known what to say, always found the words to soothe her fears. But now, standing in the very chamber where her father had made countless decisions, it was difficult to reconcile the man before her with the boy her mother had once described. King Geraldo II, the unyielding warrior, the man who had led Eastamere through countless battles ¡ª had he ever truly been afraid? Had he every truly been young and terrified of what the future held? ''Erm¡­'' Her voice wavered, and a pang of shame shot through her. She had wanted to sound strong and confident, like her father, but instead she felt like a child lost in a room full of giants. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to disappear, to retreat into the shadows and let someone else bear the burden of this decision. But she couldn¡¯t. She had to stand her ground. Drawing strength from the golden dove on their house banners, she forced herself to remember what that symbol meant. A symbol of peace for all mankind, forever. ''I think we should take it,'' she said finally, her voice steadier than before. She met her father¡¯s expectant gaze, forcing herself to hold it, to show him that she believed in her words. ''If we can achieve peace, we should take that chance.'' The words hung in the air, and for a moment, she feared she had made a terrible mistake. What if the council thought her too na?ve, too inexperienced to understand the gravity of the situation? Her mind raced with the possible repercussions, each one more dire than the last. But then Father bowed his head, a prideful smile playing on his lips. Relief flooded through her, but she fought to remain strong. She thought of Fernando and Esme staying behind in Eastamere while she travelled to Galia. The realisation gnawed at her, a sharp, relentless ache that deepened with every passing second. She had done her duty as the future queen, saying what needed to be said, doing what needed to be done, but the consequences of that duty weighed heavily. The prospect of going to Galia alone, without the comfort and familiarity of her friends, felt like a step too far. ''Although¡­'' Her words slipped out before she could stop herself. ''I would appreciate it if Fernando and Esme could join us on our trip to Galia.'' ''With respect, princess, you shouldn¡¯t even be here,'' Lord Gallo objected, his voice a harsh bark that echoed off the chamber walls. ''Discussion in this chamber is for members of the king¡¯s council, you know that.'' Sofia tried not to flinch at Lord Gallo¡¯s words, as biting as they were. She had long understood that his harshness was born of loyalty and experience, not malice. He was a bitter old soldier, scarred by years of war, and had never learned the art of diplomacy. Yet, despite his lack of grace, he had been instrumental in her father¡¯s victories. Without Lord Gallo¡¯s strategic brilliance, the war might have had a very different outcome. ''I think we can make an exception for your future queen, my lord,'' Father said, grinning in that familiar, reassuring way. ''You will one day take orders from her.'' ''Not for many years, I hope,'' Lord Gallo replied, scowling. Father¡¯s grin faded, replaced by a flash of anger that made Sofia¡¯s pulse quicken. ''That¡¯s your final warning,'' he said, jabbing a finger at Lord Gallo, his voice a low growl. ''You presume too much, my lord. I have decided. We are going to Galia, and we will make peace. Is that understood?'' Lord Gallo grumbled something under his breath before saying, ''Of course, Your Majesty.'' Father turned back to Sofia, his smile returning, though it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ''I¡¯m sorry, my love. I cannot allow Fernando or Esmerelda to accompany us to Galia. The only people who will go are you, me, your brother, Lord Serben, and the royal guard. I need to make a good impression on King Rickard if I¡¯m going to achieve peace. My decision is final on this.'' Final. The word struck her like a blow, robbing her of the last shred of hope she had left. Of course, it¡¯s final. Her father¡¯s decisions always were. ''My friends will keep me company,'' Sofia said, her voice small and strained. ''I won¡¯t¡­'' I won¡¯t feel so alone. The unspoken words echoed in her mind, but she couldn¡¯t bring herself to say them. Admitting her fear to them would only make her seem weak in their eyes ¡ª and she couldn¡¯t afford that, not now, not ever. Father nodded, his expression softening, but his words were resolute. ''I understand your apprehension, Sofia, but rulers stand alone in our burdens. What sort of father or king would I be if I didn¡¯t seize any chance for you to gain the vital experience you need to be queen? So when we travel, I encourage you to watch intently and take everything in. Is that understood?'' The phrase ¡®stand alone¡¯ echoed in her mind like a tolling bell, a stark reminder of the path she was destined to walk. Alone. The burning stares of Lord Serben and Lord Gallo scorched her, their expectations palpable, but in her mind¡¯s eye, their faces blurred and transformed. She saw Esme and Fernando sitting in their places, Esme with her ever-present wine, swirling it lazily in her glass, and Fernando, lost in his books, his brow furrowed in concentration. Sofia imagined them sailing away on some grand adventure, their laughter carried by the wind, their hearts light and unburdened. They would explore distant lands, eat the finest foods, drink the rarest wines, and revel in the joy of a youth that she would never know. They were free ¡ª free to choose, to live as they pleased, to make mistakes and learn from them without the eyes of a kingdom watching their every move. How foolish I was, Sofia thought bitterly, to believe, even for a moment, that I could be anything but the future queen. She forced herself to nod stiffly. ''As you say, Father.'' (Scene 3) Luis Paloma lay in his bed, his gaze fixed on the intricate details of two crossed blades painted on the ceiling. One sword gleamed with a hilt adorned in precious Eastamerean gold, while the other flaunted a hilt made of the darkest Galian black. Below marked the date, 1019 AHH (After Human Habitation)-1021 AHH, the dates of the last war with the Galians, twenty-three long years ago. His body throbbed with pain after enduring a full day of standing in heavy armour, anticipating. That is when he wasn¡¯t attempting to motivate Sofia to pursue a more fulfilling existence. He tutted to himself just thinking about it. She was the kingdom¡¯s future, and she squandered her time in that damn tavern, drinking her liver into oblivion, running from her responsibilities. And this trip she planned to go on. Did she not understand a future queen couldn¡¯t just drop her responsibilities and leave without a moment¡¯s notice? Just as he was lost in his thoughts, a sharp knock on the door startled him. He tensed up and straightened his sore back. Letting out a deep yawn, Luis¡¯ exhausted body begged for rest. As captain of the royal guard, it was his duty to remain vigilant. That took its toll. He had no right to complain; his royal guard vows demanded unwavering dedication. Luis approached the door, anticipating a servant with urgent news, or maybe one of his brothers of the royal guard giving him a report. He pulled it open. Standing before him was Aurelio Diae, his toned body encased in gleaming gold-plated armour. A twinkle sparkled in his green gaze. ''Your Highness,'' Aurelio greeted him with an arched eyebrow. Luis¡¯ heart fluttered and a smile crept on his face. He gripped Aurelio¡¯s breastplate, yanking him into his bedroom. As soon as the door slammed shut, Luis didn¡¯t hold back. He kissed Aurelio like he had never kissed him before, savouring every moment, drowning in his relief. Right now, all he needed was to feel something that wasn¡¯t crushing obligation. With Aurelio, the stress flowed out of his body and relaxed his limbs, allowing the kiss to become more flavoursome, less rigid. All that mattered was this moment, a moment where he could be himself, a moment where he didn¡¯t have to be this rigid, emotionless knight all the time. His armour gave him pride. Aurelio gave him joy. But before he was satisfied, Aurelio pulled away. ''Luis, are you sure you¡¯re alright?'' ''Never better,'' Luis said, leaning in to kiss him again. ''I think we need to talk.'' ''What¡¯s there to talk about?'' Aurelio unstrapped his sword from his belt and let it rest by the wall. He sat on the bed and tapped the space next to him. Luis huffed. If he knew Aurelio, this would be another instance of ¡®discussing their feelings and doubts and their deepest darkest secrets¡¯ rather than getting on with what Luis actually wanted to do. The weight of his armour pressed into Luis¡¯ flesh, but Aurelio¡¯s captivating emerald eyes always weakened his resolve. He made his way towards the bed and allowed his arse to sink into it. Aurelio offered his hand, Luis eagerly accepting. Their fingers entwined into a comforting embrace. ''You know you can tell me anything, can¡¯t you?'' Aurelio said. Luis nodded. Aurelio remained silent, waiting for him to speak. ''I¡¯m sorry¡­ for what just happened there,'' Luis said, ''I just needed to clear my head.'' ''Of what?'' ''Sofia. I think she¡¯s planning to go on a trip, with your brother and Esme Gallo. She actually thinks she can drop her responsibilities and leave like she¡¯s some child. She¡¯s the future queen, for goodness¡¯ sake! What if by the time she¡¯s ascends to the throne, she somehow ruins our alliance with the Galians and we¡¯re plunged into another war?'' Aurelio chuckled. ''Luis, your sister has dreams, that¡¯s all. You¡¯ve achieved yours.'' ''Not yet,'' Luis said, offering Aurelio a wry smile. Aurelio shyly looked down at their linked hands, grinning. ''Luis, your father isn¡¯t going anywhere. Sofia has you to look out for her¡­ and you have me.'' Luis couldn¡¯t help but giggle. ''That is true enough.'' They kissed again. This time, there was a sense of calm and tranquillity, free from stress or desperation. Luis wanted to stay like this for eternity. (Scene 4) The biting cold of the Galian weather greeted Sofia as she disembarked from the ship. The clattering of hooves and the rumbling of the carriage navigating the unfamiliar Galian streets filled the air as Sofia sat beside her father and brother. In Eastamere, the sun provided her with constant company; the warmth caressing her skin. Here, in Galia, dull grey clouds shrouded the sky. Muddy streets replaced the spotless stone blocks of Palomia¡¯s streets, people crowding the road in droves for the tournament, undoubtedly putting coins in many a pocket. Establishments like the bustling inns, the busy greengrocers, and the sooty stonemasons all stood squat, wooden, and perilously close together. Sofia couldn¡¯t help but imagine the crackling flames that would consume the city if even one building caught fire. Perhaps a sprinkle of heat was what this place needed. ''Cold?'' Father asked with a knowing smile, the carriage jolting back and forth. Sofia rubbed her forearm, the icy chill seeping into her skin. ''I¡¯ll manage.'' Father nodded. ''Very good. I want you to be especially attentive today, Sofia. Trust me, you¡¯ll have to do plenty of dealings with Galians, too, when you¡¯re queen.'' The chilly breeze brushed against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth and excitement Sofia imagined her friends were feeling back in Eastamere. They were preparing for the trip she had arranged while she remained stuck in this carriage. ''Pay attention to King Rickard¡¯s sons as well,'' Father said, his grip on his spear getting tighter. ''And you, Luis.'' Father put a firm hand on Luis¡¯ golden pauldron. ''Good luck in the tournament. I need you to be on top form today. Give these Galians something to remember.'' Luis smirked and glanced out of the window. ''Don¡¯t worry, Father. I¡¯ll win.'' The carriage came to an abrupt halt, jolting Sofia forward. Sir Aurelio Diae waited for them to disembark on the Galian streets as Luis went first, nodding at Aurelio as he stood on the other side, the pair of them looking like golden statues. Father trailed behind Luis. He stepped into the daylight where the midday sun fought to penetrate the gloomy, overcast sky and radiate its glow on Father¡¯s skin. The potent stench of dung assaulted Sofia¡¯s senses as she exited the carriage. They¡¯d arrived outside a huge amphitheatre, its towering presence casting a dark shadow over the entire street. The roar of the crowd inside it whistled into the air, hungry for some swordplay. All eyes set on the group standing in the middle of the street. Eleven soldiers formed a line along the road, clad in their signature black armour and crimson cloaks of the Galian royal guard. Each of them stood as resolute as statues, some of them standing tall and muscular, others standing shorter and thinner, but all donned their black armour with a sense of unwavering pride that rivalled Father¡¯s own royal guard. In the middle stood a twelfth figure. King Rickard of House Rue. He wore a miserable expression, his dark grey hair falling over his coat lined with sheepdog fur, the animal on the Rue House emblem. His icy, penetrating gaze sent a shard of fear plunging into Sofia¡¯s heart. Father¡¯s grip grew tighter on his spear. I remember when your father became king. He was just like you, all scared and on edge. Look at him now. Father relaxed his shoulders and approached, his confident strides forcing everyone else to move in tandem with him. Sofia stuck by her father and brother, who were protected by the vigilant nine of the Eastamerean royal guard. Serben followed closely behind Father. Stopping only a few feet away from their Galian hosts, Father leaned casually on his spear, exuding his kingly confidence. He was King Geraldo II. He had a reputation to maintain. As Sofia attempted to mimic her father, the icy Galian breeze sent shivers down her spine, turning her into a motionless statue. King Rickard surveyed them all, his glare sweeping over every member of the Eastamerean party. When his eyes fell on Sofia, her heart paused, as though struck by lightning. ''Galia welcomes you all,'' he said, a snarling undertone lacing into his voice. Sofia anticipated her father¡¯s response to be a warm and diplomatic smile, like he did with Serben or Lord Gallo. The smile never came. ''Thank you for accepting my request, Your Majesty. I hope today can bring about a new friendship for our kingdoms.'' Father reached his hand out for King Rickard to shake. The Galian king glanced down at it, staying his hand. ''I hear your son is looking to fight in the tournament.'' King Rickard turned his head to face Luis. ''I¡¯ve heard a great deal about his skills with a sword.'' ''You won¡¯t be disappointed,'' Father said. ''Will I not?'' The Galian king raised an eyebrow. ''Then let¡¯s make it a fast start. You remember my son, Prince Rickard, don¡¯t you?'' His Majesty gestured towards one of the men in black armour. The king¡¯s son, Prince Rickard, stood taller than his father, his blonde hair flowing down his head. Bathed in sunlight, his skin glowed, giving him an appearance of being far younger than his thirty-four years. Sofia glanced over at Father. A few wrinkles sat under his eyes. Will that happen to me when I become queen? ''How about we begin our celebrations with our first contest being between your son and mine? Give the crowd something to cheer about?'' King Rickard said. Father turned towards Luis, Luis signalling his agreement with a confident nod. ''Why not?'' Father said. ''Then it¡¯s decided. If you¡¯d like to step inside our arena, the tournament will begin shortly.'' ''I couldn¡¯t help but notice, Your Majesty,'' Father said, before anyone had the chance to move, ''You don¡¯t have your entire family present. Where is Prince Jacques?'' King Rickard tightened his jaw, glaring at Sofia¡¯s father. ''Sir Theon!'' He turned to one of his knights to whisper something in his ear. ''I¡¯ll get him, Father,'' Prince Rickard said, his tone exhausted. ''It¡¯ll make things quicker.'' King Rickard¡¯s face twisted into a grimace, as if he had just discovered a fly in his soup. He reluctantly nodded. Prince Rickard bowed his head to his father and, signalling to a rather tall knight, hurried down the street, the knight marching behind him. They hurried towards the Galian royal palace, its hexagonal shape casting a commanding shadow over the city. ''Shall we get on with it?'' King Rickard raised his hand, directing everyone¡¯s attention towards the bustling fighting arena. Sofia followed her father, her feet awkwardly squelching in the muddy streets of Galia¡¯s capital. Sofia had only heard stories about Prince Jacques Rue. Many said he never came out of his tower, that he was a monster unlike anything the world had ever seen. He was wrong, in more ways than one. Sofia shivered at these thoughts invading her mind. If she could think this way about others, whose to say others didn¡¯t think this way about her? ''So,'' King Rickard¡¯s booming voice dragged Sofia back to reality. His icy stare bore down on her. ''You must be Princess Sofia. I¡¯ve heard a lot about you.'' Sofia gulped, wondering what exactly he had heard. I can¡¯t be afraid of him, she thought, dogs can smell fear. ''It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,'' Sofia said, ''Today is going to be a great day for our kingdoms.'' King Rickard offered her a devilish smile. ''That, I¡¯m sure.'' His gaze fell on Father walking into the amphitheatre. ''Has your father told you to keep a close eye on today¡¯s proceedings?'' His voice made Sofia¡¯s body turn to stone. She stiffly nodded. ''Yes.'' ''Good. I¡¯ve said the same to my son. I expect him to take heed of it.'' He looked her up and down, like a warrior would when getting the measure of his opponent. Tipping his head to her, King Rickard said, ''enjoy the tournament, my lady.'' He passed her, his black-armoured and crimson-cloaked knights of the Galian royal guard at his tail. Sofia¡¯s heart thumped in her chest as the amphitheatre loomed over her. After your father, it will be you wearing the crown, her mother had once said to her, and it will be your duty to uphold the peace and protect the realm. Sofia took an almighty gulp, fingering the pink ribbon around her waist. She pushed herself further into the shadow of the amphitheatre. If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed, I can promise you that. Chapter II- The Spare (Scene 1) With the stroke of a paintbrush, she appeared as clearly as he remembered her. Each dash of colour brought her back to him, her golden hair rippling down one shoulder like honey. Perfectly smooth skin glowed softly with radiance as ocean-blue eyes sparkled with laughter, captivating him all over again. After fifteen years, Aubery was still the most beautiful person Jacques Rue had ever seen. The cool, empty breeze of midday floated across his bedroom, stinging Jacques¡¯ thin arms. He shivered slightly, drawing his black robe tighter around himself, wishing it could shield him from more than just the cold. The breeze would soon travel towards the bottom of the tower and beyond, where the rest of society would be¡ªwhere his twin brother Rick would bring glory to House Rue and live the life Jacques could never bring himself to embrace. Up here in Jacques¡¯ bedroom, high above the bustling world, there was nothing to disturb him; only the odd caw of a raven flying by his window. Jacques blinked as the faint rustling of someone climbing his tower in heavy armour disturbed him. The door opened, and the air fled towards the windows, making the curtains billow out like ghostly hands. A shadow cast over Jacques¡¯ painting, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of anger over the interruption. Jacques sighed. He already knew who it was. He turned to see his brother Rick standing before him wearing black armour with a cloak draping over his back, coloured white on the inside and black on the outside¡ªthe colours of the sheepdog of House Rue. Shiny blonde hair rippled down to his shoulders, his sharp cheekbones poking through glossy skin that made him look quite dashing today, as he did every day. But Rick wasn¡¯t looking at Jacques. His eyes were fixed on Aubery, eyes full of guilt and dread. He hasn¡¯t forgotten her, Jacques thought, and neither will I. ''Need I remind you of the meaning of a closed door, brother?'' Jacques asked, trying to break the silence. Rick didn¡¯t say anything for a while, and hardly blinked. He was speechless, the sight of Aubery completely disarming him. An imposing shadow appeared behind Rick¡¯s back, wearing the black armour and crimson cloak of the royal guard. Sir Owen Flagg, The Northern Knight, stood a good head above any other knight, with shoulder-length auburn hair, fiery maple-coloured eyes, and ugly scars stretching across a rugged face. Jacques almost envied the simplicity of the life of a knight like Sir Owen Flagg¡ªfighting battles, protecting his king. How easy it must have been to have such a clear purpose, to be free from the torment of unresolved emotions. Sir Owen gave Aubery¡¯s painting a concerned look before turning to Rick. ''Your Grace,'' he whispered. Rick blinked, and his eyes floated about the room as if he¡¯d completely forgotten why he was there. Swallowing hard, Rick looked Jacques in the eye, clawing back his soldier-like composure. ''Our peace tournament for the Palomas is about to start,'' he said, ''and Father expects both of us to be there. Your absence has already been noted.'' Jacques nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, his attention shifting towards the captivating colours of his canvas. He didn¡¯t want to go, didn¡¯t want to stand amidst his father¡¯s oppressive shadow in front of all those people, pretending everything was fine. ''I¡¯m perfectly content staying here on my own and painting, thank you.'' Rick latched onto his shoulders and spun him back around, the sudden movement causing Jacques to stagger and nearly drop his brush. ''Do not spend today locked up in here like some sort of damsel in distress. I know you and Father have had your differences-'' ''You can say that again,'' Jacques muttered, rubbing his shoulder where Rick¡¯s grip had tightened, a dull ache spreading beneath his fingers. ''I¡¯m asking you as your brother,'' Rick said, his eyes wide and pleading, ''Please, swallow your pride and come to the tournament.'' Jacques¡¯ gaze drifted to Aubery. He would always cherish her laugh, her smile, the books she liked to read, but he hadn¡¯t come into this world with her like Rick had. They¡¯d shared tears over their mother, endured their father, and picked each other up when no one else would. They¡¯d fought, like families tend to do, but they were brothers first. And they always would be. Even as Jacques considered it, a bitter voice inside him whispered the truth he¡¯d tried to ignore for years. He¡¯s always been better than you, and he¡¯s ashamed of it. He couldn¡¯t say no, not really. Not without betraying the bond that had kept he and his brother together all these years. ''Very well, I¡¯ll attend,'' he said, ''But don¡¯t expect me to be happy about it.'' Rick¡¯s face lit up with a smile. ''Thank you. I¡¯ll be getting ready by the time you get there, so I¡¯ll see you once my first fight is done.'' Rick¡¯s armour clinked and clattered as he turned towards the door, creating a metallic symphony that echoed long after Rick disappeared from sight. The sound gnawed at Jacques, a reminder of the path Rick had chosen¡ªone of glory and honour. Sir Owen remained standing by the door, his posture as rigid as an ice statue. ''Will you be requiring an escort to the tournament, Your Grace?'' Sir Owen asked dutifully. Jacques shook his head. ''I wish to feel the sun on my face, Sir Owen. You, sir, will block it out. Good luck in the tournament.'' The tall knight gulped and opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something. Maybe he wanted to tell Jacques to cut his brother some slack, or maybe it would be another lecture from yet another person about duty. All the same, Sir Owen kept whatever he wanted to say to himself, bowed courteously, and left the room without a fuss. Jacques quickly tidied himself up before getting dressed. If Rick wanted him to attend this mummer¡¯s farce, he would not do so looking like the scruff everyone thought he was, his father chief among them. He slipped on a pair of brown leather boots, a pair of trousers, brown shirt, wrapping a blue neckerchief around his neck, before reaching for a long leather coat, with golden vine patterns lining the collar, joining at the back where the initials R.R. lay for everyone to see. After he was dressed, Jacques then looked for the sword his father had given him for public affairs such as this one, but he couldn¡¯t find it. He sighed. Perhaps it was being sharpened. Either way, he would have to make up some elaborate excuse for His Majesty. There was more chance of the world ending than Father failing to notice that he didn¡¯t have it. He was about to leave his room, to meet his oh-so-loving king, when something caught the corner of his eye. A locked chest concealed in the shadows sat near his window. It was meant to be for heavy armour, but as Jacques took the key and unlocked the chest, the only thing sitting inside of it was a single sheet of parchment, never meant for anyone¡¯s eyes but Jacques¡¯. His fingers trembled as he reached for it. When he brought the drawing to the light, his dream came back to him, as clear as anything. It wasn¡¯t of Mother, or Aubery, or anyone he¡¯d ever met. This woman had long dark hair and olive skin, possibly from the sunnier kingdom of Eastamere. She was standing on a beach, wearing her white silk dress with a pink ribbon tied around her waist. Although she wasn¡¯t smiling, there was a warm kindness to her that couldn¡¯t be explained, more than anything he¡¯d ever experienced. Jacques only wished he¡¯d known her name, but he suspected she didn¡¯t exist, that she was a product of his imagination, much like Aubery was now. His head hurting, Jacques dropped the drawing into the chest. He shut the lid, so the woman¡¯s face was out of his sight and out of his thoughts. He let out a heavy sigh before finally making his way towards the door. As he pushed it open and started down the spiral stone staircase, he couldn¡¯t help but steal a final glance back at Aubery, taking comfort in her familiar gaze. Jacques ambled down each step, the midday sun poking at him through every passing window. The weather was being kind today, probably to accommodate their foreign guests. It was always said where an Eastamerean went; the weather followed them. Jacques wondered whether it was the same for a Galian. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he opened the door to a corridor leading to the throne room. The flickering torchlight illuminated the mint-green walls¡ªwalls that strangely felt foreign to him despite the years he¡¯d spent within them. His father had chosen green to cover the blue that had once dominated the palace walls, a symbol of their house¡¯s victory over the Ayasem dynasty. But to Jacques, the green felt like a betrayal, a stark reminder of how his father had erased the past, leaving nothing but cold ambition in its place. The throne sat alone under a huge glass dome where the sun¡¯s rays shone down upon it, its solid golden structure shimmering as Jacques passed it by. It was a throne that had witnessed a millennium of power. House Ayasem had been closer to gods than men, their bloodline said to hold the power to summon streams of blue lightning from their fingers. But that era had ended shortly before Jacques was born, snuffed out in the blaze of his father¡¯s rebellion when their magic drove the last king, King Jacob, to madness. Jacques¡¯ grandfather had been the final victim of that madness, reduced to a pile of ash by a power that no longer existed. His father¡¯s greatest pride was that he had defeated the last wonder of the ancient world, that magic was no more. But as Jacques walked through the hall, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder if something else had died with it¡ªsomething that couldn¡¯t be replaced by gold or power. His father¡¯s victory had come at a cost, one that Jacques felt in every cold glance and harsh word his father had given him. As he trudged through the sludgy mud of the city streets, people glanced at Jacques, either with suspicion or fear, as if he were a ghost haunting the streets of the capital. He couldn¡¯t blame them. In many ways, he felt like a ghost¡ªcaught between the past and the present, never fully belonging to either. The streets buzzed with people excited for the tournament. One merchant was shouting about his fresh fish, one crazed preacher shouted about orcs coming down from the frozen north to end the world, and an innkeeper was now roaring at one drunken golden-haired boy to get out of his pub. Jacques took a deep breath of the shit city air. This was his home, such as it was. He¡¯d known little else. All Jacques had to do was follow the crowds, and they were never too hard to find. Flocks of people gathered around the tournament theatre, the structure towering above Jacques¡¯ head. Guards stood by the door, checking every single person for potential weapons. Their black armour provided a pleasant contrast to the capital¡¯s predominantly brown colour scheme. Jacques breezed past the queue to approach the guard standing by the door. ''Good sir!'' he called out as the guard patted down a spectator, the words slipping out with more bravado than he felt. ''Yeah?'' the guard mumbled, not even taking the time to meet Jacques¡¯ gaze. The casual indifference stung him more than Jacques cared to admit. It was a small slight, but a familiar one. ''My father is expecting me,'' he said, injecting steel into his voice, trying to channel the authority that always seemed to come so naturally to his father. ''Be a good lad and take me to him.'' It was only then the guard finally looked at him. His jaw fell open. Scrambling to attention, his body stood stiff as a branch on the world¡¯s toughest tree. ''My apologies, Your Grace. Please, come through.'' Jacques allowed himself a smug smile as the guard opened the door. The sight of a bustling crowd greeted him as he stepped inside, and his throat tightened. So many people, Jacques thought grimly, his smugness quickly evaporating. The press of bodies, the storm of voices, the sheer energy of the place¡ªit was overwhelming, a sensory assault that made him want to turn and flee back to the solitude of his tower. He filtered through the crowd, feeling the atmosphere grow stronger, stealing the air from his grasp. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and Jacques could barely hear himself think. Solitude never made him feel like this, the cool embrace of concentration. Instead, he was here, amongst everyone. Damn my father, Jacques thought bitterly. Amidst the heavy crowd, he transported himself back to his paintings. He imagined vast landscapes, endless horizons, and he imagined Aubery¡¯s laughter ringing through the air. His body deflated as he exhaled, and his vision returned to him. A staircase lay in a dark corner, with two members of the royal guard, Sir Bryce Howard, and Sir Finn Alisser, standing at the foot of it. Jacques squinted to make out Sir Finn¡¯s face beneath the helmet, but the formidable triple-edged trident he carried left no doubt. The dream came back to him, and the woman on the beach. Now, he saw Sir Finn standing with her, kissing her on the lips. His head started hurting again. ''Ah, my favourite drinking companion!'' Jacques said, trying to ignore his hyperactive brain. Sir Finn responded with a striking smile and a laugh. ''How are you, Your Grace?'' ''Dragged to a tournament where sweaty men bash each other¡¯s skulls in? I¡¯d say I¡¯m in relatively high spirits.'' The daylight made the staircase¡¯s summit seem like some great beyond. ''Is my father up there?'' Jacques asked, trying not to sound too apprehensive. Sir Finn was about to answer before Sir Bryce¡¯s droning voice overshadowed him. ''See for yourself, Your Grace,'' he groaned. As Sir Bryce spoke, a wave of his peach-scented odour hit Jacques like a punch to the face. He always swanned around wearing those ridiculous perfumes. Sir Finn returned the glare to his brother-in-arms. ''Excuse me, Peach Knight!'' he said in the blunt accent of a northerner, ''Remember, this is the Prince of Galia you¡¯re speaking to! You will show him respect!''Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. At least someone is willing to fight for me, Jacques thought, taking a positive where he could find it, as the noise of the fighting arena bashed against his ears. ''Gonna make me, Fish Knight?'' Sir Bryce turned towards Sir Finn, pumping his chest out. Jacques huffed as the two knights stared each other down. He had not the time nor the patience for petty arguments. He¡¯d save that for his father. ''Well, it was lovely to speak to you chaps, but His Majesty is waiting.'' Jacques brushed past the two knights without another word from either of them. He scaled the staircase, each step clapping against the wooden floor. When he reached the top, eight chairs stood on a wooden platform overlooking the fighting pit. Sir Orchis Vortigon, The Hawk Knight, stood positioned at the far right of the platform, his sharp eyes glazing over the crowd. But it was the chair in the middle that drew Jacques¡¯ attention, the one with a particularly high back. His father sat in it, surveying the arena with the same icy indifference he¡¯d shown Jacques all his life. At fifty-seven years of age, his face was as dull as a raincloud, a look that could make the most joyous occasion seem blue and empty. A sword hung at his waist, the sword he¡¯d used to kill King Jacob Ayasem, on the day he¡¯d won the throne for House Rue. (Scene 2) ''You¡¯re late,'' the king said, his voice cutting through the noise of the rapidly filling arena. He didn¡¯t even look at Jacques, his eyes fixed on the bustling crowd below, but the disappointment was clear, laced into every word like a dagger. Jacques rolled his eyes. ''Fashionably late, I would call it, Father,'' he replied, forcing a spring into his step as he strolled toward a chair to the king¡¯s left. ''No doubt you wouldn¡¯t have come at all if it wasn¡¯t for your brother.'' It has taken you mere moments to compare me to Rick, Jacques thought, his blood simmering with a mix of anger and resignation. But it warms my heart to know that we agree on something. His father¡¯s ability to diminish him, to reduce him to nothing more than a shadow of his brother, was as reliable as the setting sun. The king finally turned his head toward Jacques, his scrutinising gaze pinning him in place. ''Where¡¯s that sword I had made for you?'' Jacques froze by his seat, his heart skipping a beat. It would appear the world will not end today, he thought. ''I¡¯m afraid I lost it,'' he admitted, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. The king¡¯s thunderous glare was enough to obliterate any contemptuous thoughts swirling in Jacques¡¯ mind. His eyes bore into him, demanding submission, extinguishing whatever small flickers of rebellion Jacques might have harboured. ''You lost it?'' Father growled. ''Yes¡­'' Jacques muttered as he crawled into his seat, feeling smaller with every passing second. ''Sorry.'' Thankfully, the king shifted his attention, casting a glance at their exotic guests as if he¡¯d only just remembered they were there. ''Jacques, this is Geraldo Paloma, King of Eastamere, his daughter, Princess Sofia, and finally, Lord Serben Diae.'' Jacques leaned forward in his seat. King Geraldo, despite being closer to Jacques¡¯ age than his father¡¯s, still bore the faint marks of a life lived hard¡ªthe stretch marks on his otherwise smooth skin, the weary set of his shoulders. The Devil¡¯s Cobra, they called him, and Jacques could see why. Geraldo lounged in his chair with a casual confidence, his right foot resting on his left knee, radiating a kind of power Jacques could never hope to emulate. Lord Serben was another matter entirely, a man who seemed to bathe permanently in shadow, his presence dark and foreboding. A man after my own heart, Jacques mused, feeling a strange kinship with the mysterious lord. But whatever connection he felt was abruptly severed when his eyes landed on the king¡¯s daughter, Princess Sofia. Jacques blinked three, four, five times, his breath catching in his throat. But no matter how many times he tried to clear his vision, she remained¡ªsitting there, impossibly real. Her glistening dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her sun-kissed skin glowing in the daylight. She wore a dress as white as snow, with a pink ribbon tied around her waist. What the fuck? Jacques thought, his mind reeling. The dream of the young woman on the beach, the one who had haunted his dreams, flashed before him. The same dress, the same ribbon, the same face. It was her. But how can it be? The question rattled through his mind, threatening to unravel whatever was left of his composure. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and inexplicable recognition tightening around him like a vise. Is this some kind of cruel trick? He wondered. The possibilities swirled in his mind, each one more unsettling than the last. But the more he looked at her, the less he could convince himself that it was all in his head. There she was, as real as the chair beneath him. As her chestnut brown eyes met his, Jacques had absolutely no doubt what she was thinking. She¡¯s heard the tales about me, he thought, and she probably expected to see some sort of monster. Now I¡¯ve disappointed her. The realisation gnawed at him, sharper than he would have liked to admit. He had disappointed many people in his life, but this¡ªthis strangely stung more than the rest. There was something in the way Sofia looked at him, something that reminded him of Aubery. No, he thought fiercely, I won¡¯t let this happen. He would bury this feeling deep within himself, lock it away where it could never touch him again. Jacques blinked, suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him. His father¡¯s scowl was like a knife¡¯s edge, cutting through his momentary lapse. ''Jacques,'' the king growled, his tone brimming with irritation, ''King Geraldo just addressed you.'' Jacques blinked again, struggling to recall what King Geraldo had said, but his thoughts were tangled, ensnared by Princess Sofia¡¯s eerie presence. ''I said it¡¯s a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace,'' Geraldo said patiently as a wave of cheer came from the expecting crowd, ''I¡¯ve heard plenty about you.'' All bad, I expect, Jacques thought, feeling a bitter twist in his gut. Just like your daughter. His throat ached for a drink, something strong enough to dull the edges of his spiralling thoughts. But he forced himself to respond with something other than the truth. ''I¡¯ve heard plenty about you too, Your Majesty. It¡¯s an honour to meet a warrior as renowned as The Devil¡¯s Cobra.'' King Geraldo cast an uncomfortable glance at Jacques¡¯ father before schooling his features into a charming smile. ''I hope to leave that title behind me, Your Grace.'' Jacques couldn¡¯t stop the grin. He had heard the tales of The Devil¡¯s Cobra as well as anyone, and he doubted the King of Eastamere had truly left that part of himself behind. In truth, Jacques wished he could see that legendary skill on display today¡ªalmost as much as he wished he¡¯d never seen Sofia¡¯s face. You could talk to her, a voice in his mind whispered, a voice that sounded unsettlingly like Aubery¡¯s. You saw her in your dreams; that must mean something. Jacques clenched his jaw, forcing Aubery¡¯s voice into the same dark corner where he¡¯d locked away the rest of his unwanted emotions. Dreams are just dreams, he told himself. Aubery had known that, and she would have understood why he chose not to dwell on them. He was here to support Rick, to show his face at this farce of a tournament. That was all. He didn¡¯t need another entanglement, another woman who would inevitably find him lacking. But even as he tried to convince himself, Jacques couldn¡¯t help the fleeting thought that there was no harm in having a bit of fun while he was here. His gaze drifted to the seats next to the king, still empty, awaiting Rick and his oh-so-lovely lady wife, Princess Mirielle. A distraction, perhaps. ''Where is the queen of beauty herself at this time of day?'' he asked. His father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that Jacques knew all too well. ''The Princess Mirielle is amongst the city, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis Vortigon replied, his voice slithering out like a serpent, every syllable oozing with practised deference. ''She¡¯s donating money to charity.'' Jacques couldn¡¯t resist a smile. ''How generous of her. Did she spray the peasants with fragrances from the far south while she was at it?'' The king let out a deep groan. ''Jacques, if you cannot be civil with the princess, then I suggest you stay silent, understand?'' For a brief moment, Jacques allowed himself to feel the thrill of his father¡¯s discomfort. Watching King Rickard of House Rue¡ªvanquisher of the most powerful man Galia had ever seen¡ªtrying to be courteous was like watching a bull trying to walk on thin ice. It was almost too much to bear; Jacques had to stifle a laugh. But then his father¡¯s hand touched his arm, and all amusement fled as their eyes locked, the icy blue of his father¡¯s gaze freezing Jacques to his seat. ''I am warning you,'' his father said quietly, his voice cold enough to chill Jacques to the bone. ''You think I want you here?'' Jacques met his father¡¯s stare, but where he had once found strength in his defiance, now there was only a hollow echo. His father¡¯s disdain was nothing new; he had dealt with it for over thirty years. But as he delved deep into the blizzard that was King Rickard¡¯s burning glare, Jacques found himself unable to move, unable to breathe. ''I never wanted you,'' Father said, ''Remember that before you open your mouth.'' The words struck Jacques harder than they should have, as if they had pierced through the armour of indifference he had spent so many years crafting. Trumpets blared, their powerful sound echoing through the fighting pit, but Jacques barely heard them over the roaring in his ears. He felt a tightness in his chest, a familiar constriction threatening to crush him from the inside out. Guards marched towards each other in the arena, brandishing their long brass instruments, but their movements were a blur to him. His eyes flickered over to the king¡¯s steward, Dennis, who entered the pit to a resounding cheer from the crowd. The sight of Dennis¡¯ youthful face, so full of excitement and energy, was almost painful. He gripped a scroll in his right hand, nodding his head towards every inch of the arena, before finally bowing when he faced the royal box. Jacques swallowed the sadness that had crept up on him so suddenly, trying to force it down, to bury it like he always did. But it clung to him, heavy and unyielding. He leaned forward in his chair, his movements stiff, and turned his head towards Sir Orchis Vortigon. ''Not fighting, Sir Orchis?'' he asked, barely masking his pain. The Hawk Knight stood proudly in his black armour, his crimson cloak of the Galian royal guard draping over his back. His black hair, trimmed and sharp, matched the stubble on his face. His light brown eyes held an intense gaze, reminiscent of a hawk fixated on its prey. ''I prefer to watch from a distance, Your Grace,'' he said, his tone calm and measured. Jacques frowned, the knight¡¯s answer only deepening the disquiet in his mind. He¡¯s supposed to be a knight, isn¡¯t he? But as he stared at Sir Orchis, Jacques couldn¡¯t help but wonder if perhaps the knight had the right idea. Watching from a distance¡ªremaining detached, untouched by the chaos around him¡ªseemed like a luxury Jacques could do well with right now. ''Princess Mirielle, Your Majesty!'' Sir Bryce Howard bowed and vanished down the stairs, leaving all eyes on the platform to shift toward a single dazzling figure. Princess Mirielle Jubilee was only twenty-four years old but she¡¯d already become one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. She bathed in the midday sun, her green silk dress shimmering, complementing her flowing brown hair. A golden necklace in the shape of a buzzard lay on her chest, the emblem of House Jubilee. She would never be as beautiful as Aubery was, but she was close¡ªpainfully close. For a fleeting moment, Jacques considered making a joke about how the Eastamereans made Mirielle look ugly, something biting and clever that would amuse him at the very least. His father¡¯s words echoed in his mind, freezing the remark before it could leave his lips. I never wanted you. ''You¡¯re just in time, Mirielle,'' the king said as he hoisted himself from his chair and showed the princess to her seat. ''You had a productive day, I trust.'' Princess Mirielle¡¯s lips curved into a captivating smile, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth that were more like a predator¡¯s fangs. ''Very productive, Your Majesty,'' she replied, her voice carrying the harsh, nasal tones of a Coastman¡¯s accent, which grated against Jacques¡¯ ears like slate. He clenched his jaw, wondering how anyone could find that voice charming. Yet, here she was, the darling of the court. Of course, she¡¯s from Coast, Jacques thought bitterly. The city of Coast, Galia¡¯s primary port, was a place of the upmost strategic importance, its royal fleet the kingdom¡¯s first line of defence against naval attacks. His father had been meticulous in securing House Jubilee¡¯s allegiance, and Mirielle was the crown jewel in that alliance. ''After I finished organising the feast for tonight,'' Mirielle continued, her voice thick with pride, ''I travelled to every orphanage I could find and donated some of my money to all of them. In this time of peace, I think all should reap the rewards.'' Jacques rolled his eyes, a familiar wave of irritation rising in his chest. How is no one else seeing through this? But even as he silently seethed, a part of him envied her. She had the power to be seen, to be adored, to win people over with a pretty smile and a few coins. Jacques, on the other hand, felt like a shadow in comparison, forever lurking on the fringes of his father¡¯s court, seen only as a disappointment or a burden. No one expects anything from me, he thought. Not even a cruel joke. ''Welcome all to our peace tournament, a ceremony celebrating peace at last!'' Dennis shouted. The crowd erupted into applause as the king mustered a wave, his expression one of weary obligation. He leaned over toward Mirielle, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. ''I do wish they¡¯d cut the formalities.'' ''I agree,'' Jacques chimed in, hoping for once to align with his father¡¯s sentiments. Perhaps if he agreed on something so trivial, Father wouldn¡¯t find a reason to be displeased. ''We can skip to the dinner and the wine that way.'' His attempt to join in was met with silence. No one acknowledged his remark, except for his father, who fixed him with another cold stare, making him feel like a fool for even speaking. ''Please allow me to welcome our first fighter to the pit! He is only twenty-three years old but one of the greatest swordsmen in the land, please give a warm welcome to Prince Luis Paloma!'' The crowd offered Prince Luis a modest round of applause as he stepped into the fighting arena. His father, King Geraldo, acknowledged him with a nod, his face lighting up with the kind of pride Jacques knew he would never see in his own father¡¯s eyes. ''And his opponent, the reigning champion of His Majesty, King Rickard¡¯s, nameday tournament, undefeated in two consecutive years, please welcome His Grace, Prince Rickard of House Rue!'' The arena erupted with noise as Rick entered the fighting pit, his sword raised high above his head. Jacques watched as the pride oozed from the eyes of the men in the crowd, their roars of approval filling the air. But it was the gazes from the women that truly stung¡ªgazes filled with lust and longing, their screams growing even louder when Rick¡¯s line of sight just happened to fall on them. Sometimes Jacques wondered if his brother actually enjoyed all of this¡ªthe adulation, the constant praise, the expectation that he would always excel. Did Rick ever feel suffocated by the weight of it all? Or had he simply become numb to it, the way Jacques had become numb to his own failures? At least when I stumble, Jacques thought, it¡¯s only my own reputation that suffers. But Rick¡­ he carries the weight of House Rue on his shoulders. If he ever faltered, even for a moment, Father¡¯s wrath would be something only the Gods could temper. ''But before our fighters clash swords, His Majesty, King Rickard, would like to say a few words!'' the steward announced. Father rose from his seat, his gaze fixed on King Geraldo. The crowd hushed, every eye locked onto their king, as if the mere sound of his voice was sacred. King Rickard prowled towards the edge of the platform, his presence commanding the arena¡¯s attention. ''For thirty-five years, I have held this crown,'' Father began, his voice echoing with the authority of a man who had shaped the very world his people lived in. ''And I¡¯ve seen this kingdom grow and strengthen. In that time, I¡¯ve produced an heir I can be proud of.'' He gestured towards Rick, the pride in his golden son unmistakable. ''Which is why I know my legacy will live on, the reason my house will keep this throne for generations after my death, all because of what I¡¯ve done over the last thirty-five years. But this tournament is not only for me. It is for all those who fought alongside me when I took this throne. When you hear the ring of swords, I want the sound to take you back to the days of my coronation, the moment you knew you fell on the right side of history.'' The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers a chorus of adoration for the man who had led them to victory. Jacques frowned. This was supposed to be a peace tournament, a celebration of unity, yet Father¡¯s words seemed to glorify the bloodshed that had brought him to power. Jacques¡¯ father was many things, but forgetful was not one of them. He had a long memory, one that clung to past glories and the enemies he had crushed to secure them. The two fighters stepped a few paces away from each other and bent their knees slightly, preparing to fight. ''Jacques¡­'' His father¡¯s voice cut through the noise when he¡¯d sat back down, drawing Jacques¡¯ attention. ''I will see you at the feast tonight.'' Jacques suppressed a sigh. He enjoyed food, but the prospect of sitting through another meal with his father, enduring the constant scrutiny and criticism, drained any appetite he might have had. I never wanted you. A surge of anger stiffened Jacques¡¯ upper lip, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. ''I thought you wouldn¡¯t want me there,'' he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though it quivered with the effort. Father¡¯s gaze shifted to Rick, who stood poised and confident in the pit. ''You see your brother? He is doing his duty and showing that we are ready for the next step in our history.'' ''On my mark¡­'' Dennis said, the crowd falling silent as they waited with bated breath for the signal. Jacques felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. He had to ask, even if it meant hearing another rejection. ''And what about me?'' The question hung in the air, heavy with a desperation he couldn¡¯t quite hide. As Jacques watched his father¡¯s face, he saw something that made his heart skip a beat. His father was smiling. ''I have different plans for you,'' Father said, his smile sending a chill down Jacques¡¯ spine. Before Jacques could process the words, Dennis lowered his arm and shouted, ''Fight!'' Chapter III- On My Honour The piercing shriek of a whetstone against steel snapped Owen out of the nightmare. His heart still hammered in his chest, the phantom memories of blood and laughter clinging to the edges of his mind like mist. He drew a sharp breath, the scent of oiled leather and cold steel grounding him. Owen blinked, bringing himself back to the present. He was no longer in the chaos but in the dressing tent, ready to fight in the king¡¯s peace tournament. Black-plated armour hugged his body like a second skin, its weight familiar and reassuring. His crimson cloak draped over his back, a symbol of the king¡¯s royal guard, a reminder of his duty. The voices of the crowd outside swelled, excitement bubbling through the tent walls as spectators continued to gather for the tournament. The clink and scrape of his fellow knights preparing their gear surrounded him, an orchestra of routine. Owen exhaled slowly, forcing the tension to bleed out of his muscles. He wasn¡¯t just Owen the second son anymore¡ªhe was Sir Owen Flagg, knight of the Galian royal guard, protector of the royal family. The past was a distant, fading echo. At least, that¡¯s what he told himself. He glanced down at his clean fists. They were steady now, but the ache of old wounds lingered. Shaking his head, Owen gripped the hilt of his father¡¯s sword, Ramshorn, the cool weight of the blade anchoring him. The white ram pommel gleamed in the dim light of the tent, its polished surface worn smooth from years of his touch. He closed his eyes and said the words. ''On my honour, and in the name of His Majesty, King Rickard of the House Rue, Father of Galia and protector of the faith, I, Owen of the House Flagg, do solemnly swear to serve and protect the king and his family in all their endeavours. I will not question, nor will I defy. I am his shield, I am his sword, his watchful eyes. My service will end upon my death. I swear to protect his subjects, down to the last¡­ down to the last child born into this world, and when I draw my final breath, I know I will have given my all.'' The vow hung in the air, settling into the silence that followed. His skin prickled with a familiar rush of excitement, his pulse quickening. It never faded, that thrill before a fight, that surge of purpose before stepping into the fray. Even after fifteen years of service, his body responded as if he were still a young man. The familiar fire sparked to life in his chest, chasing away the lingering ghosts of his past. The young knight with boundless energy and reckless ambition was gone. Now, he was an old man of forty-one years. The lines etched into his weathered face and the scars marking his body were testament to battles fought, won, and lost. His locks, a deep auburn, now streaked with faint grey hairs, and his joints creaked when he moved. How many more battles could his body endure before it gave out? He had already watched too many people he cared about fall, their names etched into his memory like gravestones. But not today. Today, Owen Flagg was a knight. A bloody good one, if he didn¡¯t mind saying so himself. He stood straighter, rolling his shoulders back, the familiar weight of Ramshorn secured to his hip. Purpose surged through him, filling the hollow spaces where doubt had crept in. He needn¡¯t think about the past anymore. It had no place here. He had left it behind, buried it with the dead. ''You look focused, Owen,'' came a voice, calm yet commanding, cutting through the ambient clatter of the dressing tent. Owen froze mid-movement, fingers still running through his hair, sweeping it away from his forehead. He turned slowly, already sensing the familiar presence behind him. Standing there, framed by the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the tent, was Sir Theon Balogun, The Silver Knight. His silver hair, the source of his legendary title, rested elegantly on his head, contrasting with the lines of age that marked his face. And yet, despite the signs of time etched into his features, there was an ever-present vigour about him¡ªa quiet, powerful energy that radiated from every pore. During his training, Owen became familiar with Sir Theon¡¯s solemn demeanour, but today, the pride in his captain¡¯s smile was unmistakable. ''Thank you, sir,'' Owen said. ''Remember,'' Sir Theon said, softly but firmly, ''the king is watching. This is your chance to impress him. I will not be here forever.'' Owen felt the weight of those words land heavily on his shoulders, more real than the armour he wore. A new captain. The very thought made his pulse quicken. Sir Theon had been a fixture of the royal guard for as long as Owen could remember, an immovable rock of strength and wisdom. The idea of him stepping down, or worse, being gone entirely, sent a shiver down Owen¡¯s spine. ''I know who I would pick if it were up to me,'' Sir Theon added, the pride in his smile deepening, ''but you must show the king why you deserve it, Owen.'' Owen stood up straighter, the muscles on his back and shoulders tensing with renewed purpose. His mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts. Would he ever be ready? Could he fill the shoes of a man like Sir Theon Balogun? The doubt was there, creeping in like a shadow at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it aside. He had no time for doubt. Not here. Not now. ''Aye, sir,'' Owen said confidently. ''Good.'' Owen¡¯s gaze shifted, catching a flash of black armour approaching from the far side of the tent. The following smirk made his stomach tighten in irritation. Sir Mandon Jubilee¡ªthe Coast Knight, as he had been styled¡ªsauntered toward them, his every movement dripping with arrogance. A clean-shaven jawline framed his smug and self-assured face, and his eyes, perpetually glinting with a misplaced sense of superiority, landed squarely on his brothers-in-arms. Owen¡¯s jaw clenched. Sir Mandon was the son of Lord Wesley of Coast, a powerful noble who supplied the royal fleet, and his sister, Princess Mirielle, had married the heir to the throne. It wasn¡¯t long after the marriage that Mandon had slipped into the ranks as well, his ambitions well-oiled by the political machinery of his family. ''Don¡¯t you two old men be too disheartened when I beat you both, will you?'' Sir Mandon chuckled, his Coastman¡¯s accent thick as he swaggered forward, daring to clap Sir Theon on the shoulder. Owen couldn¡¯t suppress the reflexive roll of his eyes, his blood simmering beneath his skin. It was all so easy for him¡ªso convenient, so perfect, with his father¡¯s ships and his sister in the royal bedchamber. Politics had done more for Sir Mandon Jubilee than any blade ever had, and the buzzards of Coast had perched themselves very high indeed. Sir Theon glanced down at the spot where Sir Mandon¡¯s hand had briefly rested on his shoulder, brushing it away like a speck of dirt. ''We shall see,'' he replied, his voice chillingly calm. ''Sir Theon!'' a voice called from behind, bright and eager. Owen turned to see Prince Luis Paloma approaching with Sir Aurelio Diae at his side. Both men were clad in the resplendent golden armour of Eastamerean royal guard, their white cloaks draped over their shoulders like banners of purity and grace. The prince¡¯s armour gleamed in the dim light of the dressing tent, polished to perfection, and his boyish features carried the excitement of youth¡ªwide-eyed and eager. Sir Aurelio, more composed and regal, followed with a slight smile, but it was the young prince who held the attention. Owen stood a little taller. Prince Luis had gained a reputation that stretched even to Galia. His performance in combat had been more than impressive¡ªbreathtaking, in fact. Earlier, he had danced across the arena floor, his sword flashing like lightning, his movements as fluid as the breeze. To watch him duel Prince Rickard had been like witnessing a rare spectacle: the kind of fight that filled men with awe. The crowd had cheered when he dodged, parried, and spun out of His Grace¡¯s reach with the skill of a seasoned warrior. Sir Theon gave a deep nod, his voice carrying a tone of respect. ''You must be Prince Luis,'' he said. ''You fought very well against His Grace. When I was your age, I was squiring for Lord Hinley, so to see how far you¡¯ve progressed at such a young age is very impressive.'' Prince Luis straightened a little, pride flashing in his eyes. ''Thank you, sir,'' he said, his voice slightly shaky but full of genuine appreciation. Owen watched the exchange with quiet admiration. The prince had earned this praise. He hadn¡¯t just been given a title and a sword¡ªhe had fought for it. ''However,'' Sir Theon said, lowering his voice a notch, ''if you don¡¯t mind me saying, you need to work on your strength. Speed and skill can only carry you so far. An opponent with brute force will bully you into submission if you¡¯re not careful.'' Owen felt a grin tug at his lips, barely suppressing the amusement that threatened to spill over. Sir Theon wasn¡¯t wrong. Prince Rickard had shoved Luis once during the duel, and it had sent the young prince sprawling into the sand. No amount of agility had saved him from that moment, and Owen could still picture the flash of surprise on the prince¡¯s face as he hit the ground. Luis had lost the fight, but he¡¯d earned everyone¡¯s respect, regardless. His loss had not been in vain. The young prince¡¯s face flushed a little, but he bobbed his head eagerly. ''Y-yes, sir. I¡¯ll work on it,'' he stammered, glancing briefly at Sir Aurelio, who offered him a silent nod of encouragement. The prince¡¯s voice faltered with the weight of nervous admiration, the kind Owen had once felt in the presence of legends like Sir Theon Balogun. Luis¡¯ fingers fiddled nervously at his side, before finally speaking up again. ''I was wondering¡­ if you don¡¯t mind¡­ could I have your signature?'' Sir Aurelio produced a sheet of parchment, along with a quill and ink, handing them over to the prince with a knowing smile. Luis nervously offered them to Sir Theon, his hands trembling just a little as he did so. Sir Theon¡¯s stern features softened into a kind smile as he took the quill. ''For a prince of Eastamere,'' he said, his voice warm, ''it would be my pleasure.'' He signed the parchment with a flourish and handed it back to the prince, who accepted it with wide eyes and a grin so full of joy that it made Owen¡¯s heart stir with an explosion of nostalgia and pride. Prince Luis stared down at the signature as though it were a priceless treasure. His grin stretched from ear to ear, his earlier nerves melting away into childlike glee. ''Do you want my signature as well?'' Sir Mandon¡¯s voice cut through the air like a dull blade, his smirk all too present as he stepped forward. Prince Luis looked up at Sir Mandon with a blank expression, the joy from a second ago gone as if it had never existed. The following silence was deafening. Sir Mandon¡¯s grin faltered slightly when no response came. The prince offered no words¡ªjust silence. Not a refusal, but not an acceptance either. Just¡­ nothing. Before Sir Mandon could vent the frustration visibly simmering beneath his skin, a deafening roar erupted from the arena. The crowd¡¯s cheers, like the sound of crashing waves, swept into the dressing tent, vibrating through the canvas walls and rattling every breath Owen took. Dennis¡¯ familiar, high-pitched voice echoed from inside the stadium, piercing through the noise as he prepared to announce the next fight. ''Well, what an opening we¡¯ve had to the day, ladies and gentlemen! A fine display from His Grace, Prince Rickard!'' Owen felt the slightest smirk tug at his lips. Prince Rickard¡¯s victory had been predictable, but it had stirred the crowd into a frenzy, nonetheless. ''But now, we have a very special treat for you coming up! This will surely be a spectacle!'' The crowd hushed in anticipation. ''Our first fighter is the brother of our own Princess Mirielle! Please welcome The Coast Knight, Sir Mandon Jubilee!'' A chorus of applause and cheers greeted the name, and Sir Mandon, ever the showman, seized the moment. With a smug grin plastered across his face, he thrust himself into the daylight. His black armour gleamed under the midday sun as he strode out onto the sand, his chest puffed with arrogance. Sir Mandon raised his sword high into the air, savouring the crowd¡¯s adoration, each cheer feeding his inflated sense of self-worth. Owen glanced at Sir Theon, who stood beside him with an expression of calm, almost disinterest. They exchanged a look, and the same unspoken thought passed between them, one that carried a mixture of pity and amusement. He¡¯s learned nothing. The crowd¡¯s cheers faded momentarily as Dennis¡¯s voice rang out again. ''And now, please welcome his opponent! He has been the captain of the royal guard for over thirty years! He has won the record number of tournaments with twenty-five tournament victories! Please welcome The Silver Knight, Sir Theon Balogun!'' The roar of the crowd erupted like thunder, shaking the very ground beneath Owen¡¯s feet. The ground itself seemed to tremble, rattling through his armour and settling deep within his bones. This was not just noise; this was reverence. ''Wish me luck, old friend,'' Sir Theon said, nodding his head. Owen smiled. ''You don¡¯t need it, sir.'' As Sir Theon strolled toward the fighting pit, the crowd burst into a frenzy, their voices blending into a storm of cheers and roars. People leapt from their seats, fists pumping the air, their admiration for The Silver Knight untameable. It was a feverish spectacle, the kind of energy that made the very air thrum with excitement. Owen stood on the edge of it, his breath catching in his throat. In that moment, he wasn¡¯t a seasoned knight with old scars; he was a young man again, watching the legend he¡¯d idolised for so many years stride toward yet another test of his skill. As Sir Theon reached the centre of the pit, he turned, locking eyes with Sir Mandon across the sand. His gaze was steely, cutting through the younger knight like a blade honed over decades. The sunlight hit his silver hair, turning him almost ethereal, like a myth brought to life, the living embodiment of knighthood itself. ''On my mark¡­ Fight!'' In a flash, The Coast Knight lunged forward, his sword a blur of steel aimed at Sir Theon¡¯s face. Owen¡¯s stomach tightened, instinctively bracing for the impact. Sir Theon parried effortlessly, his sword moving as though it weighed nothing, a natural extension of his hand. Every movement was deliberate, precise, like a painter stroking the final touches of a masterpiece onto a canvas. Sir Mandon, on the other hand, was all raw aggression. His strikes were fast but sloppy, fuelled more by pride than precision. His teeth gritted in frustration, the veins bulging in his neck as he swung wildly, only for Sir Theon to sidestep with a fluid ease that brought the crowd to a collective gasp. They saw it now¡ªthe difference between a knight like Sir Mandon, young and brash, and a legend like Sir Theon, who had long since mastered the fine balance between power and patience.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The moment came as swift as a storm. Sir Theon dodged a particularly clumsy swing, his body twisting with an elegance that seemed impossible for a man of his age. And then, with one swift motion, he delivered a kick to the back of Sir Mandon¡¯s knee. The younger knight collapsed, his legs buckling beneath him, his sword clattering uselessly into the sand. The crowd, momentarily breathless, exploded into applause. Owen shook underneath their thunderous cheers, a wave of disbelief and admiration crashing against the walls. Sir Theon bowed graciously to the royal box as Dennis sprinted into the pit, a beaming but confused smile on his face. ''We have our second victor!'' he called out, his voice almost drowned out by the sheer volume of the crowd. ''Please put your hands together for Sir Theon Balogun!'' Sir Theon extended his hand to help Sir Mandon to his feet, a gesture of sportsmanship, of dignity, the kind of behaviour Owen had come to expect from him. But Sir Mandon, his face flushed with rage and embarrassment, slapped the hand away and pushed himself up, his jaw clenched tight. Without a word, he stormed toward the entrance to the arena, his pride clearly wounded more than his body. Sir Theon followed him calmly back into the dressing tent, the gleaming sunlight bouncing off his polished armour like a halo of light around him. Owen¡¯s gaze shifted to the other side of the tent, where Sir Mandon was being tended to by Sir Edrick Combermere, The Ivy Knight. Sir Edrick dabbed at Sir Mandon¡¯s face with a stained cloth, wiping away a thin line of blood that had trickled from a split lip. Owen allowed himself a quiet chuckle, the tension in his body easing. He didn¡¯t expect the lad to be opening his mouth anytime soon. ''Very well fought, sir,'' Owen said as Sir Theon drew closer. ''Not bad for an old man, was it?'' Sir Theon replied, letting a grin escape. Owen couldn¡¯t help but smile, though his mind still raced from the spectacle he had just witnessed. The echoes of the crowd outside rippled through the air, their cheers and excited voices bouncing around the arena, swelling the energy to a fever pitch. In these fleeting moments, people could forget the weight of their troubles. The farmers, merchants, and labourers all gathered to cheer, as for once, they could revel in the stories of knights and valour. Owen liked to believe that the tournament was as much for the people as it was for the king, a chance to immerse themselves in the pageantry, to witness something bigger than themselves. It was a time when their heroes, men of flesh and blood, could remind them of the values of courage and honour, even if only for a short while. As Owen stood there, watching Sir Theon clean the sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand, he felt a strange sense of kinship with the crowd. Here, the only thing that mattered was a knight¡¯s sword and their ability to wield it. The simplicity of it all¡ªthe clarity of combat¡ªoffered a reprieve from the unrelenting thoughts that had haunted him these past fifteen years. ''Sir Theon!'' Owen turned just in time to see a young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen, with gleaming golden hair, darting toward them, his lean frame cutting through the bustling tent like a flash. Two guards, red-faced and puffing from the chase, hurried after him. The boy¡¯s wide blue eyes and flushed cheeks suggested he had sprinted the whole way. ''Please, sir, can I have a signature?'' he gasped, barely managing the words before one of the guards grabbed his arm, pulling him back with an apologetic look. ''Sorry, sir,'' the guard said hastily, keeping a firm grip on the boy. ''He snuck through. It won¡¯t happen again.'' Owen saw the boy¡¯s shoulders sag in disappointment, his youthful face already bracing for rejection. Sir Theon raised his hand, stopping the guards in their tracks. ''It¡¯s fine,'' he said, his voice calm but authoritative. ''Leave him be.'' The guards instantly released the boy, who stood there blinking up at Sir Theon, as if he couldn¡¯t believe his luck. ''What¡¯s your name, son?'' Sir Theon asked, his tone softening. The boy took a breath out, relaxing his shoulders. ''Rickard, sir.'' Another Rickard, Owen thought, his chest tightening with an uncomfortable pang. In Galia, naming boys after the king had become a common practice, especially in the capital. A reminder of loyalty, perhaps, he mused. In Owen¡¯s father¡¯s day, most boys were named Jacob, after the old king. But after the rebellion and King Jacob¡¯s fall, those names were quickly shed. Too much danger in bearing the name of a madman. ''And how old are you?'' Sir Theon asked. ''Fourteen.'' Owen cringed at the boy¡¯s reply. Fourteen. Not much younger than his own children would be. The thought lodged itself like a thorn in his mind, and he had to look away for a moment, trying to force the memories back into their dark corner. ''I¡¯ve wanted to meet you for so long, sir,'' the boy continued, excitement bursting through his words. ''You came to my orphanage once. You saved it, kept it from closing. It inspired me to want to help people, just like you.'' Sir Theon¡¯s face softened at the boy¡¯s confession, a quiet smile spreading across his lips. ''That means a great deal to me, young man,'' he said, his voice rich with warmth. ''Thank you.'' The boy stood there, shifting nervously on his feet, looking as if he wanted to say more but didn¡¯t know how. His eyes darted to the ground, embarrassed at his own enthusiasm. ''You know,'' Sir Theon added, his voice taking on a thoughtful edge, ''I shall do you one better.'' He reached down to the crimson cloak that hung from his shoulders, pulling a small blade from his belt. Owen watched in surprise as his captain carefully sliced a strip from the cloak. He handed the piece of the cloak to the boy, who stared at it as though he had just been gifted a blessing from the Gods. ''Take this,'' Sir Theon said, his towering frame casting a shadow over the boy, making him seem even smaller. ''As a reminder.'' The boy¡¯s face lit up with awe, his eyes wide and shimmering, his lips trembling as if he were on the verge of tears. The strip of crimson cloth trembled in his hands like something sacred. For a moment, Owen thought the lad might break down entirely. ''Now, you two,'' Sir Theon pointed at the two guards. ''Make sure he gets home safely.'' ''Yes, sir,'' the guards replied in unison, their heads bowing in respect as they moved to escort the boy out of the tent. The boy didn¡¯t say a word, still completely frozen by the enormity of what had just happened. His hands clutched the strip of cloak as though he feared it might disappear if he let go. As they led him away, Owen watched the boy go, still wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the encounter. Owen¡¯s stomach swirled with a strange mixture of admiration and unease. Sir Theon had a way of seeing people, of understanding what they needed. But still¡­ ''Was that wise, sir?'' Owen asked, turning to his captain as the echoes of the crowd outside filled the air. ''Giving him that part of your cloak? Do you know how much that would sell for?'' Sir Theon smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ''Owen,'' he began, ''there lies the next generation. Not the high lords and their sons, but soldiers like him.'' He glanced toward the entrance of the tent, where the boy had disappeared moments before. ''I was a boy on the street once as well, don¡¯t forget.'' The crowd¡¯s noise swelled again, the clamour and excitement rippling through the tent, growing louder with every passing second. The tournament was far from over, and now the focus was shifting to the next bout. Owen felt the familiar tension return, winding tight in his chest as the energy of the moment overtook him. ''I believe it¡¯s you next,'' Sir Theon said, his smirk widening into a knowing grin. Owen¡¯s pulse quickened. He nodded, rolling his shoulders to release the tension. The past would have to wait. For now, there was only his duty. ''Well, that¡¯s another record broken for Sir Theon with the fastest tournament victory!'' Dennis'' voice reverberated through the arena, the crowd still buzzing from the spectacle they had just witnessed. Owen could hear the excitement in the steward''s voice, but his mind was already beginning to drift as Dennis¡¯ next words rang out. ''But now, here to fight for your entertainment, we have the Pride of Diame. Please welcome Sir Aurelio Diae!'' Owen''s pulse quickened. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat louder than the last. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and glanced out toward the arena. Sir Aurelio Diae was already making his grand entrance, riding in on a mighty black stallion, its sleek coat shimmering under the sun like polished onyx. The crowd roared in appreciation, their cheers growing as Aurelio urged the horse into a gallop, kicking up orange clouds of sand with every powerful stride. Aurelio waved to the audience, his shoulder-length hair, dark and flowing, glistening under the harsh sunlight. He moved with a grace that Owen couldn¡¯t help but admire¡ªhis confidence infectious, his presence commanding. When Aurelio jumped off the saddle, landing on his feet with perfect ease, the crowd roared a ground-shaking cheer. Owen¡¯s stomach twisted in response. And now it¡¯s my turn. ''And his opponent, we have The Northern Knight, the former Lord of Flagmere. I give you Sir Owen Flagg!'' The crowd¡¯s roar hit Owen like a physical force, rattling his armour. His mouth went dry, and his hands instinctively clenched around the hilt of his father¡¯s sword. ''Just do your best, Owen, understood?'' Sir Theon said. Owen nodded. ''I will, sir.'' (Scene 2) Owen took his first step toward the arena, and the roar of the crowd hit him like a fist to the head. Thousands of voices clambered over one another, cheers and shouts reverberating in his chest and rattling his bones. The noise seemed to pour from every corner of the arena, funnelling down towards him as if the sheer weight of all those eyes were pressing him into the hot, unforgiving sand. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he forced himself to focus. The heat was too overwhelming, a far cry from the crisp, biting air of Flagmere, where the chill always lingered in the mornings, and the wind cut sharp and clean. He longed for that cold now, hoping the memories of home could cool his nerves and offer some respite from the suffocating waves of heat assaulting him. His breath caught in his throat as he glanced upward. From their elevated positions, the royal families of Galia and Eastamere sat watching, their gazes filled with anticipation. They were still as statues, their attention glued to the two knights standing at the centre of the pit. Princess Sofia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, shivering despite the warmth. Owen thought about how unbearable it must be in Eastamere, where the heat was said to be relentless. He doubted he could survive a day in that inferno, yet here he was, his skin baking under the weight of the sun. Dennis waded back into the arena, standing between Owen and Sir Aurelio with his arm sticking out towards the royal box. ''On my mark¡­ Fight!'' Dennis'' voice rang out, and in an instant, he was gone, sprinting out of the way as Owen shuffled forward, his eyes locked on Sir Aurelio. The sound of the crowd, thousands strong, fell to a whisper, their anticipation palpable as they held their collective breath. The sand beneath Owen''s feet shifted slightly with each step, its warmth contrasting with the sudden gust of cool wind that swept across the arena. Overhead, dark clouds blotted out the once-blazing sun, casting a shadow over the pit as if the gods themselves bore witness. Owen blinked, the temperature drop sending a shiver up his spine. And for just a moment, the arena, the crowd, even Aurelio standing poised to fight¡ªall of it disappeared. In their place stood a dead man. Owen¡¯s breath caught in his throat. His older brother Lyndon stood before him, tall and broad, a thick ram¡¯s skin cloak draped over his shoulders, his auburn hair curling like fire in the wind. His eyes, the same deep maple as Owen¡¯s, burned with an intensity that made Owen feel like a boy again, facing his elder brother in the cold courtyard of Flagmere. Snow crunched underfoot, and a deep chill bit at his skin. Lyndon raised his sword, the same blade that had struck Owen down in practice a thousand times before. His snarl was fierce, his swing brutal, coming down with all his strength. The world snapped back. The crowd exploded into view, a thousand voices crashing into his senses as Sir Aurelio''s blade tore through the air toward him. Steel gleamed, blurring with speed as it closed in. Owen threw Ramshorn up in time to block the strike, the loud clang of metal on metal echoing around the arena. The vibrations rattled up his arm, and for a moment, Lyndon¡¯s voice cut through the chaos like a whisper in his ear. Keep your feet flat, Owen! Owen¡¯s body moved before his mind caught up. His right foot slid back into the sand, sinking slightly as he steadied himself. The wind tugged at his cloak as Aurelio recoiled, his blade flashing past Owen¡¯s eye in a narrow miss. Aurelio was relentless, drawing his sword back for another strike, the crowd¡¯s tension swelling with every passing second. You¡¯re moving too predictably, Lyndon¡¯s voice again, sharp and critical. You need to be faster! Aurelio¡¯s sword lashed out like a striking snake, fast and precise. Owen twisted, pivoting on his left foot and narrowly avoiding the swing. His heart hammered in his chest, the sound of the crowd a distant hum now as his mind focused on the fight. As Aurelio¡¯s momentum carried him forward, Owen saw his opening. He slashed Ramshorn forward; the blade cutting through the space between them. A sharp nick on Aurelio¡¯s arm, the briefest touch, but enough. Blood welled where the blade had grazed him, dark against the golden sheen of his armour. The crowd erupted, roaring as if they had been struck themselves, the sound thunderous in Owen¡¯s ears. His muscles burned, his breath came fast, but for the first time since stepping into the arena, he felt the clarity of battle take hold. Blood trickled down Aurelio¡¯s arm, his teeth gritted in pain as he forced his gaze away from Owen. Owen wasn¡¯t about to give him a moment¡¯s reprieve. He struck again and again, his blade a blur as it crashed against Aurelio¡¯s weakened defences. The crowd¡¯s wild applause swelled with each blow, the echo of steel-on-steel reverberating through the arena. Owen¡¯s mind narrowed to a single point¡ªhis opponent. He was relentless, barely pausing to breathe as he pressed the attack. Aurelio¡¯s face twisted in agony, his arm struggling to keep up as he parried each strike. He grimaced, straightening up in desperation, his black hair gleaming under the unforgiving sun. Then, with a fierce growl, he stepped into Owen, lunging with sharp, deliberate strikes aimed low and high. Owen stumbled back, his feet sliding awkwardly in the sand as he fought to maintain his balance. The crowd roared, the noise rising to a deafening level as Aurelio forced Owen onto the defensive. Sunlight flickered off Aurelio¡¯s sweat-drenched brow, his snake-like eyes narrowed into slits, brows pressed together in grim concentration. Owen fought back, gritting his teeth as he brought his sword down with all his might, but Aurelio met him, their blades clashing with a jarring clang. For a moment, time seemed to stop. The two knights stood locked together, face to face in the centre of the fighting pit, their muscles straining, puffing out their cheeks as they struggled against each other. The sun burned overhead, casting long shadows across the sand as they strained to overpower one another. The crowd, so loud only moments before, fell into an eerie silence, their collective breath held as the spectacle unfolded. Aurelio bellowed in frustration, his face contorted with effort as he pushed harder, his sword pressing against Owen¡¯s with brute strength. But Owen wasn¡¯t there anymore. The arena, the crowd, even Aurelio¡ªall of it vanished in a red mist, consumed by the nightmare. He could see Lyndon again, the older brother who had once stood tall before him, now lifeless on the ground, blood pooling around him. Owen¡¯s heart pounded in his ears, and a searing anger flooded his veins, blurring his vision with rage. Owen threw his head back and then slammed it forward with brutal force, smashing his skull against Aurelio¡¯s. The sickening sound of bone meeting bone rang out as Aurelio crumpled, collapsing into the sand. The crowd gasped. A cloud of orange dust rose into the air as Aurelio¡¯s body hit the ground, motionless, leaving him sprawled beneath the weight of the blow. Owen stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like a war drum. His grip on Ramshorn was so tight his knuckles had turned white, the blade trembling slightly in his hand. He raised it, pointing the tip directly at Aurelio¡¯s motionless form. The cheers of the crowd had faded into nothingness; all Owen could hear now was the pulsating rhythm of his own heartbeat. Yield, his mind screamed. But Aurelio didn¡¯t move. He lay still, the deep orange of the sand staining his golden armour. And then reality came crashing back. No. Not again. Owen¡¯s breath hitched in his throat as the red mist slowly receded, his vision clearing to the sight of Sir Aurelio lying at his feet. His heart twisted painfully in his chest, and for a terrifying moment, it was Lyndon¡¯s face he saw staring back at him, bloodied and broken in the northern snows. Owen¡¯s hand dropped to his side, the sword feeling impossibly heavy now, guilt flooding his veins. Not again. Please, not again. ''Sir,'' Owen said, his heart thumping, ''Sir, are you alright?'' ''Arghhh,'' Aurelio groaned, carefully lifting his head from the sand, his expression a mixture of pain and confusion. Relief flooded Owen¡¯s body, a wave of gratitude washing over him as he realised his recklessness hadn¡¯t cost him. Not again. Thank the Gods. Before he could voice his relief, Dennis¡¯s booming voice echoed through the arena. ''We have our third victor!'' The crowd erupted in a deafening roar of applause, the sound enveloping Owen like a warm blanket but simultaneously igniting a simmering pressure in his chest. ''Please show your appreciation for Sir Owen Flagg!'' Cheers cascaded over him, a tide of excitement sending shivers down his spine. They clapped and screamed, a sharp contrast to the chaos still lingering in Owen¡¯s mind. He raised his sword high; the blade gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight, and spun in a complete circle, the motion feeling both triumphant and surreal. For a brief moment, he felt like a hero. His gaze flickered toward the dressing tent, where Sir Theon stood, his hands clapping together with a prideful smile stretched across his face. In that moment, Owen¡¯s chest swelled with pride. It was Theon¡¯s years of training that had brought him to this moment. He offered him a muted nod, a silent acknowledgement of the lessons learned and the bond forged over countless hours of practice. But as he turned back to Aurelio, Owen¡¯s stomach twisted, the elation of victory battling against the dark undercurrents of his thoughts. ''You fought well,'' Owen said, his voice steadier than he felt, attempting to mask the turmoil churning within. He patted Aurelio on the back, but the gesture felt hollow in the face of the memories threatening to weigh him down. He led Aurelio back toward the dressing tent, but his gaze drew to the crimson patch where Aurelio¡¯s head had struck the sand. The vibrant red was stark against the pale colour of the ground, and it sent a jolt of ice through Owen¡¯s veins. The sight ignited the nightmare, dragging him back to that fateful day fifteen years ago when his own brother lay lifeless, blood staining the snow. Fifteen years, Owen thought. Not long enough. Chapter IV- Into The Buzzards Claws As night fell, Sofia attended Princess Mirielle¡¯s feast inside the dining room of the Galian royal palace. She¡¯d never felt so out of place. The room bathed in a mint green hue, the polished wooden dining tables forming a U-shape, inviting guests to dance in the open space. On benches, Luis and Aurelio were conversing with the eventual champion of the tournament, Sir Theon Balogun, laughing in their cups while Father and King Rickard drank wine from their goblets, discussing something, their voices drowned by the countless other floating conversations. Prince Rickard and Princess Mirielle sat together, the princess presumably laughing at something her husband said. Prince Jacques was late. Again. Sofia sat alone, talking to no one, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the table. The weight of a hundred eyes passed over her, like she was a mere phantom in a room brimming with life. As she tasted the Galian wine, she cringed. The bitterness assaulted her tongue, making her yearn for the silky smoothness of the wine she enjoyed back home. She set the goblet down with a clink, the liquid inside sloshing slightly. No doubt if her friends were here, Esme would¡¯ve brought her own wine, a bottle of the finest vintage from their homeland. She would hold it up proudly and reject the Galian swill with a disdainful sniff. Meanwhile, Fernando would be listing all the important historical events that happened in the Galian throne room, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he delved into stories of battles and treaties, kings and knights. Sofia didn¡¯t understand why they couldn¡¯t come. At least she wouldn¡¯t feel so alone here. Whenever she tried to think or clear her head, a wave of unfamiliar voices would assault her ears, especially whenever Sir Mandon Jubilee spoke. Usually, it would be some bawdy joke or a long-winded story about something he may or may not have truly done. Sofia had never heard the Coastman¡¯s accent before, but its harshness scraped against her eardrums, making her want to storm over to The Coast Knight and demand that he shut his mouth. Instead, Sofia would sink into her chair, wishing she could disappear. However, the night hadn¡¯t been without its pleasures. Whenever Sofia¡¯s gaze found Prince Rickard, a wave of excitement washed over her. She discreetly observed him from across the room, noting the way his laughter lit up his face. During the tournament, she had noticed the lustful gazes the prince had received, and it was no different here in the palace. It was easy to see why. Sofia found herself captivated by the man¡¯s striking appearance, from his flowing blonde hair that shimmered in the candlelight, to his sculpted shoulders that filled his black and white doublet with effortless grace. Despite beating her brother in their duel, the prince had treated Luis with the same courtesy and respect as any true knight, a gesture that hadn''t gone unnoticed, least of all by her father, who had thanked him afterwards for his chivalry. As Prince Rickard laughed alongside his wife, their happiness twisted inside Sofia¡¯s heart like a dagger. She watched Princess Mirielle lean into him, her laughter mingling with his, their hands occasionally brushing. Sofia''s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet, her knuckles turning white. Here she was, surrounded by opulence and merriment, yet still profoundly alone. Many of the Galian knights oversaw the feast, standing like statues. Their faces were set in solid concentration, scanning the room with unwavering focus. Except for one. A sea green glint caught Sofia¡¯s attention like a pearl in the ocean. At the periphery of the feast, a knight offered her a charming smile, his trident gripped casually in his hand. As Sofia locked eyes with him, he did not look away. He relaxed into her gaze, his smile revealing a set of glistening white teeth contrasting with glossy pale skin. She remembered him from the tournament, the way he had defeated Sir Eduardo Jeffro and The Ivy Knight, Sir Edrick Combermere, with ease, his trident slicing through the air with deadly precision. He¡¯d worn a helmet then, but now his face was on full display, his bronze hair styled to resemble cascading waves crashing onto the shore. He strolled towards her, each step making her heart thump. She hurried to brush her hair behind her ears, her palms sweaty with anticipation. The din of the feast faded into the background, her focus narrowing to the approaching knight. He held a sort of intensity in his sea-green eyes that pierced through thin layers of formality and directly into the soul. A shiver ran down her spine, her breath hitching slightly. ''Princess Sofia,'' the knight said, bowing his head, ''It¡¯s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Finn Alisser.'' Sofia gulped as she tensed in her seat. She needed to remember her courtesies. ''Good evening to you, Sir Finn.'' Sir Finn nodded, gazing up at the ceiling. ''Aye, it is.'' He glanced down at the empty seat to Sofia¡¯s left. ''May I?'' Sofia followed his gaze, but swiftly returned to looking into his sea-green eyes. She nodded, the knight¡¯s smile only getting wider as he took a seat. The room still swirled with voices, crashing against Sofia¡¯s ears as Finn took an orange from the table and peeled it. He popped a segment into his mouth, controlling his chewing to a slow and savouring pace. ''You look radiant tonight, Princess, especially your dress,'' the knight said sheepishly. Sofia widened her eyes, the things she could say to complement him piling on top of her. She silently took a breath and composed herself. ''Thank you. It¡¯s¡­'' my mother¡¯s dress, she was going to say, but she stayed her tongue, the memory of her mother paining her, even after all these years. If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed, I can promise you that. ''You fought well in the tournament. I imagine the armour you wear is¡­ quite heavy.'' Finn looked down at his black armour and a chuckle floated out of his mouth. ''It can be. You can borrow it one day if you like.'' Sofia found herself bursting into laughter as she imagined herself wearing all of that plate. Fighting was her brother¡¯s arena, and she¡¯d much rather keep it that way. ''Do you want a bit of this orange?'' Finn said, sliding it towards her, ''I never like eating alone.'' Sofia stared at the orange sat in front of her, the segments faintly glowing in the light. She took one and placed it into her mouth. As she chewed, the sweet and zesty taste of the orange buzzed her taste buds. ''There¡¯s plenty more where they came from,'' Finn said, his northern accent only growing stronger, ''They¡¯re grown right here in the palace, in the courtyard outside.'' He pointed at the doors. ''The gardeners here are incredible at what they do.'' ''Your accent,'' Sofia said, ''Northern?'' Finn took another segment of his orange and popped it into his mouth. ''Aye. Fisherton, a little fishermen¡¯s town. It¡¯s the reason I carry this.'' He lifted his trident with a humorous and somewhat embarrassed smile. Sofia laughed again, Finn joining in as he brought it back down to stand next to him. ''Was that your choice?'' ''Blame my lord father. He insisted I be the first knight of the royal guard to wield a trident.'' Sofia let another giddy chuckle escape. ''Well, you wield it well.'' ''Thank you.'' Sofia¡¯s cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading through her. She couldn¡¯t stop herself from laughing as each burst of humour bubbled up within herself. Her heart pounded with a swirling storm of excitement and nervousness. As she opened her mouth to ask him another question, she caught a movement in the corner of her eye. ''Attention!'' Prince Rickard stood before everyone, his golden hair shining. ''I believe it is time we had some music,'' he said, nodding for a band of men carrying drums and bagpipes to flutter into the feast. The rising rumble of the drums shook the room, the light humming of bagpipes joining them as excited whispers floated amongst the guests. ''Mirielle, my love,'' Prince Rickard said to his wife, laying his hand out before her, ''As a token of thanks for organising such a beautiful feast, will you take my hand and dance with me?'' Despite Princess Mirielle¡¯s best efforts to appear surprised, a subtle glance towards the onlookers betrayed her. She took her husband¡¯s hand, and they made their way to the floor, the drums pulsing through Sofia¡¯s body. The pair moved like peacocks, gracefully strutting around each other, their eyes locked in an unbroken gaze. They synchronised each step, their movements a fluid dance that made the music itself bend to their will. It was as if the Gods had crafted them for this moment, their connection palpable to everyone watching. Is this just an act, Sofia wondered, or is this what true love looks like? When they bowed to each other, a wave of applause thrashed about the room and some of the guests rose from their seats to take their dances. Sofia locked eyes with Finn. The knight nodded towards the floor. Sofia¡¯s heart dropped at the sight of the crowd, the pulsating beats of the music reverberating through her. She couldn¡¯t dance, not here, not in front of everyone. What if she missed a step, or fell? She couldn¡¯t risk such embarrassment. Finn gave her a comforting look, as if he¡¯d read her mind, and laid his hand out for her. With one touch of his hand on hers, her fear melted away, and she found herself stumbling towards the floor. The relentless beat of the drums echoed in the background, driving Sofia as she stepped onwards. She fixed her gaze on Finn, never once breaking her connection with the pulsating rhythm. ''Follow me,'' he whispered. The bagpipes quickened and everyone put their arms up like they were surrendering. Sofia flung her arms in the same way, stealing quick glances at the lady beside her to ensure she was mimicking her correctly. Sofia awkwardly jerked her body around, always moving a split-second behind everyone else. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Finn smiled at her. ''How are you finding it?'' They pranced to the right. ''The music¡­'' They pranced to the left. ''The music is pleasant.'' Sofia stumbled on that last step, her face flushing with embarrassment. Finn chuckled. ''I fell over on my first dance as well. You¡¯re doing well.'' They spun around each other, Sofia¡¯s head whirling with dizziness. Finn pulled her close, guiding her through the steps. Sofia tried to keep up, but her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, doubts, and fears she didn¡¯t have time to dwell on. She glanced around the room, feeling the eyes of everyone on her, judging her every move. It were as if thousands of foreign voices were hitting her head all at once. Having to remember these moves hurt her even more. She had to remain calm. She was the future queen of Eastamere. Things were expected of her. She looked into Finn¡¯s eyes. His attempts to keep the smile off his face made Sofia smirk. They laughed in the middle of the dance floor, the entire royal court watching them. Finn twirled her around, a surge of exhilaration flowing through her as the room spun, the vibrant colours of the guests¡¯ attire blending into each other. Breathing heavily, Sofia found herself pressed close to him, their foreheads nearly touching. For one single moment, Sofia forgot she was a princess. She¡¯d forgotten she was one day going to be the queen of Eastamere. She¡¯d forgotten about her friends, about her father, her brother, King Rickard, all of them. Only the moment mattered, with the man who had given her a precious gift, a moment of pure joy. A hand touched Sofia¡¯s shoulder, and the music hit her again. She turned away from Finn. Standing behind her was her father, his face as blunt as a cliff. ''Sofia,'' he said, his voice like a tolling bell, ''Come. We need to talk.'' Sofia took one last look at Finn, the knight standing there resplendent in his black armour. ''It was a pleasure meeting you, good sir,'' she said, her heart fluttering as she nodded his way. Finn smiled at her. ''The feeling is mutual, princess. Have a good rest of your evening.'' He strolled solemnly away from the dance floor, joining his brothers-in-arms in overseeing the feast. Awkwardly rubbing her elbow, Sofia followed her father towards the dining table, the aroma of freshly cooked food wafting through the air. Her father bid her sit down. Sofia sank into her chair, her full glass of wine sitting in front of her, reflecting the soft candlelight. Her heart sank, guilt and forbidden elation weighing it down. Father nodded at her glass. ''Wine not working for you, or do you prefer my own?'' ''I can explain,'' Sofia blurted. Father laughed, a wide smile brightening his face. ''Your grandfather would¡¯ve been proud. He made that wine himself. He called it ¡®the wine of youth¡¯, a delicacy of which you can only indulge in once. Only now do I realise what he meant.'' Father gazed off into the distance, his smile disappearing. Sofia¡¯s lingering thoughts of Finn faded as she stared at her father¡¯s pained expression. She tried to peer into his soul, to see what he was missing. Perhaps he missed Mother like Sofia did, yet she couldn¡¯t help but feel as if he missed something else. What that was, she couldn¡¯t say. Father regained his smile when he recollected himself. ''I remember when your Aunt Isabela caught both myself and Serben drinking ourselves into oblivion,'' he chuckled, ''You should¡¯ve seen how red she went. Honestly, the most boring woman I have ever met.'' The king dragged his palms across his face, as if he were scraping the memories from his brain. Sofia raised her eyebrows. ''You drank with Serben?'' She glanced over at Serben conversing with one of the golden knights of her father¡¯s royal guard, talking in inaudible whispers. ''Can you believe he was fun once?'' Father said dejectedly. Sofia sighed. It seemed, in these sorts of gatherings, fun came in short supply. And yet Finn had given it to her. For one fleeting moment, he had given it to her. As Sofia turned to look her father in the eye, he opened his mouth and looked down at his feet. ''The wine is not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to talk to you about something else. Our trip here was not only for some mere tournament, but to achieve real, unbreakable peace. So, I was discussing the issue with King Rickard, and we came up with a solution. Marriage.'' Sofia tensed in her chair, bracing herself for the king¡¯s command. ''Marriage?'' ''Between you and Prince Jacques.'' Sofia blinked, hardly believing what she¡¯d just heard. Marriage? To Prince Jacques, a man who didn¡¯t even bother himself to attend the most important feast in a generation? ''What?'' she growled. ''Prince Jacques will return with us to Eastamere on the morrow and become your future king consort. He is a good match for you.'' Sofia wrestled with keeping her expression neutral while her mind raced with the implications. She thought of her trip, the one she always wanted to go on, the one she still very much intended to go on. How could she do that now if she were shackled by marriage? And to Prince Jacques? A ghost in his father¡¯s halls? She tried to envision herself standing next to him at the cathedral altar, taking her marriage vows and drinking the holy water to seal their union. But she couldn¡¯t. ''Why Prince Jacques, Father?'' Sofia asked, ''All he does is sit in his tower. He did not even trouble himself to attend tonight¡¯s feast. He offers us nothing.'' ''He offers us unity,'' the king said firmly, his brown gaze setting in stone. ''This is our chance to end a centuries-long feud between our countries¡­'' Father¡¯s eyes softened, as if haunted by a memory. ''And in time¡­ I believe he has the potential to make you happy, as your mother made me happy.'' Sofia scoffed at her father for using her mother¡¯s memory in that fashion. We both know my happiness has nothing to do with it, she thought, remembering her dance with Finn, clinging to the joy she¡¯d felt only moments ago. Father sighed, reading her thoughts. ''Sofia, please do not choose to misjudge me. You know I wish to see you contented, happy even, but above all, I wish to see you grow into the ruler I know you can be, as your mother always said you would be, to rule in peace and strength. Please, show strength now and help me make peace with our enemy.'' Sofia tried to breathe, to clear her mind, but a thousand questions zipped through her like lightning bolts. She needed to remember who she was and where she was. She could not embarrass her father. Not here, and not now. ''Father, may I be excused to think over what you¡¯ve said?'' Sofia asked, her chest tightening as she rose from her seat, ''Unless you¡¯re giving me a royal command.'' Her father gave her a defeated look, as if he were looking twenty years into the past and seeing himself. He silently nodded his head. ''I¡¯d like an answer on the morrow,'' he said firmly. Sofia forced a smile. ''Thank you, Father. You will have my answer by the morrow.'' She eyed the wooden door to the throne room, shadowed by one of the black knights of the Galian royal guard. As she approached it, the image of her standing next to Prince Jacques at the cathedral altar came back to her, and her throat clammed, choking her. With one sip of holy water, she would be a married woman, unable to return to her carefree days with her friends. She would be with him every single day, sharing a bed with him, one day having his children, all for the sake of peace. Breezing past the knight at the door, Sofia pushed it open and stumbled into the throne room, the moonlight glinting off the throne and into her eyes. (Scene 2) The wind whispered through Sofia¡¯s hair, lifting strands clinging to her damp cheeks. She stood secluded in the courtyard outside the grandeur of the throne room, seeking solace where no prying eyes could see her. Around her, the courtyard flourished with an abundance of life¡ªfrom towering, verdant plants to spruced rows of potatoes, each leaf meticulously tended. Sir Finn wasn¡¯t lying when he said the gardeners here were incredible at what they did. Her heart wrenched as she remembered dancing with him. In the heart of the courtyard, a fountain burbled, its waters shimmering in the soft moonlight. Beyond the peaceful courtyard, a path beckoned, leading towards the heart of the city, yet barred by a looming black gate. From the distant dining hall, the muffled sounds of revelry drifted like a haunting melody, reminding Sofia of the festivities she had abruptly left behind. Her vision blurred as tears welled up anew. With a trembling hand, she attempted to brush them away, only to find the moisture seeping into the fabric of her sleeve. Frustrated, she hastily wiped her cheeks, concealing the evidence, yet unable to staunch the flow of silent tears. Her choices were so simple, yet so difficult. She could marry Prince Jacques, a man she didn¡¯t know or love, and see the feud between Galia and Eastamere fade into nothing; or she could risk the tensions between their two kingdoms festering like a disease until war became inevitable, all to protect Sofia¡¯s personal desires. There was only one clear choice, to her misery. The memory of dancing with Finn resurfaced, a fleeting moment of joy and connection in this sea of obligation and sorrow. His kindness, his ease, had given her a glimpse of what life could be¡ªfilled with laughter, spontaneity, and genuine, true affection. But that vision was a distant dream now, eclipsed by the harsh reality that was her duty. A rustling sound broke her reverie, akin to some predator stalking her. ''I must say,'' Sofia whirled her body around, following the familiar voice, ''I have seen many noble ladies cry in this courtyard before, but never The Princess of Eastamere.'' Sofia blinked. Prince Rickard approached her with a shining smile, now wearing a brown leather jacket and a blue neckerchief. Her heart both fluttered and pained as she remembered him laughing alongside Princess Mirielle in the dining hall, their happiness laid bare for all to see. But as he drew closer, Sofia narrowed her eyes at him. It wasn¡¯t Prince Rickard at all; it was his brother, Prince Jacques. The shine faded.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Sofia tried not to groan. Prince Rickard was everything his brother wasn¡¯t. Where Prince Rickard stood tall and muscular, Prince Jacques stood skulking and skinny. Where Rickard had flowing blonde hair, Jacques¡¯ hair was almost white. Where Rickard looked like a shining star, Jacques looked more like a ghoul, his spirit forever haunting the palace. How can two brothers look so similar yet so different at the same time? ''I noticed you said little during the tournament,'' Prince Jacques said. And you wouldn¡¯t shut up, Sofia thought, but she was sober enough to deem it inappropriate to speak aloud. ''My apologies, Your Grace. I needed air.'' Prince Jacques smiled again. ''Of course you did. Now, since we¡¯re going to be married¡­'' Shock pulsed through Sofia¡¯s body, forcing her eyes to widen. How does he know about that? No doubt King Rickard had told him, which only made Sofia question how long he knew about their betrothal before she did. Prince Jacques paused, acknowledging Sofia¡¯s shock with a pair of raised eyebrows, before carrying on. ''Since we¡¯re going to be married, I think it¡¯s prudent for us to acquaint ourselves better, wouldn¡¯t you agree?'' Sofia wanted to scoff, not only at the prince¡¯s appearance and sudden forward advancements but also at the constant mocking tone in his voice. He made everything seem like an elaborate joke - a joke only he found funny. She would need to tolerate that for the rest of her life. Prince Jacques took a long stride towards her and extended his hand. ''Hello, my name is Jacques Rue,'' he said. A small part of Sofia wanted to laugh at how silly he looked, but his overconfident act quelled her humour. Prince Jacques huffed. ''You see, I am no connoisseur when it comes to social interactions, but a conversation is supposed to go two ways, yes? I say something, you say something, so on and so forth?'' What does he want me to say? Sofia thought as the night breeze licked her wet cheeks. Jacques was waiting for Sofia to respond, but all she could picture was her friends planning their trip without her. ''Perhaps you could start by saying ¡®Hello, my name is Sofia Paloma¡¯. That will do.'' Sofia let the breeze do the talking. Prince Jacques rolled his eyes. ''Aren¡¯t you Eastamereans supposed to be good at diplomacy?'' Sofia shrugged, her heart begging this royal prick to just turn around and leave her alone. She didn¡¯t want to see him. She didn¡¯t want to see anyone. She wanted to be dancing with Finn. She wanted to be with her friends, planning her trip, packing and sailing to Gods knew where, anywhere but the place that reminded her of who she was, or what she was supposed to be¡ªa piece in a political game. ''Alright, I¡¯ll say my piece and then I¡¯ll leave,'' Prince Jacques said, ''Is that okay with you?'' Sofia nodded. ''Very well¡­ I believe in you.'' With a raised eyebrow, Sofia expressed her scepticism. ''You¡­ believe in me?'' No one had ever truly told her that since her mother died, but Jacques had said it without even speaking a word to her before now. ''Why?'' she found herself asking, the curiosity slipping into her voice. The prince smiled. ''Your father believes in you, and he¡¯s as good a man and as a good a king as any. I don¡¯t think you quite understand how much I wish my father would treat me the way your father treats you. Do you believe in him? Do you trust him?'' He¡¯s my father, Sofia thought, but as she remembered his words at the feast and the choice he was forcing her to make, her anger spiked, and she dreamed of home. ''He¡¯s my king,'' she said. Jacques smiled again, an even bigger smile as a memory flashed in his sharp blue eyes. ''Word of advice from someone who knows what he¡¯s talking about. Cherish those who love you, for when they¡¯re gone, they¡¯re gone for good. Think on that, princess, and I bid you goodnight.'' Prince Jacques bowed and made his way back into the throne room, his figure bathing in the golden light of the throne. (Scene 3) She¡¯s got your eyes, Owen. Owen perked his head up as his wife¡¯s voice floated in the air. The feast rumbled on. He stood as still as a statue like the rest of the royal guard, shoulders square, every muscle taut as if ready for action. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the cold metal grounding him amidst the chaos of the evening. The rest of the guards were as motionless as he, all except Sir Theon, of course. Owen¡¯s eyes shifted to his captain, whose commanding presence still managed to dominate the room as he spoke animatedly with Prince Luis and Sir Aurelio Diae. Owen suppressed a sigh. It had been a long evening, the feast full of tension and unspoken undercurrents, especially after Princess Sofia¡¯s unexpected departure. Her absence rippled throughout the hall, a quiet commotion disturbing the delicate balance of the evening. What had happened? Owen still wasn¡¯t entirely sure, but he couldn¡¯t shake the image of her eyes¡ªshimmering, catching the light¡ªas she left. There was something there, something that unsettled him, though he couldn¡¯t quite place it. Prince Jacques had certainly noticed. He had come to Owen directly, his face tight with concern, demanding to know where Sofia had gone. Owen had pointed him in the right direction without hesitation, feeling an odd pang of guilt as the prince stalked away. When Jacques returned, something in him had shifted. His face was pale, his normally sharp eyes dull and distant, as though he¡¯d been dragged deep into his own mind. Owen had tried to speak to him, tried to offer some words of reassurance, but the prince had brushed past him, his voice flat and devoid of its usual vigour. It was so unlike him, and the unease settled like a weight on Owen¡¯s chest. Owen¡¯s gaze shifted back to the royal table, where Princess Sofia had just reappeared. She moved cautiously, as though testing the waters, her steps hesitant. She approached her father, King Geraldo, who, in contrast, seemed completely at ease. The king gave her a brief, warm smile, patting her on the shoulder before motioning for the servants to guide her to her chambers so she could rest for their journey back to Eastamere on the morrow. King Rickard couldn¡¯t help but interject. ''Sir Theon,'' His voice cut through the air like a knife, ''you will have the honour of escorting the princess to her chambers.'' The Silver Knight bowed his head, his movements smooth, unhurried. As he approached the princess, she held a gleam of curiosity and wonder in her eyes, as if she were staring at a statue come to life. When Sir Theon offered her his hand, she accepted it graciously and followed him through the dining hall and out of the feast. Owen placed his hand on the white ram¡¯s head on his pommel, his eyes darting to his fellow northerner, Sir Finn Alisser. Throughout the feast, Owen had watched in increasing unease and horror as The Fish Knight stared at the Princess Sofia, even going so far as to dance with her. He was a young man, his face still bearing the innocence of youth, but he¡¯d dedicated himself to protecting the royal family. Owen could only imagine what the young man¡¯s lord father, Weymar Alisser, would say if he¡¯d seen him do what he did. The memory of Owen¡¯s own youth were long gone, buried under the winter snows of his mind, the carefree days before the nightmare had consumed him. He burned them out of his mind when he muttered the royal guard¡¯s vows one more time, almost in prayer. Keep to your vows, Owen told himself, you understand what they mean, even if others don¡¯t. Never betray them. A wave of sweat washed over Owen¡¯s skin, sticking his undershirt to his back like a second layer. The capital¡¯s heat seemed to rise with every passing minute. Owen shifted his stance, trying to find a breeze, but there was no escape from the oppressive warmth crawling into his bones. Not for the first time, he missed the cool morning breeze of Flagmere. There were few things he longed for from his former home, but that chill wind, sweeping across snow-covered fields at first light, was certainly one of them. There, he could wake to the crisp bite of air, his breath misting before him, and hear nothing but the quiet hum of life in the northern wilderness. When he awoke now, in the capital, it wasn¡¯t to fresh air and tranquillity, but to blankets clinging to his sweat-soaked skin and the incessant whirring of flies buzzing around like a stark reminder. In the north, snow-covered landscape stretched out into open fields, a peaceful atmosphere permitting deep contemplation. A blessing and a curse. Owen shook the memory away, forcing his focus back to the room. Conversations fluttered around him like moths to a flame, their buzzing too low to fully catch, but distracting enough to set his nerves on edge. His ears honed in on the snippet of a nearby discussion¡ªa lord speaking of culling half of his deer population. The other man warned him to do so humanely, and the lord reassured him, boasting about hiring an expert marksman. Owen¡¯s lips twitched slightly, remembering when he and his older brother had taken to the northern woods to hunt deer and stag. The crisp snap of branches under their horses¡¯ hooves, the adrenaline of the chase, and the satisfaction of a clean shot. ''That¡¯s not true, Hollard, and you know it! The Ayasems are dead!'' One lord¡¯s voice cut through the room, sharp and slurred, drawing the attention of those nearby. Owen turned his head slightly, his interest piqued. ''Don¡¯t be so sure, Gellarc,'' another said, as if he knew more than most, ''I hear rumours old King Jacob has a granddaughter out there somewhere. Where exactly I do not know, but if it¡¯s true-'' ''The Ayasems are dead!'' Gellarc growled, ''That¡¯s the end of it!'' Owen stiffened as lightning flickered through his mind, just as it had once streaked from King Jacob Ayasem¡¯s fingers. Everyone from the tips of the frozen north to Nymerium down south knew the story of King Jacob and his god-like powers. He''d used it to murder Owen¡¯s grandfather, plunging the North into King Rickard¡¯s rebellion. A tremor ran through Owen¡¯s hand as it hovered near his father¡¯s sword. The memory had seared its way into his family¡¯s legacy¡ªhis grandfather¡¯s body turned to nothing but a pile of ash, struck down by magic only few swords could defend against. His father had rarely spoken of it, but on the few occasions King Jacob¡¯s name had come up in conversation, Owen saw the change. His father¡¯s face would darken, the easy, caring man replaced by a grim, shadowed figure. The subject would be changed, swiftly, and decisively. The Ayasems are dead. Gellarc¡¯s words echoed in his head, but Owen couldn¡¯t be sure he believed them anymore. For all of their sakes, he hoped they were right. Owen blinked, his eyes honing in on a mysterious figure with piercing green eyes, sauntering through the dining hall, casting a long shadow across the floor. The heat faded, and a chill passed down Owen¡¯s spine as if a spectre had brushed itself against him. Eyes narrowing, Owen watched Lord Serben Diae stop by the seat housing Princess Mirielle, who was engaging in polite conversation, wearing a pretty smile and laughing at some lord¡¯s jest. The moment Lord Serben bent down and whispered something into her ear, all of her smiles died. Whatever Lord Serben had said had drained the life from the princess''s expression. ''Interesting, isn¡¯t it?'' Owen flinched, his heart skipping a beat as the sudden voice pulled him from his watchful thoughts. His hand instinctively twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but he relaxed once he saw who it was¡ªSir Orchis Vortigon, the Hawk Knight himself. Sir Orchis stood beside him with that usual air of quiet arrogance, his hawk-like eyes fixed on the door. ''I¡¯ve been watching Lord Serben specifically for some time,'' Sir Orchis continued, his voice low, almost at a whisper. ''Odd fellow, isn¡¯t he?'' From where I¡¯m standing, the only odd one here is you, Owen thought, but bit his tongue, masking his unease with a neutral expression. Across the room, Princess Mirielle gracefully rose from her seat, her green gown flowing like river water behind her as she moved through the maze of noble guests. Her exit was deliberate, smooth, as if she didn¡¯t want to attract attention¡ªbut Owen¡¯s eyes followed her, anyway. She gave a subtle signal, beckoning Sir Eduardo Jeffro, one of the Eastamerean royal guards, to accompany her. Owen caught the brief flash of hesitation in Jeffro¡¯s eyes as they darted nervously around the hall before he obediently followed her¡ªand Lord Serben¡ªout of the feast. Tension twisted in Owen¡¯s gut like a knot being pulled too tight. Princess Mirielle was a charming woman, a charitable woman, would be queen someday, if the Gods were good. But something about this felt strange. Something about this felt¡­ wrong. Sir Orchis stalked toward the door. ''Shall we see what they¡¯re up to?'' His voice bore an edge of excitement, like a predator sensing a hunt. He flashed Owen a daring smile. ''Or are you going to stick yourself to that spot like it¡¯s nothing but thick mud?'' ''It¡¯s my duty,'' Owen replied firmly, though the words weighed heavier than they should have. He stood rooted to the spot, his mind clinging to the principles Sir Theon had drilled into him since his first day of royal guard training. His duty was to remain vigilant, to guard the feast, not chase after whispers in dark corridors. ''Come now, not even slightly curious?'' Sir Orchis whispered, his eyes gleaming with mischief and determination. Owen¡¯s mind urged him to stay put, to fulfil his duty without question. But his heart, his restless heart, yearned for something¡ªanswers, perhaps. That desire would turn to an itch in his brain, an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch while staying here. Owen glanced around the room, ensuring his temporary absence wouldn¡¯t compromise the security of the feast. Cursing himself, he said, ''fine.'' (Scene 4) Owen followed Sir Orchis into the throne room. The tall doors to the courtyard slammed shut, a slithering shadow disappearing to the other side of it. They could access no sound nor sight of Princess Mirielle¡¯s dealings from the throne room without being caught. That would be that. Owen would turn around and return to the feast and carry out his duty as a royal guard, what he should¡¯ve done since the start. ''One of the towers overlooks the courtyard,'' Sir Orchis said. ''We¡¯ll get a good view from there.'' The Hawk Knight pranced across the room. So eager, Owen thought, his frustration bubbling, just tell me what you think is going on, damn you! Why must you play these games with me? Owen followed all the same, his hand resting on Ramshorn¡¯s pommel, feeling the comforting weight of his father¡¯s sword at his belt. The moonlight shredded into blades, reflecting onto the wall of the twisting spiral staircase, Sir Orchis leading as he climbed the steps of the tower. Owen struggled to keep up, his legs pumping as he lugged his body forward. His tired breaths came in short, controlled bursts, his muscles straining with the effort. The dark walls seemed to close in on him, the narrow space confining him with The Hawk Knight. Vortigon wasn¡¯t much younger than Owen was, perhaps his mid-thirties, but he moved like a man half that age. He recalled Sir Theon saying once that even in autumn, where crusty leaves littered the street, one still wouldn¡¯t hear Sir Orchis coming before he¡¯d slice your throat and leave you in the dark to rot. That was unless his spies didn¡¯t reach you first. Throughout his tenure as a royal guard, Owen remained clueless about the identities of those who spied for Sir Orchis and those who didn¡¯t. A concept that could drive any man mad with paranoia. The only people Owen didn¡¯t suspect were his brothers of the royal guard. Everyone else was up for debate: the diligent cooks, the discreet servants, even the king¡¯s trusted steward, fell under Owen¡¯s suspicions. As they neared a balcony overlooking the courtyard, Sir Orchis glanced back at Owen, his eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and something else¡ªsomething darker. Owen¡¯s hand tightened around his sword, ready for anything. The Hawk Knight reached the final step and pushed open a small, creaking door, revealing the narrow overlook. ''You must do it with this,'' Princess Mirielle¡¯s voice caught in the wind. Owen stepped onto the balcony, the cool night air washing over him. His weak eyes scanned the scene below, searching for any sign of Princess Mirielle or Lord Serben. The courtyard was bathed in silvery moonlight, casting everything in an ethereal glow. Shadows shifted and moved, playing tricks on his eyes. ''There, my lord,'' Sir Orchis whispered mockingly as he pointed towards a secluded corner of the courtyard. Owen followed his gaze. Princess Mirielle, Lord Serben, and Sir Eduardo stood hidden amidst the lush foliage, forming a triangle. Princess Mirielle held a sword in her grasp. Owen recognised the work of the royal smith, Brandy Shore. Every blade he crafted boasted a regal crown, and the pricier ones were even personalised with the wielder¡¯s initials etched into the steel. The blade gleamed in the moonlight, with the initials J and R etched on each side of the ridge. She handed it to Sir Eduardo who carefully examined its weight before nodding in approval. ''Now, that is an interesting sight, is it not, Sir Owen?'' Sir Orchis said, his voice slicing through the silence. As Owen turned his head towards him, he met his sharp brown eyes. Why does Princess Mirielle have Prince Jacques¡¯ sword? He thought, trying to make sense of it all. Why has she given it to this knight? ''You want to exchange gossip and rumours like a couple of old women?'' Owen growled. ''You¡¯re telling me that doesn¡¯t look suspicious?'' Sir Orchis countered, his eyes narrowing. Owen took another look. He didn¡¯t want to admit it, otherwise he¡¯d be confessing things weren¡¯t going as well as they seemed. Finally, Galia and Eastamere had peace. ''Why are you showing me this?'' Owen demanded. A devilish smile curled onto Sir Orchis¡¯ face as he leaned against the wall. ''Because I hear you want to become the new captain of our brotherhood.'' Owen¡¯s heart dropped, dread washing over him. ''How do you know about that?'' he asked, clenching his teeth. Sir Orchis raised his eyebrows at that question. Owen sighed. It didn¡¯t matter where he¡¯d heard it. ''I say if you bring this to the king tonight, we can stop whatever Mirielle is planning,'' Sir Orchis said. Owen narrowed his eyes at him. This was the Hawk Knight he was talking to. ''If you¡¯re so bloody bothered, why haven¡¯t you done something about it?'' ''I am a hawk, sir,'' Sir Orchis said, ''I watch from afar. A ram runs into a situation head first to protect what they hold dear, that¡¯s who you are. If we are successful, you can take all the credit. The king will insist you become the new captain and he¡¯ll retire Sir Theon to some withered old shack far away. You will become all you¡¯ve ever set out to be.'' Owen¡¯s face fell. If that were the case, he¡¯d be stabbing the man who made him in the back, knocking him off the ladder of the capital and sending him falling into the abyss. All of this felt very familiar. Sweat clung to Owen¡¯s skin as his mind plunged back into Flagmere, the nightmare. He¡¯d left that behind for a reason; to serve, to protect, to follow orders. ''And if you¡¯re wrong? If the princess is innocent of whatever you¡¯re accusing her of? How do you think the king would treat a northerner speaking out against a princess? Then where would I be?'' Sir Orchis shook his head. ''Don¡¯t be a fool, Owen. You know there is something brewing.'' ''You want me to scheme and meddle? For what? So I can stab the man who made me who I am in the back? If you want that, find someone else!'' Owen turned on his heels and went to storm down the stairs, the leather of his gloves squealing as he kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. He was a knight of the Galian royal guard, nothing more, and the realm would be at peace. ''And what of the vows you took, good sir?'' Sir Orchis asked. A grin spread across his devilish face. ''Do they mean nothing to you?'' Owen hardened his face like stone. They meant more to him than anything else in the world. He knew every single word, recited them first thing every morning and last thing every night. They swirled around his mind, blocking everything else. Sir Orchis¡¯ smile slithered wider. ''Say them.'' Now, a chill sat in the air. It crawled up Owen¡¯s back and deep into his ears. ''On my honour,'' he began, ''And in the name of His Majesty, King Rickard of the House Rue¡­'' Sir Orchis wouldn¡¯t stop staring with his hawk eyes. The royal guard¡¯s vows flowed out of Owen¡¯s mouth, his mind taking him back to the day he¡¯d said them for the first time. A rush ran through his body, a rigid determination. He needed to do the right thing now, and honour his oath, despite his better judgement telling him to walk away. ''And when I draw my final breath, I know I will have given my all.'' Sir Orchis stepped closer, his presence looming. ''Then give your all now, Sir Owen. The kingdom may depend on it.'' (Scene 5) Sir Theon Balogun moved with the same grace and subtlety as a young man. His black armour made his silver hair shine even brighter, while the crimson cloak draped over his back like a bold stroke of blood. The stories Sofia had read about The Silver Knight said he was an artist who only used red. The halls they walked down lay grey and dark, a perfect rectangle, only lit by the sombre flickering of torchlight. Shadows danced and flickered, casting eerie shapes on the stone walls. Sofia¡¯s footsteps echoed softly, the sound reverberating through the silent corridor like a distant heartbeat. She found solace in the darkness, knowing Sir Theon was by her side. As they walked, Sofia''s fingers brushed against the cold, rough surface of the stone wall. She stole glances at Sir Theon, his black armour gleaming faintly in the torchlight. She wasn¡¯t sure what to say to him, but if she was to leave on the morrow, there were only a few chances she¡¯d get to speak to a legendary warrior like him. She remembered her courtesies, her mind racing with questions she longed to ask but feared to voice. ''You performed admirably in the tournament today, good sir,'' she said, a little higher pitched than she would¡¯ve liked. Sir Theon chuckled, his smooth voice resonating down the corridor. ''Thank you, Princess, but, in truth, I fear I may be getting too old for these kinds of contests.'' Sofia didn¡¯t believe that for a second. In the final duel to decide the winner, she¡¯d witnessed Sir Theon''s prowess firsthand. He effortlessly overpowered Prince Rickard, spinning him around like a little boy and sending him tumbling to the ground in a display of strength and agility that belied his age. The clash of swords had rung through the arena, drawing gasps from the audience and a furious silence from King Rickard. But Prince Jacques, sitting nearby, couldn¡¯t hide his delight. A smirk had played upon his lips, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he relished his father¡¯s thunderous scowl like it was worth no amount of gold. ''Sir,'' she said, ''I wanted to ask you a question, if I may.'' Sir Theon chuckled again. ''Ask away, Princess.'' ''I noticed a certain¡­ tension between your king and his son Jacques.'' Sir Theon raised an eyebrow. ''You have?'' Sofia nodded. ''I did. I would appreciate it if you told me why that is.'' Sir Theon stopped in the hall, Sofia watching him intently as he stroked his chin. Whatever the reason was, he did not want to say it lightly. ''Please,'' Sofia implored, ''I am to be his wife. I need to know what he¡¯s like, who I¡¯m marrying.'' Sir Theon nodded, but his eyebrow remained arched suspiciously. ''What do you know about Queen Lyn?'' A chilling breeze howled through the hallway. Sofia had read little about Queen Lyn, except for the fact that she was known for her beauty and golden locks, traits her sons inherited. One son more than the other. ''There¡­ wasn¡¯t an indication the queen was having twins. We only found out the day she went into labour. The birth of Prince Rickard proceeded smoothly. The birth of Prince Jacques¡­'' Sir Theon stared into the distance, his gaze vacant and lost. He¡¯d fallen into a world of his own. Sofia saw the moment in his eyes. She saw Queen Lyn bleed out in her birthing bed, her life seeping out of her as two babies wailed in the arms of the nurses. Sofia couldn¡¯t imagine King Rickard crying, but if he didn¡¯t shed a tear at that, his heart was as black as the stories said it was. ''She was a great artist, the queen,'' Sir Theon said with a prideful smile, ''She created wonderful art, wonderful. She even painted a portrait of the king himself. It hangs in his chambers, fully protected, and no one is allowed to touch it, not even the royal guard.'' Sofia imagined the portrait of King Rickard, standing mightily in black armour like a God. ''Does Prince Jacques partake in art, Sir Theon?'' Sofia asked as they strolled further down the hall. ''Doesn¡¯t stop. He spends hours up in his tower painting and drawing. If you ask me, it isn¡¯t very healthy, but who am I to question a prince?'' Sofia nodded. Now, she knew who she was marrying. He¡¯d lost a mother, just like her. Behind his funny jokes and snarky comments, perhaps he harboured the same fears about marriage as she did. Perhaps he was much better at pretending. He may not have been charming like his brother or danced with her like Finn did, but he¡¯d come to her when she was crying in the courtyard and brought his defences down for her, if only briefly. In one fleeting moment, she saw the real Jacques Rue. As they approached a junction in the corridor, Sofia paused, her gaze lingering on Sir Theon. ''I appreciate your honesty, Sir Theon,'' she said quietly, ''I... I want to understand Jacques¡­ to support him, if I can.'' Sir Theon met her gaze with a mixture of respect and concern. ''Princess Sofia,'' he began formally, ''I understand your apprehension. But please know that this marriage is not merely a union of houses. Your understanding and support may prove more invaluable than you know.'' As Sofia stared into Sir Theon¡¯s ancient eyes, the words sunk through her skin, piercing her heart like a blade. More invaluable than you know. She couldn¡¯t deny that. Sir Theon was right. So why do I feel so afraid? Sofia contemplated it as she approached a large, weathered brown door, Sir Theon nudging it open to reveal a dimly lit room. Inside, a majestic white bed sat shrouded by delicate, ethereal drapes. ''Thank you for escorting me, good sir,'' Sofia said, inserting all the courtesy her mother had taught her. Sir Theon smiled and bowed his head. ''My pleasure, princess.'' He turned back towards the hall, his armour chattering as he moved. Sofia reached for the door to push it shut, but Sir Theon turned around to face her again. ''The information I gave you today,'' he said, his voice low and serious, ''I would appreciate it if you didn¡¯t disclose that you heard that from me.'' Sofia froze inside Sir Theon¡¯s shadow, her heart wrenching. How many people know Jacques¡¯ secret? she thought. And what will he say when he finds out I know it too? Sofia forced a courteous smile to her face and stiffly nodded her head. Sir Theon bowed, leaving Sofia in the dimly lit room, a flickering candle casting eerie shadows on the wall. (Scene 6) Owen found Sir Eduardo Jeffro marching along the hallway towards a vacant bedchamber, his golden armour shimmering in the moonlight. He carried a thin shape wrapped in a thick cloth. Prince Jacques¡¯ sword. Owen gripped the ram pommel of his own blade, preparing to use it. ''Sir Eduardo,'' he called out as the silence made Owen¡¯s heavy footsteps boom against the floor. The knight halted, turning to face Owen with a steely gaze. ''What do you want?'' he said, his Eastamerean accent flowing smoothly as he spoke, but tinged with a hint of defiance. Owen''s heart raced, but he pushed forward with unwavering resolve, calmly approaching. ''You have something that doesn¡¯t belong to you.'' Sir Eduardo''s eyes flickered to the sword he carried, his grip tightening ''It¡¯s mine,'' he replied curtly. Owen¡¯s heart beat faster, but he pushed on. ''That sword belongs to Prince Jacques,'' he said, ''He will be needing it back.'' Lending a hand out, Owen waited for Sir Eduardo to hand it to him. The knight''s expression hardened, a mixture of annoyance and apprehension clouding his features. Glancing down at Ramshorn secured at his belt, Owen weighed his options. Would they come to blows? The clatter of their armour and clash of swords would surely awaken the entire palace. He needed to handle this situation delicately, but with his own imposing size and heavy armour, subtlety would be a challenge. Overpowering Sir Eduardo was feasible, yet Owen hesitated, hoping for a peaceful resolution. ''I insist you hand it over,'' Owen said, keeping his hand outstretched. His mind raced as he silently prayed for Sir Eduardo to relent, for this confrontation to end swiftly and quietly. But as tension hung thick in the air, Owen sensed something amiss. Sir Eduardo''s gaze had shifted, his eyes fixed on a point behind Owen''s back. A sudden movement caught Owen''s peripheral vision¡ªa shadow darting swiftly across the corridor. Before he could react, a cloth pressed roughly against his mouth, its pungent scent assaulting his senses. The sickly sweet aroma of peaches filled his nostrils, disorienting him as his limbs grew heavy and his vision blurred. Darkness closed in, the echoes of his own desperate gasps fading into silence. Chapter V- Anywhere Else In The World Rickard clasped the crimson cloth Sir Theon had given him, feeling its soft texture against his palm. Inside The Black Bull tavern on the corner of Gravenberch Street, he sat and reminisced about The Silver Knight¡¯s glistening hair and his striking black armour. Rickard pictured himself wearing it one day. The moment that cloth touched his hand, he¡¯d forgotten he was just a boy on the streets of the capital, the type you could find anywhere else in the world. The Black Bull was and always would be, a grimy cauldron of noise and motion. A heavy scent of roasted meat and spilled ale filled the air, mingling with the sweat of dozens of patrons packed tightly together, all of them coming from Gods¡¯ knew where for the king¡¯s peace tournament. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries depicting old battles long forgotten, and the wooden beams overhead were blackened with years of smoke from the hearth. The din of conversations, laughter, and occasional outbursts of song made Rickard smile, but as he moved, his whole body ached from the beating he¡¯d received from the guards. They hadn¡¯t kept their promise to Sir Theon, leaving Rickard on the street for his friends to find him. The beating didn¡¯t matter. He¡¯d take a thousand if he could see Sir Theon fight again. ''You know, he absolutely destroyed him,'' Rickard said to his friends before taking a sip of his pint. Both Bolt and Kevan groaned. ''We know, mate, you saw Sir Theon fight,'' Kevan said, ''Can you talk about literally anything else?'' A smirk formed on Rickard¡¯s face. ''I¡¯m just trying to tell you how much of an honour it was to see such a knight¡¯s craft, that¡¯s all. Honestly, his technique was flawless. He gave Sir Mandon no chance!'' ''Did you see anyone else fight?'' Bolt inquired, ''Prince Rickard maybe?'' The gleaming smile of the prince flashed through Rickard¡¯s mind. He¡¯d defeated the other prince, the Eastamerean one that moved like a feather in the wind, and the crowd, especially the girls, had gone wild for him. ''The prince? Erm¡­ yeah I saw him¡­ he was alright.'' Bolt smirked. ''Your mother named you after him, didn¡¯t she?'' ''She named me after the king,'' Rickard snapped, anger stabbing at him, ''Not the prince.'' ''They have the same name, you dumb arse!'' Rickard glared at his friend. He¡¯d only ever asked his mother about his name once before she died. ¡®You were named after the king, dear,¡¯ she¡¯d said, and Rickard supposed it must have been true. Yet as he recalled his mother¡¯s words, Rickard realised she¡¯d sounded uncertain when she¡¯d said them, as if she were lying to him. ''Doesn¡¯t matter,'' Rickard said, ''When I¡¯m a knight, I¡¯m going to be amongst all of them, the king, the prince, Sir Theon, all of them. You¡¯ll see.'' Both Bolt and Kevan exchanged a sceptical glance before erupting into uncontrollable laughter. ''You still think you¡¯re gonna be a knight?'' Kevan said, ''Come off it. People like us can¡¯t be knights.'' ''May I remind you Sir Theon Balogun came from nothing? He was a squire for Lord Axyl Hinley of Poppletown, and it was only when he enlisted into King Jacob¡¯s army did he show his skills in swordsmanship. He broke the record for the most individual kills during a war, a record that hasn¡¯t been broken since, and he performed so well during King Rickard¡¯s rebellion that when the king won the throne, he pardoned him and named him the captain of his royal guard. So yes, I think if he can do it, I can do it.'' ''Wow,'' Kevan said, shaking his head in awe, ''I have never seen anyone so obsessed.'' ''Sir Theon would clear out every single person in this tavern, especially them.'' Rickard nodded towards a booth to his left, where a quartet of beefy men sat, their clothes clinging to their muscly bodies like an extra layer of skin. When he, Bolt and Kevan arrived at the tavern, Rickard noticed them getting out of a huge carriage, and the whole thing wobbled as they got out of it one by one. They¡¯d no doubt come for the king¡¯s peace tournament as well, but there was nothing peaceful in their eyes. One of the men thrashed his body around, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor as his bloodshot eyes locked onto Rickard¡¯s table. ''Oi!'' the man roared, his voice a thick growl smashing through the chatter like a club. Instantly, the room fell into a tense silence. ''You think you can talk about us, and we won¡¯t do nothing just ''cause you¡¯re little boys?'' The cold stab of fear slid down Rickard¡¯s spine. Every instinct he had screamed for him to run, his legs itching to bolt for the door, to get out before it was too late. These weren¡¯t just dogs looking to bark. These men were serious, their gazes filled with the promise of violence and blood. Rickard swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat down. What would Sir Theon do? he asked himself. The Silver Knight wouldn¡¯t back down, wouldn¡¯t flinch in the face of danger. Sir Theon would meet their challenge head-on, unshaken, standing tall against the odds. Nodding at them, Rickard said, ''yeah,'' and matched their stern glares. Bolt¡¯s face turned pale. ''Rickard, what are you doing, mate? It¡¯s not worth it.'' ''Don¡¯t worry, boys. I¡¯ve got this.'' The four men rose from their seats in unison, their massive forms blocking out the dim light of the tavern. They stood like stone giants, the very air around them seeming to vibrate. As they closed in on Rickard''s table, their hulking shadows loomed over him and his friends. The dull thud of their boots echoed in Rickard¡¯s ears, the weight of each step making his pulse quicken. Rickard craned his neck, looking up at the leader of their group. The man¡¯s face was stone, unreadable, but his eyes¡ªhis eyes were wild, burning with anger. Murderous. ''I think you three have outstayed your welcome. Leave. Now.'' ''Aren¡¯t you the one with the massive carriage outside?'' Rickard said. The man¡¯s face didn¡¯t move. He just glared at Rickard. ''Leave. Now.'' For a moment, Rickard¡¯s mind blanked. His gaze darted from the brute¡¯s face to his friends, who sat frozen, terrified. He thought about Sir Theon again, about how easily the knight could¡¯ve turned this into a tale of triumph, cutting through these men like butter with his blade. But that wasn¡¯t Rickard¡¯s story. He wasn¡¯t the hero here. He was just a boy, clutching at scraps of courage, trying to hold himself together. I¡¯ve got more will than wits, he thought, feeling the sweat bead along his brow. His mouth was dry, his stomach twisting with regret for having spoken up in the first place. ''Alright, alright,'' he said quickly, forcing a smile that couldn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. His hand moved fast, snagging the halfwit¡¯s knife from the table and slipping it into his back pocket before the brute could notice. His pulse spiked¡ªthe danger giving him a rush. ''We¡¯ll leave.'' Rickard fought the smirk forming on his face as he slowly got to his feet, motioning for Bolt and Kevan to follow. Their chairs scraped loudly against the wooden floor as they stood, all too aware of the eyes burning into them. The tavern had gone deathly quiet, the usual clamour of voices and laughter replaced with the suffocating tension of unspoken threats. As they neared the exit, Rickard couldn¡¯t resist one last glance at the fools. Idiots, he thought, feeling the knife¡¯s reassuring weight in his hand. They probably hadn¡¯t even noticed. He doubted they could spell their own names, let alone keep track of their belongings. Rickard closed the door behind him, the tavern''s muffled clamour fading into the background, swallowed by the cool night air. Only the loud, jarring caws of a crow echoed from the rooftops above, its dark shape barely visible in the dim light. The world outside felt quieter, but somehow heavier, as though the shadows held their breath, waiting, watching. Rickard stepped away from the door, his fingers trembling as they closed around the small blade he¡¯d stolen. He brought it into the pale moonlight, turning it over in his hand. It was small, barely enough to do any real damage in a proper fight, but the edge was sharp, and glinting with menace. It wasn¡¯t a knight¡¯s sword, but it was something¡ªa worthy weapon of the streets. Still, as his fingers traced the cold metal, he couldn¡¯t help the pang of disappointment. Rickard tilted his head back, staring up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the thick haze hanging over the city. This isn¡¯t who I am, he thought bitterly. In his mind, the grimy streets disappeared, replaced by the grandeur of a royal hall. He saw himself donning the heavy black armour of the royal guard; the metal gleaming with power. It fit him perfectly, snug across his shoulders, his arms strong beneath the polished plates. His sword¡ªa real sword¡ªrested easily in his hand, its weight a natural extension of his arm. He imagined towering over his enemies, his presence alone enough to make them hesitate. They stood before him, swords drawn, eyes filled with fear. Behind him, the king watched from his throne, desperate and trembling, his hope pinned solely on Rickard. The enemies lunged at him all at once, blades flashing. Rickard would move effortlessly¡ªevery strike blocked, every attack deflected with precision and grace. He danced across the stone floor, the sword in his hand a blur of silver, each slash a perfect stroke in the deadly painting he created. Blood sprayed from his enemies, splattering the walls and floor in thick streaks of red. One fell, then another, their bodies crumpling under his might. His sword sliced through them like a butcher¡¯s cleaver through meat, severing heads, carving them down with each fluid motion. The battle was over in moments, and he stood alone, unscathed, the last warrior standing. Victorious.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. He blinked, and he returned to being no one. Rickard eyed up the carriage standing in an alleyway by the tavern. The structure eclipsed the windows, and at least six horses lined up at the front of it, all of them black and bulky. He looked down at his knife, a smile creeping on his face. ''Those men looked a bit fat, didn¡¯t they boys?'' Rickard said, ''Perhaps we should encourage them to do some more exercise.'' Both Bolt and Kevan looked over at the carriage with open mouths. ''No,'' Bolt said, ''There¡¯s no way-'' ''Look, the way I see it, it¡¯s justice. They were dickheads to us, so we¡¯re gonna be dickheads back, yeah?'' A grin sprung to Kevan¡¯s face. ''Let¡¯s do it.'' The carriage stood patiently by the tavern, its horses neighing softly. Rickard hid alongside Bolt and Kevan behind a large wooden barrel, watching the door as the moment was surely drawing near. He saw it in his mind over and over, of the carriage wheel collapsing, the owners grumbling to themselves as they tried to figure out with their dumb brains how exactly this had happened. It was going to be brilliant. ''Gods, their faces are going to be so good,'' Kevan whispered, barely able to get the words out between stifled snickers. He hugged his knees tight to his chest, as though it would somehow keep the laughter from bursting free. A laugh rose inside Rickard¡¯s throat, and his lips curled into a grin. He was just about to nudge Kevan and whisper ¡®I know,¡¯ when the heavy tavern door creaked open, and the sound of boots scuffing against mud made his blood run cold. His laughter died instantly. Four looming figures stepped into the night, sending long, menacing shadows to creep toward the boys'' hiding spot. The heavy footsteps and low murmur of voices filled the chilly air, sending a shiver down Rickard¡¯s spine. He swallowed hard and shot a hand out to shush Kevan and Bolt, who froze beside him, eyes shining with anticipation. Rickard¡¯s heart pounded in his chest as he peeked out from behind the barrel. The lead man, burly and broad-shouldered, exhaled a puff of smoke from a pipe clenched between his teeth, the grey cloud curling lazily into the starry sky. His narrow eyes scanned the abyss, Rickard¡¯s nerves shooting when they hovered over their hiding spot, and he ducked to avoid them. ''I hope your stay here was satisfactory,'' a thin, nervous voice squeaked from the doorway of the tavern, making cloaks rustle as the burly men drew their attention away from Rickard¡¯s hiding spot. Rickard poked his head over the barrel to see a boy, no older than himself, stepping into the light. His simple apron and dirt-streaked face marked him as one of the tavern workers, maybe the innkeeper¡¯s son. He fidgeted under the gaze of the men, his voice faltering, as if he could sense the danger radiating from them. The men paid the boy no mind, their gruff laughter and gravelly voices growing louder as they closed the gap to the carriage. Rickard¡¯s fingers tightened around the edge of the barrel. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat now, drumming like a war drum. They were getting closer. Closer to the carriage. Closer to utter humiliation. Sweat trickled down his temple, cold as ice, despite the excitement and fear boiling inside him. The biggest of the men¡ªa hulking brute with arms like tree trunks¡ªgrunted something to the others and stepped forward, clambering up onto the front of the carriage. The wooden planks groaned under his weight as he settled onto the driver''s bench, the wheel yet to give way. With a rough tug, he grabbed the reins. The other three men were still talking, their voices low and full of dark amusement. ''Have a pleasant journey, gentlemen,'' the boy said with giddy optimism, ''We hope to see you soon.'' ''Piss off,'' the big man groaned, his voice thick with disdain. With a flick of his wrist, he lashed the reins. The horses lurched forward, and a loud, splintering crack tore through the night as the carriage wheel gave way with a violent snap. The entire structure tipped to the side before collapsing into the mud with a heavy crash, sending a spray of filthy water and muck into the air. Horses neighed in confusion, their harnesses straining against the weight of the tilted carriage. Bolt and Kevan barely suppressed their excitement, their faces flushed and eyes wide as they squealed and nudged each other. Rickard watched, a satisfied smile curling his lips, as the four brutes took a few disoriented moments to get their bearings and scramble out to inspect the damage. The confusion on their faces was everything Rickard had hoped for¡ªevery bit as amusing as he¡¯d imagined. The biggest one suddenly thrashed his massive body around. His gaze locked onto the tavern boy, who still stood nervously by the door, and his face twisted with a fury so raw it made Rickard¡¯s stomach drop. Laughter died in Rickard¡¯s throat, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. The brute stormed towards the boy with terrifying speed, mud splashing up his legs as his boots pounded through the muck. His massive hand shot out like a claw, grabbing the boy by the front of his shirt. The boy let out a startled yelp as he dangled helplessly in the air, his legs kicking. ''You ruined our carriage!'' the man bellowed, his voice booming with rage. Spit flew from his mouth as he shook the boy like a rag doll, his eyes shot with fury. ''I¡­'' The boy must have had so many thoughts running through his mind, but all that could escape his mouth was trembling gibberish. The brute didn¡¯t care. His face twisted into an ugly snarl, and before the boy could say anything more, the man¡¯s fist shot forward with a sickening crack. His knuckles collided with the boy¡¯s jaw, and the sound echoed through the street like a hammer striking stone. The boy¡¯s head snapped to the side, and for a brief, agonising moment, everything seemed to freeze. The boy crumpled to the ground, collapsing into the mud like a discarded puppet. He lay there, motionless, face down in the filthy street. Rickard¡¯s heart pounded wildly in his chest, his breath caught in his throat. His jaw dropped open as he watched, horror dawning like ice spreading through his veins. What have I done? For a moment, Rickard thought the boy was dead, but screams of agony pierced the night, a sound so raw it made Rickard¡¯s stomach writhe. I have to stop this. The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut. His vision blurred, and his mind raced. The terror of the moment sharpened into something unbearable, something he couldn¡¯t ignore. That boy was suffering because of him. Because of me. Bolt¡¯s tight grip wrapped around Rickard¡¯s shoulder. ''Rickard, let¡¯s get out of here.'' Another scream lashed against his eardrums, sharp and desperate. The sound twisted inside him, making his stomach wriggle as though it were full of live serpents. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. His hand, slick with cold sweat, clenched the knife in his pocket¡ªhis knuckles turning white as he gripped the hilt. That boy wouldn¡¯t be going through any of this if it weren¡¯t for me. The thought stabbed at him, cutting deeper than any blade. His heart hammered against his ribs as he glanced down at the piece of crimson cloak stuffed into his tunic¡ªa trophy from his meeting with his hero, a symbol of what he could be. He stared at it, guilt gnawing at him like a hungry beast. Would Sir Theon ever do something like this? Would any knight? Another scream tore through the night, louder this time¡ªbroken and jagged, like the boy was gasping for air between sobs. Rickard¡¯s blood ran cold, and the sound shattered whatever was left of his resolve. No. He couldn¡¯t just stand by and let this happen. He couldn¡¯t watch another second. His breath came faster, shallower, as panic gripped him. The air around him felt too thick, too heavy, like it was suffocating him. Rickard gripped the knife tighter, feeling the weight of the cold metal against his palm. The reality of what he was about to do flooded his mind, but he couldn¡¯t turn back. He wouldn¡¯t. The weight of his guilt and responsibility crushed him. He couldn¡¯t let that boy die¡ªnot when it was his own reckless actions that had put him there. ''Rickard, what are you¡ª'' Bolt¡¯s voice disappeared amidst another agonising cry. The sound of life slowly being beaten out of someone too young, too innocent. Rickard¡¯s gut twisted into a knot so tight he could barely breathe. He had to act. Now. Before it was too late. With a sharp intake of breath, Rickard shoved himself forward. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, propelling him out from behind the safety of the barrel and into the street. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat loud and frantic in his ears as he broke into a sprint. His vision tunnelled, focusing solely on the boy¡ªbloodied and broken in the mud¡ªand the brutes surrounding him, their laughter cruel and merciless. ''Stop it,'' Rickard said, faintly at first, his heart racing, ''STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE!'' The blood roared in his ears, every beat of his heart a countdown to disaster. The brutish men were too engrossed in their cruel work, their fists rising and falling as they pummelled the boy into the mud. They didn¡¯t even see Rickard coming. The blade found flesh with a sickening squelch, a sharp resistance that sent a jolt of horror coursing through Rickard¡¯s veins. And then everything stopped. The men froze, their fists hovering midair. The boy¡¯s broken cries fell silent, the night air heavy with sudden, suffocating stillness. Rickard¡¯s eyes fluttered open, his breath catching in his throat as he realised what he had done. The knife¡ªhis stolen knife¡ªhad buried itself deep in the chest of the biggest man. The man¡¯s massive frame stood rigid, like a felled tree caught in the moment before it crashes to the ground. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp the reality of what had just happened. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, looked down at the knife lodged between his ribs. Blood seeped from the wound, dark and slow, staining his tunic. For a moment, the man¡¯s eyes met Rickard¡¯s, and Rickard saw something there¡ªsomething fleeting and human, a flicker of fear, of shock. But then his eyes rolled back, his body sagging like a puppet with its strings cut. The hulking brute collapsed to the ground with a dull, lifeless thud, his head landing near Rickard¡¯s feet, the blood pooling around him. Rickard stood paralysed, his entire body trembling as he stared down at the man he¡¯d just killed. I¡¯ve killed him. The thought echoed in his mind, hollow and disbelieving. His hands, still held out in front of him, shook uncontrollably. The knife¡ªthe blade he¡¯d imagined wielding like a hero, like a true knight¡ªnow stood lodged in a dead man¡¯s chest. There was no glory here, no victory. Only cold, brutal reality. I¡¯ve just killed a man. All his life, he had dreamed of holding a sword, defending the innocent, serving with honour. And now, here he was, staring down at the corpse of a man he had just murdered. The boy lay in the mud, staring up at Rickard with wide, fearful eyes, his lip split and bleeding. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Rickard wanted to say something, to ask if the boy was alright, to tell him he didn¡¯t mean for this to happen, but the words shied away. His throat was tight, his mind spinning. A flash of white light exploded in his vision, and pain bloomed across his face like fire. The ground rushed up to meet him, the world tilting as his head slammed into the mud with a wet smack. His cheek stung from the blow, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His ears rang, the sharp, dizzying pain making it hard to think, to breathe. Rickard blinked rapidly, his vision swimming as he tried to push himself up, but a heavy boot pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The mud squelched beneath him, cold and filthy, as the world around him blurred into shadowy shapes. ''You dirty little murderer,'' one of the men spat, his voice a low growl filled with hatred. Rickard could barely make out his face, but he could feel the venom in his words, the fury in his posture. The other two men loomed above him like giants, their fists clenched, their eyes burning with rage. Rickard¡¯s head throbbed, the pain radiating through his skull as he tried to focus, but the fear was too strong, too overwhelming. His body ached, his muscles stiff with terror. He knew what was coming next. Their fists curled tighter, knuckles cracking as they readied themselves to beat him senseless. This is it, Rickard thought, his heart sinking as the reality hit him. He was going to die here, in the capital, face down in the mud, a street urchin who had flown too close to the sun. His dreams of knighthood, of valour and glory¡ªthey were as good as gone, snuffed out in an instant. He could feel it slipping away, every second bringing him closer to the end. This is where it all ends. ''Gentlemen,'' a voice sliced through the air like a knife, smooth and chilling. The three men turned towards the source of the voice, their fists still raised but their movements halting. Rickard blinked through the haze, trying to make sense of what was happening. A figure stepped forward from the shadows, moving with slow, deliberate grace, the soft squelch of boots in the mud echoing ominously as the newcomer approached. A crimson cloak billowed gently behind him, its deep red hue catching the faint light of the lanterns above. A hand took Rickard¡¯s forearm and rolled him onto his back. Sharp brown eyes bore down on him, eyes like a hawk. ''I¡¯ll take the boy from here.'' Chapter VI- A Tale Of Two Brothers Jacques carefully slipped Aubery¡¯s portrait into his pack, the canvas whispering against his fingertips as he tucked it safely beneath layers of cloth. He lingered, hand pressed to her painted face, tracing the delicate lines of her likeness through the fabric. One day maybe, he thought, one day I¡¯ll see you again. Today, he needed to prepare himself for some difficult goodbyes. The thought made his heart race. He pictured Eastamere¡¯s royal palace perched high on the hill as he¡¯d read, a sentinel overlooking Palomia, dwarfed by the surrounding mountains that soared above. By decree of their first king, Gloveiro Paloma, no work of man could surpass the height of the mountains, lest they offend the Gods. Jacques marvelled at the pictures in his head, only to pause. It wasn¡¯t just in books where he¡¯d heard that decree; it was Aubery. She had once murmured those words to him, her eyes dancing with a quiet awe as she spoke of it. He remembered how he¡¯d watched her, time and again, completely lost in the pages of a book. She never lifted her gaze until she¡¯d reached the very last word, hating to be interrupted. Jacques¡¯ fingers tightened around the pack, as if grasping for reassurance. Yet as memories of Aubery lingered, so too did the recollection of his brief encounter with Princess Sofia the night before. They¡¯d exchanged only a few words, but her face stayed with him, her delicate features laced with fear and resignation. She¡¯d tried to mask her discomfort through a steely gaze, but her mouth trembled, as though she were battling tears threatening to spill over at any moment. The timidity in her gestures¡ªthe way her hands twisted together when she met his gaze, or the nervous dart of her eyes. She¡¯d seemed like a bird, trapped in a gilded cage, and she was staring at a wolf, ready to eat her. Jacques could hardly blame her for the apprehension. She was about to marry a stranger, a man she knew only by his title, lineage and unfortunate reputation. Expected to spend her life as his wife, to share his bed, his home, to bear his children¡ªall with a man she¡¯d never truly know. And yet, she¡¯d never been engaged to anyone before him. That revelation had startled him. It were as if Geraldo had protected her purity and innocence all these years for this moment, waiting for the perfect moment to seize peace. Her eyes lingered in his mind. Dark, deep with an intensity that surprised him, as if she were gazing not at him but into him, down into something only she could see, a glint of fascination¡ªan expression he knew well, one he¡¯d seen countless times in Aubery¡¯s gaze as she watch him from across the room or study his sketches with quiet awe. You bloody fool, Jacques thought, anger sprouting in his heart. You¡¯ll just get yourself hurt again. Sir Theon Balogun carefully folded Jacques'' clothes, each garment smoothed with precision, his calloused hands moving with an odd tenderness for a man who¡¯d spent decades wielding a blade. Despite having led the royal guard for over thirty years, The Silver Knight seemed to find a peculiar solace in returning to the tasks of his youth. Jacques simply watched as Sir Theon took his time, folding each piece as if it were a ritual, as if the fabric held memories he needed to preserve. All morning, an expression of disquiet had marked the old knight¡¯s face, a conflicted scowl creasing his brow, as though he wrestled with thoughts too tangled to unwind. ''Are you well, Theon?'' The knight¡¯s head snapped up, startled as if pulled from some deep trance. ''I beg your pardon, Your Grace?'' ''I asked if you were well,'' Jacques repeated gently, watching Theon¡¯s eyes closely. Sir Theon grunted, his gaze returning to the neatly folded clothes before him, his hands still restless. ''It¡¯s Owen,'' he muttered, almost to himself, as he folded another shirt. ''He didn¡¯t report for duty this morning.'' A flicker of surprise fluttered in Jacques¡¯ chest. Owen Flagg, the formidable Northern Knight, the man who stood like a giant ice statue everywhere he went, was always known for his discipline and unwavering loyalty. For a Northern warrior, to fail even the smallest duty without reason was nearly unthinkable. ''Do you know why?'' Jacques asked, his voice low, cautious. Sir Theon¡¯s mouth pressed into a hard line, the muscles in his jaw working as though he were biting back words. ''I¡¯m sure he¡¯s just¡­ preoccupied, Your Grace,'' he said, though his tone lacked conviction. ''Nothing for you to worry about.'' The silence between them stretched taut as Sir Theon placed the last piece of clothing in Jacques¡¯ pack, his gloved hands lingering a moment longer than necessary. Then, as if reaching a decision, he straightened, the flicker of unease in his eyes replaced by a grim resolve. Taking a step forward, he extended his hand to Jacques. ''It has been an honour serving you,'' he said, his voice softened by a rare tenderness, the formality tempered by something deeper, almost paternal. Jacques hesitated, glancing down at the outstretched hand. In that small gesture, he saw the weight of Sir Theon¡¯s unspoken burdens, the years of loyalty, and perhaps even the shadow of a permanent farewell. Why does this feel like the end? Jacques thought, fear slipping icy fingers around his heart. Eastamere was just the neighbouring kingdom, not the edge of the world. And yet, as he looked around his chambers, a deep foreboding washed over him. When will I see these walls again? When will I be able to watch these clouds pass by my bedroom window? Perhaps he never would. The possibility settled heavily in his chest, a leaden weight that made his pulse thrum faster. Leaving meant more than crossing a border¡ªit meant abandoning the life he¡¯d always known, the comfort of Aubery¡¯s memory, Rick¡¯s smile, the rooms and corridors that whispered secrets of his childhood. He was running away from everything. Here, he had always been the lesser son, an echo of his brother, a disappointment to his father and to the Rue name. In Eastamere, he could begin again, unburdened by past failures. Maybe that was what he needed¡ªa chance to forge himself anew, from a sheepdog to a dove. ''Likewise,'' he murmured, gripping Sir Theon¡¯s hand, and shaking it with a warmth he didn¡¯t entirely feel, wondering if the knight could sense the dread simmering beneath his calm exterior. Sir Theon¡¯s eyes softened, and Jacques caught a glimpse of something like regret in them. Just as he was about to speak, a knock rattled the door. ''Enter,'' Jacques said, his voice catching as if he hadn¡¯t expected to sound so authoritative, so¡­ kingly. The door opened, and the echoing clank of armour filled the room as Sir Finn Alisser stepped forward. His sea-green eyes, as sharp and clear as northern waters, met Jacques¡¯. His breath hitched, and the vision from his dream flashed before him once again¡ªFinn, his hands tangled in Princess Sofia¡¯s hair, his mouth pressing against hers in a moment drenched in sunlight. ''Your Grace,'' Finn said, bowing his head. ¡°the King has requested one of the royal guard accompany you on your journey east. I volunteered myself, if that pleases you.¡± Jacques swallowed, a dryness pricking the back of his throat. ''There¡¯s no need for you to trouble yourself, Finn,'' he said, ''I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t need an escort.'' ''I¡¯m sorry, Your Grace,'' Finn replied, ''But His Majesty insisted.'' The ship sitting in the harbour was called Sunrise, its sails catching the morning light as if ignited by the painted orange sun and golden dove of the Palomas. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the rhythmic pulse of the waves against the hull, while a few brave birds perched along the mast, observing the frenzied activity below. Servants scurried across the deck and docks, their hurried steps and tense faces betraying the pressure of their tasks, as they loaded crate after crate, barrel after barrel, each one thudding heavily onto the ship¡¯s creaking boards. Standing on the deck was King Geraldo, watching over the preparations with a keen eye. His commands, crisp and unyielding, carried over the din, slicing through the clamour like a knife. With the king on board, even the captain seemed to take direction, standing by with rigid deference as if he, too, were just another servant. Geraldo¡¯s children hovered around him¡ªSofia close by, her eyes shifting between the capital and the sea, her glances towards Jacques so fleeting they seemed almost accidental. She gave him a tentative smile when their gazes met, but her unease quickly pulled her back, her attention following her father¡¯s every move like a shadow. Jacques watched from the dock, the weight of his hesitation settling over him like a shroud. A single step forward would solidify the change, a step toward becoming something new, someone else¡ªhe would leave the Rue name behind, the life he¡¯d known, the identity he¡¯d once clung to. His heart thudded with the enormity of it. Inhaling, he filled his lungs with the sharp tang of salt and brine, letting it ground him as he gazed over the waters stretching far beyond the harbour, toward the unknown horizon. Out there, beyond the sparkling blue expanse, lay mysteries he could only guess at. Sailors¡¯ tales whispered of dangers and marvels hidden in those depths¡ªof mermaids with siren songs, of krakens coiled beneath the waves, waiting. His hand tightened around the strap of his pack as he let his gaze linger on that deep blue line where sea met sky, a world full of potential colour and adventure where the past might just fade away. Yet when he turned to look back at the capital, his home, everything looked drab, stripped of warmth and meaning in the shadow of his imminent departure. Brown stone, plain streets, busy voices¡ªthe mundane seemed magnified, its hold on him slipping. The bell on the Sunrise clanged, announcing that the last of the provisions were aboard. This was it. ''I hope you don¡¯t get seasick on the way there,'' Rick said, his golden hair catching the light like threads of flame, his bright smile flashing. Standing behind him were three others: Sir Theon Balogun, Princess Mirielle, and Jacques¡¯ father, their expressions a mix of pride, sorrow, and an urgency to get on with it. Rick¡¯s voice softened as he leaned closer, ''Do you remember when we sailed by the western shoreline?'' ''I seem to recall falling into the water.'' Jacques could still feel the sharp sting of the cold water, the way his breath had left him when he tumbled overboard. The chill had reached his bones, but Rick hadn¡¯t hesitated for an instant¡ªdiving into the dark water and pulling him to safety, his strong grip like an anchor in a world gone numb. Rick smiled, his gaze running over Jacques¡¯ face with a lingering fondness, as if committing his features to memory. ''I¡¯m going to miss you, little brother.'' Before Jacques could respond, Rick¡¯s arms spread wide, the strong shield of his armour glinting in the sun, inviting him into an embrace. Jacques stepped forward, his hands gripping the cold, unyielding metal of Rick¡¯s plate. His fingers pressed into it, holding onto something real, something solid in the tide of this uncertainty. He heard Rick¡¯s heartbeat beneath the steel, steady and strong, a rhythm matching his own for this single moment. ''And I you,'' Jacques whispered. When they finally drew apart, Jacques noticed the glistening wetness on Rick¡¯s cheeks. It was a strange sight, his unbreakable twin brother letting his tears fall so openly. Jacques raised an eyebrow, his gaze darting toward their father, who stood like a stone, unmoved and unmovable. ''Father is right there,'' Jacques whispered. Rick let out a shaky laugh, quickly brushing away his tears with the back of his hand. ''I know. I¡¯m just sick of losing people.'' he admitted, his voice a bare whisper. Jacques studied the shadow of grief living in his brother¡¯s eyes, his chest tightening. He placed a hand on Rick¡¯s shoulder, feeling the tension, the silent weight his brother carried alone. ''Mother would be proud of you,'' he said gently. Rick shook his head, his gaze drifting, his lips pressed tightly together as if struggling to contain something. ''I wasn¡¯t talking about her.'' Jacques¡¯ heart wrenched, the pieces sliding into place. They stood in silence, the unspoken name lingering between them like an unfinished sentence, like a plea they could neither voice nor deny. Before Jacques could say anything to his brother, a smile sprung to Rick¡¯s face, a thin veil draping over his pain. ''Tell Prince Luis that next time we meet, I want to fight him again. Perhaps next time he¡¯ll actually beat me.'' A hollow chuckle escaped Jacques as he forced a smile, trying to ease the heaviness pressing down on him. ''I doubt it.'' Rick gave a small nod, the faint gleam of his earlier tears now a fading memory as he straightened, the soldier within him reemerging, each movement crisp, deliberate. Princess Mirielle approached next with the poise and elegance Jacques had always reluctantly admired from afar, her movements as fluid as a swan cutting through still water. The delicate golden buzzard necklace resting at her collarbone caught the light, glinting as though alive. Her warm smile was perfectly practised, though Jacques couldn¡¯t help but notice a faint glimmer in her eyes, one that seemed less like hope and optimism and more like something unspoken, something buried. ''Good luck, Your Grace,'' she murmured, her voice soft and lilting, a touch warmer than he expected. She held out her hand, pale and smooth. ''I will be thinking of you.'' Jacques took her hand, bowing his head as he brought her fingers to his lips. Yet as his mouth brushed against her skin, the strange, smooth texture struck him. The sensation was oddly reptilian, a velvety smoothness that felt almost¡­ scaly. It left a chill spreading through him, an instinctive reaction he couldn¡¯t shake. He tried to hide his unease, forcing himself to breathe evenly as he raised his gaze to meet hers. ''My lady,'' he replied, bowing his head deeply, masking the sudden tightness in his chest. Mirielle¡¯s smile barely wavered, though her gaze seemed to linger on him, studying him with the same hidden disdain Jacques had seen countless before. With an elegant dip of her head, she returned the bow, a shimmering cascade of chestnut curls tumbling over her shoulder as she pivoted gracefully and took her place among the others. Finally, Jacques¡¯ father approached. Each of King Rickard¡¯s deliberate footfalls against the wooden jetty rumbled like a distant storm, growing louder, more ominous, until the noise drowned out the bustle of the harbour. Though his father wasn¡¯t much taller than him, the air around the king bristled with his intensity, his glare sharpening like a blade meant to cut. The familiar tension wound its way up Jacques¡¯ spine, settling at the base of his neck. They stood face-to-face, their shadows overlapping, and for a split second, Jacques dared to imagine a moment of warmth¡ªa word of encouragement, a rare touch of pride from his father. Instead, the king extended his hand, his face locked in a stony expression, a single brow lifted in silent demand. Jacques¡¯ heart faltered, his body taut with anticipation. He hesitated, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him like a boulder, forcing him to accept this small, pointed gesture. Their fingers barely brushed before his father gripped his hand with startling force, pulling him close, the familiar scent of steel and ink sharp in his nostrils. Father¡¯s whisper was low, soft enough for only Jacques to hear, yet it sliced through the chill morning air with a force that made Jacques¡¯ blood run cold. ''Remember,'' he murmured, his breath grazing Jacques¡¯ ear, ''You may take the Paloma name, but you are still a Rue.'' Jacques¡¯ heart fluttered at that comment, despite Father delivering it like a warning. King Rickard¡¯s gaze darkened, leaving only a cold command lingering in his tone. ''That means you carry a responsibility to our name, to our house. Conduct yourself as such. Do we have an understanding?'' Jacques¡¯ hope died. It was a threat, he thought, his body deflating. ''Yes, Father.'' ''I¡¯ll be watching closely.'' The king released his grip abruptly, as though Jacques¡¯ hand were something unpleasant to be discarded. The force of it made Jacques nearly stumble, but he caught himself, his pride the only thing keeping him upright. His father¡¯s face remained a mask of cold resolve as he turned away without another glance, leaving Jacques rooted to the spot, the anger simmering just below the surface, each pulse a furious drumbeat in his veins. As Sunrise slipped away from the harbour, its sails straining against the wind, Jacques felt a sudden ache tighten in his chest. He leaned heavily against the starboard rail, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the smooth wood. The wind whipped around him, tangling his white hair and bringing with it the sharp tang of salt and the faintest lingering scent of the city he¡¯d called home for so long. It felt surreal, as though he were a ghost, a trapped soul finally granted the honour of ascending into the heavens. He raised his hand to wave, struggling to keep his expression light, cheerful even, for Rick¡¯s sake. His brother stood at the edge of the dock, his hand raised in an answering wave. Princess Mirielle gave a small, delicate wave beside him, her eyes soft with that signature bitter sweetness. Even Sir Theon nodded in his elegant, understated way, his eyes steady and warm¡ªa hint of the fatherly approval Jacques had so rarely seen in his own father. But it was King Rickard¡¯s silhouette, stiff and unbending, that held Jacques¡¯ gaze the longest. Jacques raised his hand for a final wave, hoping for something, anything¡ªa gesture, a nod, an acknowledgement. But His Majesty stood unmoved, his figure a harsh line against the horizon. When Jacques¡¯ wave went unanswered, his father turned without hesitation and strode away, his steps sharp and resolute. You¡¯ve finally got rid of you, you cunt. Jacques thought, bitterness surging up with a vengeance. He forced a hollow smile, even as his eyes burned, knowing Rick was watching. He kept up the charade until the city had shrunk to a cluster of fading shapes on the horizon, and his hand lowered slowly, his arm weighed down with the stones of his sadness. ''Goodbye, Rick,'' Jacques murmured, his voice caught in the rising wind. He hoped it would carry his words across the waves, back to the dock, back to his brother, who had chosen to stay beside him all these years when he had every opportunity to leave Jacques behind. Jacques moved to the port side, his eyes fixed on the open expanse of sea stretching endlessly before him. The now late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting its golden light across the waves and transforming them into liquid gold, an undulating sea of molten metal that shimmered and rippled with each gust of wind. He leaned over the rail, the scent of salt and freedom filling his lungs as he gazed southward along the coastline where they¡¯d eventually reach the city of Nymerium, the jewel of the south. Jacques had only visited once on a royal visit, their Lady Merida of House Nymer being in her sixties. Even then, she looked old and thin. Now, in her eighties, only the Gods knew how Lady Merida looked. Steel connected with steel. Jacques whirled himself around as Prince Luis and Sir Aurelio Diae engaged in playful sparring along the deck, both of them trading their golden armour for simple white shirts and brown trousers. They danced across the deck, the quick footwork and lively rhythm reminding Jacques of his own youth. He used to sit in the royal palace courtyard, watching Rick clash against Sir Theon, the two moving in perfect harmony¡ªthe teacher patient, the student fierce but eager to learn. Jacques had felt almost at ease in those quiet corners, sketching his brother¡¯s stance and stance-breaks, capturing the arc of Rick¡¯s sword mid-swing or the powerful angles of Sir Theon¡¯s guard. Each stroke of his pencil had brought him closer to understanding the art of swordsmanship in his own way, even if he couldn¡¯t bring himself open his mouth and ask Sir Theon if he could join in. The memory came back, unbidden. He could still feel the burn of his father¡¯s cold stare as it drifted over him from the shadows of the throne room¡¯s open doors. King Rickard would watch Rick spar, his gaze sharp and evaluative, but when he noticed Jacques tucked away with his sketchbook, his mouth would twist with disdain. ''Wasting time, making a fool of my name,'' he¡¯d sneer, the accusation burning like an iron brand. Jacques would never stop drawing, yet each glance from his father was a reminder of what he could never become¡ªthe swordsman, the warrior, the dashing prince, the Rue worthy of the family name. But today, there was King Geraldo, standing tall and laughing as he watched his son practice. His expression wasn¡¯t steely or severe; he didn¡¯t bear down on Prince Luis with demands or withering glances. Instead, his face softened with unmistakable pride, his smile a clear sign that he truly saw his son. Jacques blinked, almost as though he¡¯d misread it, but the easy warmth in Geraldo¡¯s face was undeniable. With a grin, Geraldo strode forward, gripping his halberd with a practised hand. He called out a challenge to Luis; the prince hesitating for only a second before leaping forward with a youthful, enthusiastic swipe. Jacques¡¯ heart lurched as he watched the two clash, steel ringing against steel in a harmonious beat. Geraldo¡¯s movements were powerful, graceful, and precise; he spun his halberd with casual ease, like a master dancer leading his partner through a well-rehearsed routine. The crowd of servants and guards paused their work to watch, eyes wide as they murmured in admiration of the famous Devil¡¯s Cobra. Prince Luis made a bold move¡ªa powerful strike with too much momentum. Jacques winced, half-expecting the prince to catch his father off guard. But before Luis¡¯s sword could come close, Geraldo sidestepped and twisted his halberd with astonishing speed, hooking the prince¡¯s leg and sending him sprawling to the deck in a single fluid motion.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Jacques¡¯s chest tightened as King Geraldo¡¯s laughter echoed, loud and full of relief. ''Seems my form has never wavered!'' Geraldo said, the pride in his voice ringing clear as he extended a hand to his son, hauling him back to his feet with a warm chuckle. The two shared a long look, Geraldo¡¯s hand cupping Luis¡¯s head like a father treasuring a priceless heirloom, his eyes filled with a fierce, almost reverent pride. Jacques looked away, unable to keep his eyes on that intimate moment, his body aching with a familiar, hollow pain. Jacques¡¯s gaze drifted to the other side of the ship, where two figures stood close, the soft murmur of their conversation mingling with the rhythm of the waves lapping against the hull. Sofia¡¯s white dress billowed gently in the breeze, the pink ribbon around her waist bright and warm against the stark, dark lines of Sir Finn¡¯s black armour and crimson cloak. She laughed at something, tilting her head toward him, her laughter light and unguarded. Finn leaned closer, a trace of a smile on his usually stoic face. They looked so¡­ comfortable together, as though they had known each other for years. Jacques tore his eyes away, forcing himself to look back at the shimmering expanse of water stretching endlessly toward the horizon. It was just a dream, he reminded himself, his jaw clenched. Just a memory. The echo of Aubery¡¯s laughter lingered in his mind, the familiar warmth of her voice floating back to him, as if she¡¯d only just left his side. He could still feel the way she had once looked at him, eyes full of mischief and light. She would tease him about his glowering demeanour, laugh at his impatience, and somehow always coax a reluctant smile from him, even when he didn¡¯t want to give her the satisfaction. ''She is not Aubery,'' Jacques reassured himself, barely above a whisper. The words were supposed to steady him, but they only made the ache sharper. That will never happen again. As Sunrise glided past Nymerium, Jacques squinted as the city sprawled along the coast, its blue and white buildings glittering in the sun¡¯s embrace, set against the endless green of surrounding farmland. The city was like something out of an artist¡¯s dream¡ªpainted in pure, vivid strokes against the landscape. Farmlands stretched around it, rolling hills dotted with sheep and cows moving lazily through the lush grass, their wool and coats striking against the green backdrop. All Jacques could think was how little this place resembled home. It was as if he were looking at a completely different country. He reached into his satchel, pulling out his notebook and a stub of charcoal. Jacques ran his thumb over the stick¡¯s rough edge, letting the familiar texture steady him, then opened his book to a blank page and began sketching. He sketched swiftly, as if afraid he might lose sight of the city¡¯s details before he could get them down. The palace loomed at the centre of the page, with its towering spires and elegant, arching windows casting faint shadows. It sat at the heart of the city like a crown, Lady Merida¡¯s domain. He paused to lift his head, narrowing his eyes as he tried to capture every angle of the palace¡¯s white stonework, every glint of sunlight dancing off its walls. The smaller houses seemed to huddle around the larger buildings, almost as if for protection, dark clouds of ink surrounding the more ornate lines of the buildings. He shaded them quickly, smudging the charcoal with his thumb to give the sense of their density, their closeness, all clustered within the city¡¯s embrace. As he turned to sketch the fields, his eyes flicked between the page and the shoreline, his brow furrowing as the ship¡¯s gentle rocking distorted his lines. Each time the angle shifted, he would grunt in frustration, furiously erasing and redrawing. No, no, the hills are steeper¡­ there¡¯s that cluster of sheep again, just past the crest. He gritted his teeth, sketching them as shadowy figures against the green fields. ''I was told you like to draw.'' Like a spark in a dry field, irritation ignited in Jacques¡¯ belly, spreading like wildfire to his chest. If there was one thing in this world he despised, perhaps even more than his father, it was being interrupted¡ªespecially when he was drawing. Clenching his jaw, he took a measured breath before lifting his head to see who had so intrusively broken his concentration. Princess Sofia Paloma stood before him, her silhouette haloed by the pale afternoon light, her long black hair whipping in the wind. Her dark eyes, deep and curious, roamed over him with a slight, detached amusement, as though examining an odd specimen she¡¯d found in the gardens. ''And you would be right,'' Jacques replied, a touch of defiance in his voice. With a sweeping gesture, he spread his arms to the world around them. ''Look at this. If the Gods are real, they made all this,'' he said, ''and what better way to honour them than by recording the creations of their children?'' Sofia shrugged with an indifference that pricked his irritation once again. ''I suppose. You¡¯d probably get along with my friend, Fernando. He writes.'' Jacques¡¯ brow lifted, curiosity momentarily displacing his annoyance. It was rare to find another who valued the arts as he did, rarer still to hear of someone a princess like Sofia found worthy of mentioning. ''What about?'' ''Dragons, mostly,'' she replied with a soft, secretive smile. ''He¡¯s obsessed with them. Convinced they still exist, even. He swears he¡¯ll find one someday.'' A hint of a smile tugged at Jacques'' lips as he imagined the massive, ancient creatures sweeping over the land, their scaled bodies glinting in the light, great wings throwing shadows over towns before their fiery breath reduced them to smouldering ruins. ''Fascinating creatures, dragons. I remember when we cremated Sir Finn¡¯s great-uncle, Sir Weiland Alisser, twenty years ago. I imagined the flames were dragon fire¡­ and¡­ and my father among them, screaming as he burned.'' The words slipped out unbidden, and at once, memories surged forward, vivid and chilling. He saw it clearly, as though the flames of the pyre had reappeared, flickering, hissing, casting shadows that twisted into mocking shapes. Amidst the blaze, he could almost see his father¡¯s figure¡ªthe harsh lines of his face etched by pain, his voice swallowed by the roar of the fire, but the look in his eyes clear: a desperate realisation, a hollow regret, too late to save him. Jacques blinked, his gaze sharpening once more on Sofia. She hadn¡¯t moved, hadn¡¯t looked away, but her expression had certainly shifted, her eyes widening just enough to reveal a flicker of discomfort that hadn¡¯t been there before. Her cool demeanour had melted, if only for an instant, into something like horror¡ªor perhaps fascination. She looked at him as though she were seeing a stranger, a shadowed, jagged part of him he rarely let slip. Why did I say that? Jacques thought, bewildered, a cold shiver crawling up his spine. He¡¯d never spoken of that day to anyone¡ªnot to Rick, not even to himself in the privacy of his mind. Yet somehow, the words had slipped out in front of her. A foreign surge of anger flared up again as he took in Princess Sofia¡¯s shocked expression. She had no right to judge him, to peer into his darkest memories with her unblemished life as her shield. She had grown up beloved¡ªher mother had once doted on her, her father had admired her, and her brother¡­ her brother would lay down his life to protect her. What did she know of loss and hatred? Who do I have now? Jacques thought bitterly, the prospect stinging him like poison. He was leaving everything behind, abandoning everyone he¡¯d ever known, respected, or loved, all because he was cursed with the Rue name. The shadow of his father darkened every corner of his life, every ambition and dream. But did the mighty King Rickard care? Did he see Jacques¡¯ sacrifice? No. He could march off to war, lay waste to his enemies, bleed for the family name, and the Border Mountain Range itself would sooner crumble than his father ever saying ¡®thank you.¡¯ The simmering bitterness roiled within him, threatening to consume him. Jacques could feel himself slipping, the flame of anger growing hotter, more venomous. He had to put it out, before it overwhelmed him, hollowing him out from the inside. Jacques drew in a deep breath, to steady himself, to force the fire back down. ''My apologies¡­'' he murmured. ''My father¡­ he¡¯s not like yours. He¡¯s hated me my whole life.'' Sofia parted her lips, her brow furrowing as if she were on the edge of speaking. ''Because of what happened to your mother?'' The words made Jacques¡¯ heart clench, and a sharp, icy flame ignited in his stomach. ''Who told you about that?'' he demanded, his voice a thin blade, cutting through the space between them. Sofia widened her eyes, her gaze one of genuine fear. Her question reopened an old, nearly forgotten wound, one Jacques had thought he¡¯d buried along with his mother thirty-four years ago. It was rare his father spoke of her; the memories like whispered secrets in their cold, hollow halls. Whether it was grief, or some twisted pride that deemed her death a stain on the Rue family¡¯s legacy, his father had let her memory fade, leaving only fragments. Yet her painting of the king¡ªthe only trace of her left¡ªstill hung in his father¡¯s bedchamber, hidden behind locked doors that Jacques would never see. He imagined her there sometimes, a trapped spectre forced to watch over the man who had all but erased her. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. ''I wanted to say I understand,'' Sofia said, her voice barely a murmur, softening as her gaze dropped. ''I lost my mother too.'' Jacques¡¯ throat tightened as he remembered the whispered rumours of Queen Eloisa¡¯s heart failure¡ªan event his father had greeted not with solemnity but with scorn. The memory flashed vividly: his father¡¯s sneering laughter, the cruel glint in his eye as he remarked, ¡®Those doves have big hearts, too big it would seem.¡¯ Jacques could never forget his disgust and bitterness at his father¡¯s tone, but he¡¯d kept that reaction hidden, like a chest buried deep within him. Now, seeing Sofia¡¯s eyes begin to shimmer, he silently vowed to keep his father¡¯s venomous words to himself. ''It would seem we have some common ground,'' Jacques said, forcing a confidence into his words that he couldn¡¯t truly feel. He offered his hand to her, reaching his arm forward. Marriage could be an isolating affair, especially one built on formality and duty. If they were to spend a lifetime in each other¡¯s company, perhaps it was time to put aside his pride, his resentment, and try to see Sofia beyond the crown and title that would one day fall on her head. Sofia¡¯s gaze flicked up, meeting his, and for an instant he saw a glimmer of surprise, softening into a faint, genuine warmth. She reached out, her hand slipping confidently into his. Her fingers felt delicate but steady, her grip firm with a confidence he hadn¡¯t expected. ''I was speaking with Sir Finn Alisser,'' she said, the earlier vulnerability in her voice now replaced by a bright, formal tone. Jacques followed her gaze to where Finn stood, a short distance away. The knight was watching them, his expression unreadable, yet Jacques felt a chill as if a shadow had swept across his skin. ''Yes,'' Jacques replied, ''I¡¯d noticed you two were¡­ acquainted.'' ''My father has some wine we can drink. Care to join us?'' For a heartbeat, Jacques hesitated. The idea of spending the evening in strained conversation with Sofia, with Sir Finn¡¯s stoic presence looming nearby, tugged at something wary inside him. Yet he saw the light in her eyes, a subtle plea, a desire to bridge the chasm between them, and it softened the resolve within him. Whatever reservations he harboured, whatever old wounds Aubery¡¯s memory had reopened, they would not help him now. He knew that much. With a practised smile, Jacques inclined his head. ''I would be honoured.'' The smoothness of Eastamerean wine slid down Jacques¡¯ throat like liquid silk. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rich flavour settle on his tongue, feeling the warmth unfurl in his chest. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; he could have wept, it tasted so good. The sweetness was perfectly tempered, the texture so velvety it was almost sinful, each sip a small act of indulgence he didn¡¯t think he deserved. In that moment, Galian wine seemed a poor imitation, a memory almost too embarrassing to recall. ''Oh, I have certainly been missing out,'' Jacques murmured, his words spilling out as he placed his cup carefully on the low table beside him. His hand lingered on the cup for a moment, fingers tracing the smooth, cool rim, reluctant to let go. The burn in his throat was welcome¡ªa rare, unfamiliar comfort. They were gathered in Princess Sofia¡¯s cramped cabin on the ship, its bare wooden walls illuminated by the warm flicker of a single lantern. Shadows danced across the grain, curling and twisting in rhythm with the gentle swaying of the vessel. The room was modest, furnished with little more than a narrow bed draped in a surprisingly elegant, embroidered blanket and the same sparse wooden furniture found in every cabin. In any other context, it would have felt oppressive, but tonight, with the wine flowing and the quiet laughter easing his tension, it was almost comforting. Jacques leaned back, the beginnings of a satisfied smile crossing his face, when a loud, rumbling burp escaped his lips. The sound reverberated through the tiny room, and for a moment, he froze, an embarrassed laugh bubbling up in his throat as he glanced sheepishly at Sofia and Finn. The two of them burst into laughter, Sofia covering her mouth with a hand while Finn let out a deep, warm chuckle. ''Excuse me,'' Jacques guffawed, covering his mouth, feigning a genteel apology for his loud burp. ''How rude of me to do that in the presence of a princess.'' ''Don¡¯t worry,'' Sofia laughed, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement, ''that¡¯s not even the worst burp I¡¯ve ever heard. I remember my friend Fernando once let out a burp so loud my brother heard it from outside the palace.'' Jacques raised an eyebrow, a hint of mischief blooming his heart. ''If you don¡¯t mind me saying, Princess,'' he said, ''you do seem to talk about this Fernando fellow quite often. Do you¡­?'' The lightness in Sofia¡¯s eyes faded as her expression froze, comprehension dawning on her. Across from her, Finn¡¯s posture stiffened, his face impassive yet somehow taut, his focus honed sharply on Sofia. Sofia¡¯s cheek flushed. ''Absolutely not!'' she replied, ''Fernando and I have been friends since we were children. He¡¯s brilliant, yes, but I don¡¯t think I could ever¡­ well¡­'' She trailed off, an embarrassed laugh slipping through her words. Jacques chuckled softly, savouring the effect of his little jab. ''Forgive me. Simply curious, Princess.'' He then turned his attention to Finn, the knight still stiff in his chair. ''And what about you, Alisser? Anyone you fancy the look of?'' Finn¡¯s hand, resting on the arm of his chair, tightened ever so slightly. He froze, his stoic demeanour not faltering outwardly, though his eyes darted briefly toward Sofia. There was a hesitation, almost imperceptible, but Jacques caught it. The knight¡¯s jaw clenched, the tension betraying his emotions despite the copious wine he¡¯d downed. ''The royal guard is bound by oath to remain unmarried and childless, Your Grace,'' Sir Finn explained stoically, ''That includes me as well.'' Jacques couldn¡¯t help but crack a wry smile at that. Those vows didn¡¯t seem to stop you from dancing with a princess, did it? ''I know your lord father, Lord Weymar Alisser. A good man. A bit rough around the edges, maybe, but a good man. And I believe you have a younger brother. Am I right in saying Neville is his name?'' At the mention of Neville, Finn¡¯s mask slipped for a moment, and a flicker of something dark crossed his handsome face. A memory, perhaps, or a pang of regret, leaving his eyes hooded with a sullen glare. Jacques knew the look; it was the kind that came from years of discipline and buried grief. ''You want me to tell that story, don¡¯t you?'' Jacques shrugged, tempering his smile to avoid looking too amused. ''What story?'' Sofia asked, her voice soft yet insistent, her eyes searching Finn¡¯s face for any hint of an answer. Sir Finn shook his head. ''I don¡¯t like talking about it.'' ''Please,'' Sofia said, leaning closer as she stared at Finn with her shiny brown eyes, ''For me.'' They held each other¡¯s gaze for an eternity, neither one willing to break first. ''Very well,'' Sir Finn said. ''For you.'' The knight took a deep breath out. ''My brother always wanted to be a knight, like me. He¡¯s ten years younger, you see, and looked up to me in that way only little brothers can. I¡¯d spend hours with him in my father¡¯s courtyards, sparring with sword, mace¡ªanything he fancied. He was getting good¡­ so good that I thought it wouldn¡¯t be long before he could submit himself for royal guard training.'' Finn¡¯s voice softened, his pride laced with a hint of something darker, a shadow just beneath the surface. ''Then one day, while we were sparring, he clutched his chest and fell to the ground.'' A silence settled over them, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the cabin like a fog. Finn¡¯s jaw tensed, and he seemed to grow smaller in his seat, his body folding in on itself under the weight of the memory. Sofia¡¯s hand reached toward him, but she stopped short, as if afraid to intrude on his grief. ''I did all I thought I could do,'' Finn continued, ''I started pressing on his chest. I did it over, and over, getting more and more desperate. I was¡­ crying, I was shouting, and I kept telling him to stop being a stubborn little cunt and wake up. I didn¡¯t care if I broke his ribs. I didn¡¯t care if I¡¯d ruined his chances of becoming a knight. I just wanted my brother back.'' He paused, his breathing laboured, as though reliving each agonising second. ''I was ready to give up¡­ until my brother¡¯s eyes shot open and he swallowed the air around us. I cradled him in my arms, holding him until my parents returned, and I told them what happened. Neville¡­ wasn¡¯t quite the same after that.'' Finn¡¯s gaze drifted off into the shadows, his face hollow and haunted by ghosts only he could see. The whole room felt heavy, as if the past itself hung above them, bringing with it every unhealed wound and unspoken regret. Jacques felt the weight of it, the inescapable ache that clung to each word, pressing down on him. And he felt like the worst human being in the world. ''Well, enough of that,'' Finn said, his voice tight but feigning lightness. ''I believe it¡¯s your turn now, Your Grace.'' He pointed his glass at Jacques, eyes glinting with a challenge bordering on mockery. Turning to Sofia, he added, ''I¡¯ll leave it to you, Princess. What is it you¡¯d like to know about your future husband?'' Jacques felt his throat tighten, a pang of something he couldn¡¯t quite name twisting in his chest. Sofia¡¯s gaze slid to him, thoughtful, her lip caught between her teeth as she weighed her options, her own small smile, carefully controlled. He couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that she saw more than he wanted her to. ''Very well,'' Jacques managed, forcing an unsteady grin. ''Try me. I am an open book.'' A flicker of amusement crossed Sofia¡¯s face, though her eyes held something sharper, deeper. The atmosphere, heavy with Finn¡¯s confessions, lingered like an uninvited ghost, making Jacques feel more vulnerable than he had expected, as though he were atoning for his sins. He lifted his glass, his hand steadier than he felt. He took a long sip, bracing himself for whatever question Sofia was about to unleash. ''Have you ever loved anyone before?'' Jacques tried not to freeze in his seat as Aubery¡¯s face flashed through his mind. The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Jacques felt as though he¡¯d been struck, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. The wounds, though hidden well beneath years of wit and humour, were still fresh. Fifteen years. It felt like another lifetime¡ªand yet; it didn¡¯t feel long enough. Am I ready to talk about her? Jacques shook his head. ''No.'' ''Lie.'' Finn¡¯s finger wobbled, pointing at him with that drunken certainty that made it somehow sting all the more. ''You were in love with an innkeeper¡¯s daughter.'' The words felt like bitter revenge, the heat of humiliation rising in Jacques¡¯ chest, anger mixing with the painful tenderness of memory. Jacques levelled a narrow, guarded gaze at Finn, his jaw tightening. ''And where exactly did you hear that?'' ''The Hawk Knight,'' Finn said with a grin that could only belong to a man who knew he had struck a nerve. The knight leaned back, arms crossed, as though savouring his small triumph, a smug, mischievous glint in his eye. It stung. But he couldn¡¯t fault him for it. Jacques drew a long breath, the bitterness of the past mixing with the wine on his tongue. His gaze settled on Princess Sofia, who was watching him intently, her eyes wide and earnest, the curiosity in her expression softened by something more¡ªa gentle understanding, perhaps. A silent invitation to lay his own burdens bare, even if only for a moment. ''I warn you,'' he said, feeling the words tighten in his throat, ''it isn¡¯t a very pleasant story.'' ''We all appear to have something to share,'' Sofia said, ''It¡¯s your turn now.'' Jacques exhaled, feeling the room grow smaller, the walls closing in as two pairs of eyes fixed upon him. There was no escaping it; both Finn¡¯s taunts and Sofia¡¯s quiet, determined curiosity had already drawn in him. With a reluctant huff, he leaned back, cradling his wine cup and stealing a quick, bracing sip. ''I was nineteen years old,'' he began, the mere mention of his youth a bittersweet echo. ''My brother and I were out riding somewhere outside the city, probably a day out, when we were attacked by some bandits, five in all. We weren¡¯t exactly hiding our identities, so they knew how rich the pair of us were. However, what they did not predict was my brother¡¯s skill with a sword. While I cowered in the mud, my brother killed four of the bandits.'' Jacques¡¯ fingers curled to grip his wine goblet, remembering the taste of dirt and blood as he watched Rick cut down man after man, as if he were simply sparring in the courtyard with Sir Theon. ''The fifth, however, was much more skilled than the rest. Despite eventually dying on the tip of Rick¡¯s sword, he¡¯d wounded my brother so badly he couldn¡¯t walk. I remember the blood pouring down his leg, staining everything. I tried to stop it, pressed my hands against the wound as hard as I could, but it just¡­ it just kept coming. Rick kept laughing, though, told me he¡¯d be fine, that I was overreacting as always. But I knew. I knew he wasn¡¯t fine. I managed to get him onto his horse, slumped over like a rag doll. I was so desperate to find help, to do something, but everywhere we went¡­ nothing. Just empty fields, mile after mile. It felt like an eternity until we finally stumbled upon a small inn on the road called ¡®The Stoat¡¯.'' Jacques hesitated, the ache of the memory raw in his throat. ''And that¡¯s when I saw her. Aubery. She looked like she¡¯d stepped out of a dream.'' He took a shaky breath, the fondness creeping into his voice. ''Golden hair, eyes that seemed to know too much¡­ she was only a year older than me, but she felt wiser, somehow, like she carried secrets the world had yet to reveal to the rest of us.'' He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling her presence in his mind. ''While her father treated Rick, she took me to her library¡ªthis tiny nook filled with dusty books. She¡¯d speak to me, telling me stories she¡¯d read, make me laugh. In her presence, I felt¡­ safe, in a way I had never felt in the capital. For the first time, I wasn¡¯t a prince, or the lesser brother. I was just¡­'' Jacques let out a heavy sigh, his hand rubbing across his tired face, wondering how, after all these years, Aubery could still make him cry. ''Eventually, my father sent a search party for us, led by Sir Theon Balogun, the old knight telling me my father wanted us back to the royal palace immediately.'' Sofia leaned in, her gaze intent. ''So that was the end?'' she asked softly. Jacques shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. ''That was only the beginning. I knew, as I was riding away, that I couldn¡¯t leave her behind. I thought of all the excuses, all the ways I could convince her to come back with me, though I didn¡¯t think she¡¯d ever actually say yes. She agreed without a second thought, her face lighting up, as if she were hoping I¡¯d come back.'' He paused, glancing down into his wine, the shimmering smoothness crying out the answer to his problems. ''I don¡¯t think I¡¯d ever been so nervous as the day we arrived back at the palace, Aubery and me riding in like some sneaky conspirators. I remember how she¡¯d wandered the palace grounds, eyes wide, taking in every detail. I made up some elaborate excuse for her to be there and from then on, she worked as a kitchen maid. I¡¯d see her all the time, and with her wages she¡¯d buy a new book every week and she¡¯d tell me all about it.'' Jacques could hear her laughter, even now, echoing in his ears just as it had fifteen years ago. Each note reverberated through him like a haunting melody, pulling at the frayed edges of his heart. The memory pierced sharply, and a shudder passed through him, as though he were standing on the brink of madness. ''But about a year into her time at the palace,'' he continued, forcing the words from a throat constricted, ''I noticed something shifting. I caught glimpses of her talking to someone else¡ªmy brother, Rick. He hadn¡¯t seen her during the time he was being treated at the inn, but suddenly, he seemed captivated by her.'' A bitter laugh escaped him, filled with a mix of disbelief and pain. ''He¡¯d be there, making her laugh, asking her about the books she was reading, all the little things I used to do. I thought maybe I was imagining it at first. It wasn¡¯t the first time I was jealous of my brother, and jealousy has a way of driving people mad. That was until Aubery came to me crying one night¡­'' Sofia widened her eyes, leaning in closer. Jacques wanted to claw the words back into his mouth, but his memories had taken over, propelling him forward. ''I asked her the matter, that whatever it was, we could sort it out. That¡¯s when she told me our relationship couldn¡¯t continue.'' The words hung heavily in the air, thick with the weight of a thousand unshed tears. Jacques could almost hear the empty praise, how it wasn¡¯t because of him that she was leaving. ''It took me a while to process it,'' Jacques said, ''and when I asked why, she told me she desired another, but when I asked her who it was, she would not say. It didn¡¯t matter. I knew who it was. She told me she was sorry and left me there. Just like that. I never saw her again.'' The alcohol blurred Jacques¡¯ vision, but the tears remained, stubborn, threatening to spill over. He cleared his throat, but the sound was pitiful, a small noise that only heightened the silence enveloping them. Jacques locked eyes with Sofia, the weight of his confession lingering in the space between them. ''Do you know where she is now?'' Sofia asked softly, her voice a somewhat soothing balm against the sharp edges of his pain. Jacques shook his head, staring at the wooden planks beneath his feet. ''I¡¯d been telling myself for years that my brother and I weren¡¯t as different as I¡¯d like to imagine. That day, I learned a simple truth. Rick and I are worlds apart. That¡¯s the way it has been, and that¡¯s the way it will always be. He¡¯s the golden prince. I¡¯m just¡­'' The monster nobody wants, he thought miserably, but he held his tongue, the shame clinging to him like a shroud. Jacques had paid his debt. He had poured out his soul in the dim light, and despite the tears streaming down his face, a weight had lifted from his shoulders. The catharsis felt foreign yet necessary, as if he had exorcised a ghost that had haunted him for far too long. He glanced toward Finn, who sat in stunned silence, his expression a mix of sympathy and disbelief. Jacques remembered how Finn and Sofia had shared lighthearted banter on deck earlier that day, the laughter that had felt so pure and unburdened. It reminded him so much of he and Aubery, where every shared smile was a promise. But that dream, that flicker of hope for happiness, faded as quickly as it had sparked. It couldn¡¯t come true, not now. Rick had taken the love of his life from him, and in the process, he had taken away any chance Jacques had at a future. The silence resumed its reign, and Jacques could hear the relentless thrashing of the ocean waves outside. He yawned, strategically placing his hand so he could wipe away the last of his tears. ''I think it¡¯s time for some sleep,'' he said, rising to his feet, his knees slightly wobbly, ''Come, good sir. We¡¯ll leave the Princess to her beauty sleep.'' He moved towards the door, towards escaping the discomfort as Finn rose to his feet and marched alongside him. The knight opened the door for Jacques to enter the hall. ''Wait,'' Sofia called out just before Finn could shut the door, her voice fluttering through the air and freezing Jacques in place. He turned back to her, the intensity of her gaze catching him off guard. ''Back home, in Eastamere, my friends and I have organised a trip exploring the continent. You should join us. The pair of you.'' The entire continent. He had never seen the entire continent, especially Eastamere. It was said that many of the ancient burial sites of the elves lay there, places of breathtaking beauty and serenity. He imagined vibrant landscapes filled with lush greenery and shimmering waters¡ªso different from the brown, mundane capital he had known all his life. Out there was where the colour was, where he could perhaps finally find peace. ''You honour me¡­ wife,'' Jacques chuckled, suppressing his surprise as he threw Sofia a playful wink for good measure. Sofia smirked. ''Husband.'' Jacques bowed in her direction, his spirit lifting slightly, before strolling into the hall. The sound of his footsteps rang out as Finn shut the door behind him, a soft thud that seemed to echo through the night. But as he wandered the dimly lit halls toward his room, the tears he had tried to suppress threatened to return. He rubbed his eyes, willing Aubery¡¯s face to leave his mind, but it was no use. Her laughter rang in his ears like a haunting melody, and he couldn¡¯t let go. Chapter VII- The First Move A bag of golden apples lay on top of a barrel below deck, the rich, dappled glow of their skin shimmering in the faint light filtering down from above. Sofia reached out, taking one in her hand. She felt the weight of it, the firm roundness of the fruit pressing against her palm, and ran her thumb along the waxy surface. A frown creased her brow as she noticed one half of the apple had decayed¡ªits once-lustrous skin mottled with patches of rot, black and withered, the pristine gold giving way to the corruption that seemed to creep all over it. She thought of Jacques sitting alone on the deck, eyes dark with concentration, his fingers smudged with charcoal, absorbed in his art as if he could somehow disappear into each line and shade, retreating from everything around him. The prince¡¯s face was often unreadable, a mix of blithe indifference and devilish charm that masked any real feeling¡ªa mask she¡¯d never dared to challenge until tonight. But after he had told her of Aubery, of the love and loss that had haunted him for so many years, she saw through him. Beneath the beautifully practised wit and careless smirk, Jacques Rue was fragile, just like the apple in her hand. Tarnished. Hurt. Trying to keep the rot from spreading, as though sheer will could preserve what remained of his heart. Her fingers tightened around the apple. As queen, she would have to guard herself as well, to hide the softest part of her personality, like armour against the world. If the queen was weak, so would be her country. She glanced around the dimly lit storage room, the scent of salted wood and sea air heavy around her, and saw herself reflected in that single, imperfect fruit: half bright, half ruined. A small, chipped piece of charcoal lay on the floorboards nearby, its edge still sharp, as if freshly used. Jacques must have dropped it when he¡¯d come below deck, unthinkingly casting it aside once it served its purpose. Kneeling, she picked up the charcoal. It was rough in her fingers, leaving streaks on her skin, faint and smudged. She clenched it tightly, a sense of determination hardening within her. She wanted to understand what Jacques found there, in those stark, black lines that captured so much. Perhaps it could be her refuge, too. Maybe if she put herself into the drawing, she would find a way through the fears crowning her heart. Stepping onto the deck of their ship, Sunrise, Sofia felt the familiar, rhythmic sway of the ship beneath her, each subtle tilt pulling her in time with the ocean. The air was sharp with salt, cold enough that it stung her cheeks and sent a prickle along her arms. She inhaled deeply, the night breeze filling her lungs, mingling with the faint, musky scent of wood and rope. Above her, stars blanketed the sky, speckles of light stretching endlessly, while the calm, frothing waves whispered against the ship¡¯s sides, filling the silence with a soft, steady rhythm. Setting the apple onto a nearby wooden barrel, she paused, watching as the flickering torchlight caught the dappled gold and black of the skin. The light cast dancing shadows on the deck, catching on the edges of barrels and rigging, lending a strange, fragile life to the apple¡¯s rotting half, as if it pulsed faintly with each sway of the ship. She raised her charcoal, hovering over the blank paper she¡¯d smoothed out on a crate, her gaze narrowing in focus. The night, the ship, the sea, all faded, her vision narrowing to the golden apple. Where do I start? Her hand tightened around the charcoal as she thought of the man sleeping just below deck¡ªthe man she would soon call her husband. Only the Gods knew what hour it was, and she could just imagine his face if she woke him. She could almost hear Jacques¡¯ groggy, grumbling voice, could picture the flicker of annoyance in his half-lidded blue eyes as he tried to shield them from her torch¡¯s glow. A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden and soft, and she held it for a moment, savouring the thought of his sleepy irritation. She longed to ask him about all this, to pull herself into his world, to feel the weight of his presence next to her as she began. But her hand froze, and the smile faded. The apple seemed to grow under her gaze, the mottled skin taking on an almost visceral quality. She traced the line of its shape in her mind, imagining each curve, each blemish, each shade. Her fingers hovered, reluctant and cautious, over the blank sheet, the tip of the charcoal suspended in midair. Work your way up, she thought, willing herself to begin. ''What are you doing up, Sofia?'' Sofia spun towards the voice, her pulse quickening in the quiet darkness. Her father stepped into the torchlight, his figure tall and unguarded. He wore a rumpled golden shirt and brown trousers, the fabric catching faint glimmers from the flames. The ocean breeze tousled his black hair, lifting loose strands that framed his face, casting shadows over his worn features. ''I wanted to try drawing,'' she replied, her voice brightening despite the odd hour. She clutched the charcoal, its roughness grounding her as she met her father¡¯s gaze. ''Drawing.'' Her father chuckled softly, rubbing a hand over his tired face. Lines of sleepless nights etched his brow. ''I didn¡¯t think you had much interest in drawing.'' ''I¡­ didn¡¯t. Jacques-'' ''Prince Jacques¡­'' Father continued to chuckle. ''I should¡¯ve known.'' A sudden gust of wind cut between them, strong and bracing, swirled around the deck like a warning. Sofia shivered, holding her shawl tighter, and watched her father¡¯s hair lift in the breeze, exposing the deep shadows under his eyes, shadows he so often kept hidden. She noticed the slight slump of his shoulders as he wandered forward, each step echoing in the quiet, the worn wood creaking beneath his weight. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see the faint tremble in his hands before he clasped them together tightly, trying to mask it. Around his councillors, around the court, he was always the strong, resolute man, the image of unshakeable resolve. Yet here, in the thin hours of the night, he seemed almost fragile, stripped of his defences. His eyes met hers, and in that moment, she saw something raw, something she hadn¡¯t been prepared for¡ªa flicker of pain, so deeply buried that it broke her heart to witness it surface. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, now held something softer, something tinged with regret. And in the press of the silence, she could feel it, almost as if he were trying to say something he hadn¡¯t dared to say before. An apology lingered in his gaze, raw and unspoken. ''I am sorry, Sofia,'' he said, ''This peace we have established with Galia is beyond anything our family has achieved over the last centuries. I have you to thank you for that.'' Sofia felt her lips curve into a smile. ''Did you¡­ did you think it wouldn¡¯t work?'' King Geraldo shrugged as a rueful chuckle escaped him. ''I didn¡¯t know what to expect,'' he admitted, the candour surprising her. ''Truthfully, I still don¡¯t.'' For a moment, silence swallowed the words between them, and he turned away, his gaze pulled toward the horizon. The wind swept over the deck, filling the quiet with the haunting whispers of the ocean, as if nature itself sensed the tension lingering in the air. Sofia shivered and clasped her hands together, searching her father¡¯s face for some reassurance, some sign of satisfaction or relief. But his expression was distant, his face set in the hardened lines of a man used to bearing the burdens of a king. They will be my burdens soon, Sofia thought, fighting to expel the fear from her mind. ''Everything is going to plan, isn¡¯t it?'' she ventured, her voice barely a whisper. Father nodded slowly, almost mechanically. ''Yes. For the first time, everything is going exactly to plan.'' ''Then why do you look so worried?'' Father swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he leaned against the side of the ship, bracing himself against the dark, endless ocean stretching out before them. For a heartbeat, he was quiet, just staring out at the inky waves, as if searching for answers in their depths. Finally, he spoke, his voice lower, as if he were confessing secrets to the Gods themselves. ''Any ruler, man or woman, must assess every variable, every outcome, every scenario, and expect the worst. That is the nature of our duty, the essence of this game we all must play. We make choices¡ªhard, often cruel choices¡ªfor the good of the realm.'' His gaze drifted from the ocean back to her, his dark eyes filled with something she hadn¡¯t seen in them before¡ªa strange, deep regret, almost pleading. ''I¡¯m sorry, my love, but I¡¯ve been keeping things from you.'' Sofia¡¯s heart thumped in her chest. She put down her charcoal. ''What are you talking about?'' ''You remember what I said about King Rickard?'' ''That he¡¯s dangerous.'' Father nodded, his expression grim. ''He¡¯s dangerous. A man who remembers every slight, every betrayal. He will do anything to get what he wants, and he does not forget old wounds. He¡¯s already declared war on us once. Your marriage to Prince Jacques¡­ that is the only reason he¡¯s kept his sword sheathed. But if he ever makes that move¡­'' A flicker of fear twisted through Sofia as a terrifying image flashed through her mind¡ªher father, halberd raised, driving it down with a single swing to take Jacques¡¯s head. Her stomach tightened, and she fought back a shudder. ''You¡¯re going to kill him?'' Father¡¯s gaze snapped back to her, his eyes dull with a weight she¡¯d only seen in her brother. He nodded, his face tight with a terrible determination. ''If it comes to that, yes. My duty is clear, Sofia, as is yours.'' His words sent a chill through her, one colder than the ocean breeze. ''What do you mean?'' ''I mean that if we are to secure this peace, you cannot allow him to slip through your fingers. I need you to keep a close eye on him in the coming months. Never let him out of your sight. Use whatever means necessary to ensure he¡¯s not hiding any intentions of his own.'' His voice dropped to a near growl. ''Can I count on you to do that?'' The question lingered, hanging in the air between them, suffocating in its simplicity. Sofia swallowed hard, her throat dry as sand. She¡¯d known that this marriage came with responsibility, that it was more than a promise to one man; it was a promise to Galia that they¡¯d made peace. But this? To become a spy in her own home, to betray the trust of the man she was supposed to build a life with? The night breeze, once refreshing, felt sharp as it scraped against her skin, pricking her with an aching sense of dread. Is this what it meant to do her duty? To feign loyalty and affection only to watch his every move with suspicion? She could still see the look in Jacques¡¯s eyes when he spoke of Aubery¡¯s betrayal, the wound that still lay fresh beneath his carefully composed exterior. Would he ever recover from this, from her betrayal? It would shatter him like glass. ''But Father, you don¡¯t understand-'' ''I understand everything I need to about Rickard Rue.'' His voice wavered for a brief second, betraying the fear simmering beneath his composure. ''I don¡¯t want to frighten you, but you haven¡¯t seen the things I¡¯ve seen, heard the things I¡¯ve heard.'' He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought to keep his voice steady. ''Do you remember the rebellion in Galia¡¯s northern isles? What King Rickard did to the lords there¡­ to their children?'' A gust of wind howled across the deck, slicing through the darkness and bringing with it a biting chill. Sofia shivered, an involuntary reaction as the stories from the northern isles filled her mind, each one a ghostly whisper of terror. Tales of entire families erased, of children taken from their homes, of blood running thick through once-peaceful streets. A scream seemed to echo in her ears, distant yet vivid, and she wrapped her arms around herself, nodding slowly. ''As long as I have breath in my body, he will never get within an inch of you, or Luis.'' Her father¡¯s voice grew steely, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. ''I will not allow us to be another page in his bloody history book.'' ''I¡¯ll make you proud, Father,'' Sofia said, forcing herself to believe the words, even as they tasted hollow on her tongue. Her father¡¯s face softened, his stern expression giving way to the faintest of smiles. ''You needn¡¯t worry about that, Sofia. You make me proud every day.'' His voice held a warmth that almost chased away the cold. ''I know you will become a great queen.'' ''Not for many years, I hope.'' Sofia¡¯s attempt at humour felt brittle, but she clung to it, hoping it might hold back the dread creeping over her. She let herself smile, though her heart weighed heavy in her chest. ''Just ¡®princess¡¯ will do for now,'' she said, and meant every word. As Father¡¯s warm smile lingered, Sofia¡¯s chest swelled with gratitude. She was a princess with a father who loved her, a brother who would face any enemy at her side, and Jacques, her betrothed, who¡ªdespite her initial doubts¡ªseemed to be a good man. For the first time, she felt the faint glimmer of confidence that perhaps she could be a queen, could live up to the trust her father placed in her. Almost. ''Your Majesty!'' A shout cut through the night, laced with urgency. Sofia turned, squinting against the shadows, and made out the glint of golden armour in the moonlight. Sir Eduardo Jeffro emerged on deck, his solid frame unmistakable, the edges of his plate gleaming like liquid fire in the torchlight. Sofia¡¯s heart dropped. Something was terribly wrong. Sofia reached for her father¡¯s hand. ''Father-'' ''Eduardo,'' King Geraldo said, brow furrowing. ''What is it? Do you know what time it is?'' Sir Eduardo¡¯s armour clanked as he approached, his movements deliberate, the hand on his sword unwavering. ''I have an urgent message¡­ from Galia.'' Father stepped away from Sofia, hands resting on his hips, his posture open but intent, giving the knight his full attention. ''Alright, tell me.'' A scream of steel shattered the night. Sofia blinked, as if the scene before her were a trick of the darkness, but there it was¡ªher father¡¯s back arched, his mouth open in shock, and the sharp, bloody tip of a sword gleaming grotesquely from his chest. Sofia¡¯s world went silent. ''Father!'' Sofia''s scream pierced the night, raw and broken, as if her voice itself had shattered. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the cry, but the taste of salt and iron filled her senses. She watched, helpless, as Sir Eduardo yanked the blood-soaked blade from her father¡¯s side. A sickening sound tore through the silence, and Father crumpled to the deck, his hand twitching weakly. Dark red blood pooled around him, spreading in rivulets across the wood, staining it with her father¡¯s lifeblood. Sofia¡¯s body trembled, her feet frozen to the spot as if held by a weight or some invisible chain. Every muscle screamed at her to move, to run, but shock held her firmly in its grip. Sir Eduardo straightened, his face cast in shadow, but the torchlight caught the glint of steel in his eyes, cold and unfeeling. He took a deliberate step forward, the blade in his hand dripping.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ''Sofia, get out of the way!'' Luis¡¯s voice, sharp with urgency, sliced through the fog of Sofia¡¯s shock. She turned toward the sound, disoriented, struggling to locate her brother in the shadows. Suddenly, she saw him sprinting toward her, his sword gripped tightly in his hand, eyes blazing. With a gasp, Sofia threw herself to the side, landing hard against the deck as Luis charged past her, his gaze locked onto their father¡¯s blood-streaked form sprawled across the wooden planks. ''Luis¡­'' she managed, her voice breaking, but her brother didn¡¯t turn. His attention had zeroed in on Father. Luis barely glanced her way as he barked, ''Sofia, get the physician.'' The words hit her like a slap, jolting her out of her daze. But her feet wouldn¡¯t obey, rooted to the deck as her mind reeled, unable to look away from the crimson stain widening beneath her father, soaking into the wood, dark and terrible. The world around her blurred, the sounds of Luis¡¯s commands muffled as if she were deep underwater. ''NOW, Sofia!'' Luis¡¯s shout broke through, shattering her paralysis. Her legs kicked into motion, nearly tripping over themselves as she turned and dashed across the deck. Her heart hammered violently in her chest, each beat pounding in her ears as she raced down the narrow, dimly lit corridor below deck, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as rings of steel sounded behind her. She dare not look back. The hall stretched endlessly before her, lined with doors marked by golden plaques, each one labelled with titles and roles she couldn¡¯t read fast enough. One door after another, the names blurring past her until finally¡ªDoctor Elia Renando. She stumbled to a halt; her knuckles rapping against the door, each knock echoing like fireworks in the silence. ''Doctor!'' she gasped, slamming her fist harder against the wood, not daring to stop, her other hand pressed against the door frame to keep herself upright. She felt as though her heart might break free of her chest with every hammering beat. Open. Please, open. At last, the door creaked open, revealing Doctor Renando, her eyes bleary and her hair tousled from sleep. She blinked at Sofia, struggling to focus, as though trying to make sense of the wild-eyed princess standing breathless at her door. ''You must come to the deck, quickly,'' Sofia panted, barely able to find the words. ''My father¡­ he¡¯s hurt. Badly.'' Without a word, Doctor Renando¡¯s hand flew to her bag, snatching it up with swift, practised precision, her face a mask of determination as she charged toward the deck. Sofia bolted to keep pace, her heart hammering against her ribs as she trailed the doctor¡¯s silhouette, barely a shadow in the night. The metallic clang of swords grew louder, sharper, as Sofia emerged back onto the deck, her stomach twisting at the sight. Steel met steel in a furious clash as Luis battled Sir Eduardo, their movements relentless and savage, the rhythmic ring of their blades punctuating the silence. Sofia¡¯s eyes flicked from their brutal exchange to the figure lying motionless on the blood-slick deck. Her father¡ªso still, his face ghostly pale in the moonlight. A chill gripped her chest, but she forced herself to breathe, to stay steady. Doctor Renando had already knelt beside him, focused solely on her task, seemingly impervious to the chaos around her. She wrenched the king¡¯s shirt open, revealing the wound¡ªa jagged, brutal tear that oozed blood. Sofia¡¯s stomach twisted, the coppery scent filling the air and sending a wave of nausea through her. He¡¯s lost so much blood. The thought gripped her, cold and suffocating, but she pushed it down, forcing herself to hold on. ''Sofia, come here!'' Doctor Renando¡¯s sharp voice cut through Sofia¡¯s resolve, the authority in her tone leaving no room for hesitation. She motioned with an impatient flick of her hand, her eyes never leaving the wound, her expression so intensely focused that, in that moment, Sofia didn¡¯t care about hierarchy or titles. She only cared that this woman¡ªwho could save her father¡ªneeded her. Sofia stumbled forward, dropping to her knees beside the doctor, the rough deck scraping her skin, but she barely noticed. She would have done anything, sacrificed anything to keep her father alive, to not lose him here, tonight. Doctor Renando didn¡¯t look up, just shoved a roll of clean cloth into Sofia¡¯s hands. ''Hold pressure here. Firmly.'' Sofia¡¯s hands trembled as she pressed the cloth against the wound, feeling the warmth of her father¡¯s blood seep through. She swallowed back her fear, pressing harder, her fingers slipping on the damp fabric as she tried to keep steady. Her father¡¯s eyes flickered open, glazed with pain, barely recognising her. His lips parted, as though to speak, but only a faint, rasping breath escaped. ''Stay with us, Father,'' Sofia whispered, her voice breaking as she leaned closer. ''Please¡­ don¡¯t leave us.'' Beside her, Doctor Renando worked with swift, confident movements, her fingers skilled as they worked to slow the bleeding. Her expression was a blend of urgency and calm¡ªa stark contrast to Sofia¡¯s panic. She pulled out more supplies, her every movement precise and deliberate, even as her voice dropped to a murmur. ''We are not losing you, Geraldo. Not tonight.'' Sofia¡¯s hands pressed down harder, trying to stanch the relentless flow of blood. Each second felt like an eternity. In the background, the sounds of Luis and Sir Eduardo¡¯s duel raged on, the clash of their swords like thunder in her ears. The two fighters closed in near the port side, their footsteps pounding against the deck with every vicious strike. Luis¡¯s face was a mask of rage, his jaw clenched as he advanced, forcing Eduardo back with unrelenting blows. Eduardo¡¯s feet stumbled against the wooden planks, his balance faltering. With a swift arc of his sword, Luis caught the edge of Eduardo¡¯s helmet, sending it clattering to the deck with a hollow clang. Eduardo¡¯s face, exposed and panicked, gleamed with sweat, eyes wild as he scrambled backward. Luis didn¡¯t hesitate. With a fierce, controlled thrust, he drove his blade through Eduardo¡¯s throat. The knight¡¯s eyes widened, and his mouth opened in a silent, gurgling scream as blood spurted in a dark spray, splattering across the deck. Crimson droplets caught the moonlight as Eduardo staggered, clutching at his throat. The gurgling choked out as he staggered backward, his legs giving way. For a moment, he teetered on the edge before his body toppled over the railing, disappearing with a heavy splash into the inky sea below. ''Sofia! Don¡¯t get distracted!'' Doctor Renando¡¯s voice cut through the silence that followed, sharp and commanding. Sofia jolted, torn from the horror unfolding at the ship¡¯s edge. Her father¡¯s blood, thick and warm, seeped over her fingers as she held the cloth to his wound, her hands trembling. She cursed herself, her chest tightening with each shaky breath as his life ebbed away beneath her touch. The blood slipped past her fingers, pooling on the deck, and the warmth of it against her skin only intensified her fear. She pressed harder, her heart pounding with a desperate plea: Hold on. Please, Father, hold on. His breathing was shallow, each breath more laboured than the last. She glanced at his face, at the grey pallor settling over his features, his eyes unfocused, slipping in and out of awareness. A quiet, strangled noise escaped her, a sound she hardly recognised as her own. He was slipping away. No, I can¡¯t lose him. Not like this. ''Focus, Sofia!'' Doctor Renando barked, her voice fierce. She didn¡¯t look up, her hands working furiously over the wound, blood staining her fingers as she pulled out a second cloth to stem the relentless flow. Her eyes were hard, her focus unbreakable, yet Sofia saw a glint of urgency, a recognition of how precarious her father¡¯s life truly was. Sofia pressed down as hard as she could, but her hands were slick with blood, the fabric sodden and growing heavier with every passing second. She felt herself slipping into a numb panic, her mind spinning as she struggled to hold onto hope, to believe he could still survive. She looked at Doctor Renando, a wild plea in her eyes, and found herself whispering, ''Tell me he¡¯ll be okay¡­ please¡­'' Father¡¯s lips moved faintly, but no sound escaped them. His gaze was distant, flickering between worlds as Sofia pressed down on the wound with all her might, her hands slippery and trembling. She leaned in closer, desperate to catch his words, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. ''Sofia,'' he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, wavering like a faint breeze, ''I thought I¡¯d have more¡­ t-t-time.'' His eyes, once so full of wisdom and strength, were now glassy, filled with a haunting resignation that pierced her soul. ''Father¡­ it¡¯s going to be fine. It¡¯s all going to be alright.'' His gaze drifted down to the blood staining her hands, his expression distant, as if seeing something beyond. ''The blood¡­'' he murmured, his voice hollow, each word fading like the last traces of a dream. ''The blood of the dove runs thick.'' Before Sofia could comprehend her father¡¯s words, his body fell limp as Sofia¡¯s pressure weakened, the blood pouring out of his body and trickling along the deck. His head lay to the side, his eyes staring blankly at the starry sky, ready to join them. ''Father?'' Sofia¡¯s voice trembled as she shook him, disbelief clawing its way through her chest. ''No¡­ no, please¡­'' Sofia knelt there, her knees submerged in the spreading pool of his blood, her hands shaking as she hovered over him, desperate to undo this, to wake him. ''Father, please, just¡­ come back. Just¡­ come back to us,'' she whimpered, but the only response was the whisper of the wind over the waves. Luis approached, his face pale, his lips parted in shock. He staggered as if drunk, his jaw slack as he took in their father¡¯s lifeless body. He dropped to his knees with a loud clang beside her, his breath shallow and unsteady. For a moment, they were just two lost children, huddled together in a world that had suddenly turned cold and unrecognisable. Doctor Renando stood by, her own shoulders sagging, a weary sigh escaping her as she dragged a hand over her face, smearing a dark line of blood across her brow. She placed a hand on Sofia¡¯s shoulder, her touch gentle but laden with an unspoken sorrow. ''I¡¯m so sorry, Sofia,'' she whispered, her voice quiet, yet resonant with finality. Sofia¡¯s grief surged from the depths of her soul, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat, the kind of scream she had buried long ago when her mother died. And there it was, the same crushing weight, the same hollow ache that threatened to consume her. The Gods had turned back time, forcing her to relive the agony she thought she¡¯d buried. Now, they had taken both of them. Her hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she hunched over her father¡¯s body, clutching him to her as if her warmth could somehow restore him. The body of King Geraldo II lay on his bed, motionless beneath the weight of the linen sheet covering him up to his chin. Only his face was exposed, a face she had known in countless expressions: the stern, kingly mask he wore for court; the warm, crinkled eyes of a father lost in laughter; the quiet, pensive gaze when he thought no one was looking. Now, his features were unnervingly still, his skin pale against the stark white sheet. Sofia¡¯s eyes traced his features, clinging to each detail as if committing them to memory might somehow pull him back to her. His dark hair was still unruly at the fringe, the way it had always been despite his endless attempts to tame it. She could almost believe he was just resting, that any moment now, he¡¯d sigh deeply, stretch, and blink open his eyes. His beard was neatly groomed, perfectly combed, as though he had readied himself for one last grand event. He looked peaceful, too peaceful¡ªmore peaceful than he had ever looked in life, weighed as he was by the kingdom¡¯s burdens. A chill ran down Sofia¡¯s spine. This is exactly how Mother looked, she thought, the realisation washing over her like icy water. The same serene face, the same tidy repose, as though some final act of care had been taken to send them to the afterlife in dignity and honour. But the stillness was nothing but an insult, a lie painted on a canvas that should have been alive with breath and warmth. Her heart hammered, rejecting the scene before her, denying the cruel familiarity that gripped her chest like a vise. ''What will happen now?'' Sofia¡¯s voice trembled as she tore her gaze from her father¡¯s lifeless face, shifting her focus to Luis on the other side of the bed. His eyes were red and glazed, fixed on the floor as if searching for answers in the rich carpets that lay beneath the weight of grief. Luis sniffed, swiping a hand across his face. ''I don¡¯t know... I¡¯m not entirely sure how all of this is supposed to work.'' ''We can¡¯t exactly just sit here and stare at him, can we?'' Luis pressed his trembling lips together, his shoulders rising and falling in strained breaths. For a moment, it seemed as though he might gather himself, offer some reassuring words. But then his composure broke. His neck tensed, his face crumpling as he buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with the weight of his sorrow. A faint whimper slipped through his fingers, ragged and unguarded. ''This is all my fault.'' ''It¡¯s not your fault.'' ''It is!'' Luis jerked his head up, his tear-streaked face twisting in anguish. The dim candlelight illuminated the lines where his tears had traced paths down his cheeks, as though carving his pain into his skin. ''I¡¯m the captain of the royal guard! I was supposed to be guarding the king, and I¡¯ve not only let him die¡­ it was one of my own who did it!'' His voice broke with a rawness that made Sofia¡¯s heart twist. She wanted to deny it, wanted to tell her brother that he couldn¡¯t have known, couldn¡¯t have predicted such a betrayal. But her own mind betrayed her, flashing images of Sir Eduardo¡¯s stoic face, his iron oath to defend the king at all costs. Sir Eduardo was supposed to be a wall, a line of defence against any threat to the king¡¯s life, one of the few trusted without question. He had turned his blade on the very man he¡¯d vowed to protect, shattering their trust with a single, fatal blow. The betrayal echoed through her mind, casting a dark shadow over everything she thought she knew. The walls of the king¡¯s chambers seemed to close in, the once-familiar room now suffocating and alien. Richly adorned draperies, polished wood, the dove insignias of her family¡¯s long reign¡ªall of it felt like a cruel reminder of what they¡¯d lost and what she struggled to keep believing in. The kingdom that had once felt like her foundation seemed to sway beneath her, cracking with doubt and fear. Who¡¯s left? Who can I possibly trust now? A knock on the door jolted Sofia out of her spiral of panic, her heart hammering as she called for the person to enter. The heavy door creaked open, and Lord Serben Diae stepped through, uncharacteristically hesitant. Gone was the proud lord who usually glided into a room with a self-assured presence; instead, the death of his old friend made him seem smaller, his shoulders hunched, his arms held close to his body like the fragile wings of an injured bird. Even his clothes, typically pristine and adorned with gold threads, appeared crumpled, almost as if his very confidence had taken a blow. ''Your Majesty,'' he began, voice barely audible. ''I am aware this is a bad time¡ª'' ''What is it, My Lord?'' Sofia snapped, unable to mask the edge in her voice. She felt a prickling sensation in her stomach, a strange blend of fury and disbelief. Your Majesty. The title struck her like a slap. It felt too soon, too presumptive. Her father¡¯s body lay just a few feet away, and already he addressed her as if the crown had settled upon her head, as though her father was just a memory now. The look in Serben¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t help, either¡ªa strange, calculating glint beneath his downcast gaze. Has he already moved on, already begun to tally his own gains and losses in the aftermath of my father, his friend¡¯s, death? The very thought made her pulse spike, filling her with a surge of anger so sudden and fierce she could hardly contain it. Serben visibly flinched, his lips parting slightly as he adjusted his stance, attempting to steady himself. ''The ravens are ready to deliver the news,'' he said. ''Is there anyone you would like informed first?'' Sofia opened her mouth, but the words wouldn¡¯t come. Her throat felt dry and tight, her mind clouded with the weight of grief and exhaustion. ''I... I don¡¯t know,'' she managed, her voice wavering. Her vision blurred slightly from the pressure behind her eyes. Aunt Isabela. Of course, she¡¯d be the one to know first; she was family, the closest tie she had left. ''I suppose my Aunt Isabela should be told immediately. Send a raven to Madriga and make sure Lady Hyana receives it herself,'' she finally said, each word feeling like a heavy stone on her tongue. ''Very well,'' Serben replied with a slight bow. His tone was professional, almost mechanical, as if her loss was just another task on a list. ''There is also the matter of the funeral. I believe your father wrote something specific about his arrangements in his will.'' Sofia¡¯s gaze dropped to the floor. The word funeral echoed hollowly in her mind, a concept she could barely grasp. Planning my father¡¯s funeral? Her hand gripped the armrest of the chair, the reality settling in yet feeling insubstantial. ''My father¡­ he must have known this day would come,'' she said softly, almost to herself. ''Whatever he wrote, I want it carried out exactly as he wished. To the letter. No deviations, Serben, is that clear?'' ''Very good, Your Majesty.'' Serben¡¯s voice sounded respectful, yet she sensed something more beneath it¡ªa slight hesitation, almost as if he were testing her patience. He cleared his throat and added, ''I am grateful that both of you are seated. The third matter may be¡­ distressing.'' Sofia¡¯s frown deepened. ''What is it?'' Without a word, Serben turned toward the door and motioned to a servant, presumably waiting just outside. Sofia tensed, gripping the armrests as the servant stepped in, clutching an object wrapped in thick cloth. The servant¡¯s eyes darted nervously between Sofia and Luis, his expression a silent apology for what he was about to reveal. As they approached, they slowly unfolded the cloth, exposing a long, gleaming blade. Sofia¡¯s heart plummeted. It was the blade, the one Sir Eduardo had used to kill her father. Its steel edge, once tainted with blood, was now polished to a cold gleam, looking as if it had never touched a soul, let alone taken a life. The moonlight caught its surface as if caressing it, casting a thin, silver line along its point¡ªa point that gleamed like a needle, so deceptively innocent in its deadly elegance. ''I had the blade analysed as best I could,'' Serben murmured, his voice low and sombre. ''It was undoubtedly crafted by the Galian royal smith, Brandy Shore. Here¡­'' He held the blade out for Sofia, pointing to a delicate etching near the hilt¡ªa tiny crown insignia, almost invisible in the dim light. The sight of it made Sofia¡¯s stomach churn. She leaned in, her breath catching, eyes tracing every stroke of the emblem. Serben¡¯s hand shifted along the blade¡¯s edge. ''I think I know who it belongs to. Look at the initials here.'' His finger moved up, brushing over two finely engraved letters, only visible in the light from the flickering lamps around them. J.R. Sofia¡¯s heart thudded painfully against her ribs, each beat louder than the last. The air in the room felt thick and oppressive, pressing down on her, making it hard to think. ''Only the royal family of Galia could afford craftsmanship like this,'' Serben went on, his voice grave. ''And there¡¯s only one member of the Galian royal family who bears these initials: Jacques Rue.'' Her vision blurred, and for a moment, all she could see was Jacques. She pictured him lounging on deck, his relaxed smile and artist¡¯s hands moving gracefully as he sketched. His charming laughter echoed in her memory¡ªwarm, unassuming, disarming. It felt like the distant echo of a dream, one shattered by the horror before her. Did he know? she wondered, her thoughts frantically connecting threads. Did he learn of my father¡¯s plans somehow? Did he¡ª She couldn¡¯t bring herself to finish the thought. A bitter realisation clawed its way into her heart, as unrelenting as the initials glaring back at her. She had thought Jacques charming, almost boyish in his pursuit of art and beauty, as if his interests lay in simpler things than the struggles of kingdoms. She had even, to her shame, found herself smiling at his jokes and humouring his stories of Galian court life. He¡¯d told her a secret he¡¯d never told anyone. And yet, here was the blade, pristine and ruthless, marked by his name as though proudly announcing his involvement in her father¡¯s death. Her pulse quickened, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. It didn¡¯t matter if Jacques had charmed everyone around him, including her; the evidence was damning. There was nowhere for him to run now. Her gaze locked onto the blade, the initials J R gleaming. Chapter VIII- His Own Blade Jacques jolted awake, every nerve firing as he registered the blade inches from his face, its sharp edge gleaming in the faint light. His breath caught in his throat, a gasp stifled by the sheer shock of waking to cold steel rather than the gentle dawn. Heart pounding, he lay frozen, his body entangled in bed sheets that suddenly felt like restraints. Around him stood a circle of golden knights, their armour polished to an unsettling brilliance, making them seem almost inhuman, statues carved from the Gods¡¯ wrath and judgement. Each visor stared down at him, still and silent. At their forefront was Prince Luis, his sword drawn and pointed directly at Jacques. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now blazed with unrestrained anger, an intensity leaving Jacques feeling as though the prince could strike at any moment. But it was Princess Sofia¡¯s face his eyes stuck to, a terrifying picture gripping onto Jacques¡¯ heart like a living thing. Just hours before, she was as warm as a fireplace, laughing in his company as they shared stories and stolen glances. Now, she looked like someone else entirely, someone he scarcely recognised. Her face was drawn taut with fury, her usually soft features hardened, her eyes narrowed and shadowed. Her lips, once a soft line of amusement, were now pressed into a hard, unforgiving slash. The rise and fall of her chest, visible even beneath the ornate fabric of her blood-stained gown, told him she was barely holding herself together. Jacques tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry, paralysed by the princess¡¯s simmering rage. ''Princess,'' Jacques managed to croak, his voice scratchy and thick with the remnants of sleep. ''I would call this a pleasant surprise, but I don¡¯t see what¡¯s pleasant about it.'' His eyes flicked around the room, the walls closing in with every heartbeat, confirming that he was indeed surrounded. One wrong move, one slight twitch, and they¡¯d cut him down without hesitation. A prickling fear rose within him. What have I done? Princess Sofia moved forward, her steps deliberate, the soft rustle of her dress the only sound breaking the silence. Jacques¡¯s breath hitched as he noticed something glinting in her hand. A weapon¡ªlong, slender, familiar. As she stepped closer, he could see the murderous gleam in her eyes, a fury striking him to the core, turning his blood to ice. Her stare alone could turn him to ash. His instincts screamed to flee, but there was nowhere to run. No one would dare oppose her command. He was trapped in this royal lion¡¯s den, utterly at her mercy. Is she going to kill me right here and now? he thought, panic clawing up his spine. Why? His mind scrambled, trying to grasp at any explanation. What in the hell have I done? Sofia¡¯s grip tightened on the hilt, and she lifted the blade so the ridge was level with his eye. ''Recognise it?'' she hissed, her voice low and laced with venom. Her eyes didn¡¯t waver, daring him to deny what was right in front of him. Jacques squinted, his head still foggy. As his vision cleared, his blood turned to ice. There, on the blade, was the crown emblem of Brandy Shore¡ªa symbol unmistakably tied to him, to his house, his status, his very identity. And beneath it, stamped into the metal, were some initials: J and R. My initials. My sword. ''How in the depths of hell did you get hold of that?'' he stammered, his mind reeling, unable to reconcile how his personal weapon had ended up here, in her hands. A flicker of something dark twisted across Sofia¡¯s face. ''So you do recognise it?'' she snapped, her voice a burning whisper cutting through the air between them. ''It¡¯s my blade, yes. How did you get hold of it?'' ''Don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t know!'' Sofia screamed, her voice breaking through the air like a crack of thunder, her fury blazing as hot as wildfire. She was trembling now, her whole body taut with rage. He could see the muscles in her jaw flexing, her hands shaking as she gripped the sword, her chest heaving with the force of her breathing. This was not the poised princess he¡¯d known. This was a woman scorned, a woman betrayed. ''You gave Eduardo Jeffro, one of my father¡¯s most trusted guards, this sword,'' she spat, her words dripping with accusation. ''To kill my father, the King of Eastamere.'' Her voice broke, her shiny eyes staring into nothing. Her lips trembled, as if a thousand words wanted to pour out of them, but her eyes remained cold and unwavering, filled with unrelenting wrath. ''What did you promise him? Land? Gold? Jewels? What was your price?'' Jacques¡¯ stomach dropped, his mind whirling with disbelief. Her words were like knives, each one sinking deeper, tearing at the foundations of everything he knew. Kill King Geraldo? The accusation was ludicrous. It had to be. But her face held nothing but certainty, a truth he could not yet comprehend. Jacques forced himself to speak, though his voice was faint, unsteady. ''Your father is dead?'' The question escaped him in a whisper, as if even speaking it aloud was a transgression. The room spun, a suffocating weight pressing down on him as the implications took hold. The king¡ªdead. And somehow, impossibly, it was his sword, his very name, bound to the act. ''The things you said to me, about you, about Aubery¡­'' Sofia¡¯s voice fractured, a glimmer of tears pooling in her eyes before she shook her head, biting back her grief. ''Was that all a lie?'' Jacques stared back at her, his heart thudding like a war drum in his chest, disbelief freezing his mind. ''What in the bloody hell are you talking about?'' Sofia¡¯s expression only hardened further, her fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword as if daring him to challenge her again. Jacques felt himself reeling, trying to make sense of this nightmare. Just hours ago, he had been on Sunrise¡¯s deck under the stars, baring his soul, his darkest secret, to the woman he intended to marry, the woman he would¡¯ve entrusted with his heart. He had spoken of his past, of Aubery, of the choices he regretted and the path he¡¯d walked. And now, the very sword his father had made for him hovered menacingly close to his face. A sickening realisation crept over Jacques¡¯ back, chilling his blood. If King Geraldo was truly dead, and it was murder, then someone had carefully orchestrated this scene to implicate him. The thought turned his stomach. A third war¡ª his mind staggered at the possibility. Not another war, not after the last one. The memory of blood-soaked battlefields, of childhood innocence lost and people slain, crashed over him like a wave. The land had barely begun to heal from the last war¡¯s ravages; they couldn¡¯t survive another. His thoughts abruptly shattered as the door burst open, slamming against the wall. Jacques snapped his head toward the sound, his pulse spiking as a guard shoved Sir Finn Alisser into the room. Finn¡¯s hands were bound, his normally proud posture reduced to a grim, defeated stance, and his beloved trident was clutched in the guard¡¯s grip. Jacques¡¯ heart plummeted, sinking like a stone to the pit of his stomach. Panic scratched at the edges of his composure, threatening to consume him. He forced himself to look into Sofia¡¯s eyes again, hoping against hope there might still be some fragment of trust there, something he could grasp to explain his innocence. ''Look, you¡¯ve made a mistake.'' His tone was calm, almost too calm for a man whose life hung by the thinnest of threads. His eyes flickered between the faces of the golden knights surrounding him, each one of them primed to strike at Sofia¡¯s command. He could feel the weight of their hostility, the lethal intent in their stances, their hands gripping their swords so tightly he could see the whites of their knuckles.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ''I am not a murderer!'' Jacques continued, his words deliberate. ''I had nothing to do with this!'' Sofia thrust the blade closer, close enough he could feel the cold bite of its edge. ''Then explain this,'' she demanded. ''Why would this sword be here if you weren¡¯t involved?'' Jacques took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet her glare head-on. He sighed, his patience wearing thin as the absurdity of the accusation grated on him. ''Only an idiot would arm an assassin with his own blade,'' he said, his voice ringing out into the silence. ''What, you think I like digging my own grave? What sort of fool do you take me for?'' The room fell into a tense quiet, the only sound the slow, rhythmic thudding of Jacques¡¯ own pulse in his ears. For a brief moment, he saw something shift in Sofia¡¯s expression. Her fury wavered, doubt flickering in her eyes as his words seemed to pierce through her anger. Her hand, which had been so rigid around the sword hilt, faltered, and the blade lowered a fraction. ''I¡­'' she began, her voice uncertain, eyes searching the empty space as if seeking answers from the air. But then her jaw tightened, and a spark of defiance reignited in her gaze. She steeled herself, her lips pressing into a thin line. ''I take you for nothing but a murderer,'' she bit out, the words harsh. ''Then take my head and be done with it! You seem to have already made up your mind!'' The echo of Jacques¡¯ words hung in the room, a challenge that cut through the thick tension. He could still feel every eye on him, each knight bracing, awaiting Sofia¡¯s next command. But Jacques could also see the flicker of uncertainty in Sofia¡¯s eyes, the conflict raging behind her mask of anger and grief. She held the power to end him right there, but something¡ªsome small remnant of the trust they¡¯d shared¡ªseemed to hold her back, however faint. The room lay suspended in a taut silence, each second stretching unbearably, as they all waited to see if the next word from the queen¡¯s lips would be his death sentence or his reprieve. Lord Serben crept forward and laid a hand on the princess¡¯ tense shoulder. His hand lingered there, his voice low and steady, his words barely audible over the tense silence in the room. ''Your Majesty,'' he whispered, his gaze flickering briefly toward Jacques, ''perhaps it would be wise to speak with him another time. I fear grief is clouding your judgement.'' A fury coiled itself tightly around Jacques¡¯ chest, his anger bubbling to the surface. ''Oh, I see,'' Jacques snarled, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. ''Yes, shut me up right as I start making sense. Perhaps, Your Majesty, you might consider Lord shadow-on-your-shoulder over there. Or does the snake¡¯s counsel come without question?'' ''Silence!'' Luis snapped, stepping forward and bringing his sword so close to Jacques¡¯s face that he felt the icy kiss of the blade against his cheek. Jacques went rigid, staring down the razor¡¯s edge, his heart pounding in his chest. One wrong move, one inch too far, and he would lose an eye. Taking a shuddering breath, Jacques fought to rein in his anger. He wouldn¡¯t get out of this alive if he let his rage control him. He forced himself to speak again, his voice softer, tinged with the earnestness of a man quite literally fighting for his life. ''I¡¯m sorry for your father¡¯s death,'' he said, his eyes locking onto Sofia¡¯s, pleading for her to see the truth, ''truly, I am. But I swear to you, I¡¯m not responsible. You have to believe me!'' ''I don¡¯t,'' Sofia whispered, each word a death knell. Her stare bore into him, cutting deeper than any blade. In her eyes, Jacques saw his death¡ªan image of the executioner¡¯s block, the crowd watching as the headman¡¯s axe gleamed in the Eastamerean sunlight, poised to strike. His heart hammered, the sheer finality of her gaze sinking into him with bone-chilling clarity. A cold sweat trickling down his spine, the room pressing in around him as if the walls themselves were preparing to bury him. ''But I sense an opportunity,'' Prince Luis said slowly, his gaze sharp and assessing as he looked at Jacques. He then glanced at his sister, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ''We have the chance to avoid war, to prevent needless suffering. If we hold Prince Jacques as our hostage, we can use him as leverage to ensure the Galians never pull a stunt like this again. It¡¯s a way to send a message while still keeping the peace Father would¡¯ve wanted.'' Jacques¡¯s pulse steadied, relief blooming in his chest. Anything was better than death. He forced a smile, turning his gaze to Sofia with as much gratitude as he could muster, hoping it would soften her stance. ''A fine plan,'' he said, his voice laced with as much confidence as he could manage. Lord Serben took a step forward, his hand clasped tight around the hilt of his sword. ''I can think of a better way,'' he interjected, his voice a cold knife in the room¡¯s tension. ''Your Majesty, to let your father¡¯s death go unpunished would be an insult to his memory and a weakness. The Galians have already declared war by killing our king. An example must be made.'' ''If you kill me, you will definitely start a war!'' Jacques shouted, ''My father will rain hell down on you, and all of Eastamere!'' King Rickard would do no such thing. If anything, the death of his delinquent son would bring him no greater pleasure, but Jacques banked on the idea the Princess did not know that. Jacques could only watch and wait for his fate to be decided. Would his head roll in the Eastamerean sun or would he live to see his next birthday, or better still live to see his brother again? He knew Rick wouldn¡¯t stand for this, no matter what their father said. But Rick wasn¡¯t here to help him. Jacques had to handle this himself. He took a deep breath, his chest tightening as the memory of the sweet girl he¡¯d shared that wine with only moments ago hung heavy in the air. The fire in her eyes, the way her fists clenched at her sides, told him everything he needed to know: she was lost to grief, consumed by the weight of it. She¡¯s drowning, Jacques thought, and with that realisation, a cold shiver ran down his spine. I can¡¯t antagonise her. Not now. Not like this. He tried to steady his voice, but it betrayed him¡ªshaky, tight with the threat of everything unravelling. He could feel the tension in the room pressing in on him, suffocating. Calm down, Jacques, you fucking idiot. He cleared his throat, struggling to keep his hands from trembling. ''Look,'' he said, the words coming out more strained than he¡¯d intended, ''I¡¯m accused of a crime, and I deny it. If you truly are the queen your father¡ª'' ''Don¡¯t.'' The sharpness of Sofia¡¯s interruption cut through the room like a dagger. Her voice cracked, raw with heart-wrenching grief. The blaze of anger in her gaze, the kind he had never seen in her before, made his heart lurch. It was the first time she had truly looked at him like this¡ªnot as a stranger, but as a genuine threat. ''Don¡¯t mention my father.'' Jacques froze, a cold knot tightening in his gut. He¡¯d gone too far. Sofia¡¯s grief, a gnawing, hollow thing that seemed to grow with every passing second, pressed down on him like a weight he couldn¡¯t escape. He could almost feel his own heartbeat hammering in his throat, the pulse loud in his ears. If I don¡¯t guard my tongue now¡­ The thought flickered through his mind as he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in her eyes¡ªdead. The image of his head rolling across the floor flashed before him, and the cold chill of reality settled into his bones. One wrong word, he thought, his throat going dry, and I¡¯m as good as dead. His mouth was dry, but he swallowed the rising panic, forcing his voice to stay steady. ''If you truly seek justice,'' Jacques said carefully, each word weighed and measured, ''then I suggest you give me a trial and a chance to prove my innocence.'' Silence. The room held its breath. The air felt thick, buzzing with anticipation, like the moments before a storm. Jacques felt the eyes of the men in the room burning into him¡ªeyes that flicked between Sofia and him, as if the very air they shared could tear them apart. The new queen remained motionless, her face unreadable. For a fleeting second, she looked anywhere but at him, her gaze darting desperately towards her brother and Lord Serben. Prince Luis, still gripping his sword, had his focus split between the two of them, his knuckles white, the point of his blade dropping slowly towards the wooden floor. His posture wasn¡¯t as threatening anymore, but the tension in his body was a constant reminder that everything here was teetering on the edge. Sofia¡¯s eyes finally met his again, filled with an uncertainty so stark it almost broke him. She¡¯s lost, I can see it in her eyes, he thought, but she¡¯s still the queen. She holds my life in her hands. ''I will get to the bottom of this,'' Sofia said, her breath trembling as she fought to keep her composure. ''In the interest of justice, I will grant your request. You and Sir Finn will get a trial after my father¡¯s funeral. If you both are found innocent, the wedding will go ahead as planned and I will issue you both a formal apology.'' Jacques heard the words, but they sounded distant, as though she were speaking from the other side of a great chasm. The funeral. Her father. The weight of that grief hung between them, a chasm he couldn¡¯t hope to cross. Jacques¡¯ eyes flicked towards the door, where the looming figure of Lord Serben still lingered like a shadow. The man¡¯s very presence in the room felt like an unspoken threat, and Jacques couldn''t shake the feeling that he was already a step behind, too late. The odds were astronomical¡ªtwo foreigners accused of regicide, in a kingdom ripe for taking. But he had no choice. He couldn¡¯t run, couldn¡¯t hide. Not if he didn¡¯t want to be buried beneath the weight of his own guilt. If he fled, he''d be confirming the very crime they accused him of. His only hope was Sofia. ''But if you are found guilty,'' Sofia said, her words biting into the air like ice, ''I¡¯ll have both of your heads. Starting with you, Jacques.'' Chapter IX- Ill Be Back My Love Once they returned to Palomia, Sofia tasted the bitter loneliness of being queen. Gone were the gentle murmurs of her mother¡¯s guidance, the warmth of her father¡¯s protective shadow. Now, she sat in the silence of her room, the thick night air gusting through her bedroom window, carrying with it the faint scent of the sea and pine that clung to her memories. Above, a full, pale moon hung alone in the night sky, casting a cold, ghostly glow on her bedroom floor. She sat alone, trying to distract herself from her father¡¯s death and Jacques¡¯ trial by getting started instantly with her responsibilities as queen. Towering stacks of letters and documents crowded her desk¡ªparchment upon parchment from all corners of Eastamere, each bearing the wax seals of many a noble house. Each letter, each demand, carried with it the expectations her father once bore. Sofia traced her fingers over the golden dove adorning the royal seal, her hand lingering for a heartbeat too long. Father made this look effortless. Sofia picked up the first document, her hand trembling slightly. It was a letter from Lord Vallarez, decrying his neighbour for hunting wild boar on his lands. A trivial squabble, yet it was her duty now to mediate it. Another scroll warned of brigands terrorising the eastern roads, threatening the merchants that kept Eastamere thriving. Sofia could picture her father, The Devil¡¯s Cobra, as his fingers traced a map, his brow furrowed in thought as he planned their capture. The hollow prospect clawed at her heart, and she forced herself to look away, willing herself not to crumble. Lord Serben had taken charge of arranging the funeral, ensuring that every step of the process would align with her father¡¯s wishes. Sofia¡¯s mouth tightened at the thought of her father¡¯s old friend, his cold efficiency in the face of tragedy. He was loyal, but his composure unnerved her¡ªalways prepared. His eyes will watch my every step now. The shadow on my shoulder. Sofia¡¯s gaze softened when she found a letter penned in a familiar, looping script. Her aunt Isabela. The news that her mother¡¯s sister was making the journey up from Madriga, home of House Hyana, brought the first spark of relief she¡¯d felt in days. She remembered Aunt Isabela¡¯s fiery laugh, the way she would scold Father, bossing him around like he was a young boy instead of a king. Her mother would roll her eyes and tell Isabela to let him be, but there was always a warmth, a fierce loyalty to her aunt that had comforted Sofia as a child. She clung to the hope that her aunt¡¯s arrival might soften the edges of her grief, if only for a moment. The reprieve was short-lived. Sofia picked up the next letter, her gaze drifting over the embossed sigil of Lord Barcen¡ªa snarling greyhound, vicious even in ink. The northern lord¡¯s debts to the crown were yet unpaid, as he had weaselled his way around every deadline her father had set. Her heart sank as she realised she could not turn to him for advice, not anymore. How would Father have handled this? Would he have tightened his grip on Lord Barcen, or given him room to pay his debt in his own time? Sofia sighed, wishing her father were alive to ask him. By now, she should have been travelling with Fernando and Esme, their laughter and carefree conversations filling her ears as they rode over open fields. She should have been gazing at distant peaks under clear skies, not shut away in a dark room, with the crushing weight of a crown pressing down on her every thought. And all of it¡ªall of it was because of Jacques. It had been his sword, hadn¡¯t it? She couldn¡¯t ignore the undeniable evidence; she could practically feel its cold steel lying between them. Every time she thought of it, an ugly mix of betrayal and bitterness twisted in her stomach. The simple, stark logic of it pressed against her: his sword meant his guilt. Yet, it wasn¡¯t so simple. If she hadn¡¯t met him, if she had only known him as a monster in the stories, it would be easy to condemn him, to believe he was the man everyone accused him of being. But she had met him. She¡¯d seen the haunted look in his eyes, the genuine tremor in his voice when he spoke of that girl, Aubery, and the heart-wrenching loss he¡¯d borne. It didn¡¯t make sense. She buried her face in her hands, feeling the weight of uncertainty grind against her heart. Only the trial would reveal the truth, yet every second that passed without answers tore at her patience, her resolve. Her father¡¯s burial loomed over her like a shadow, a reminder of all she had to accomplish while the world spun out of control around her. She wanted justice for him, but she feared what it might cost her if she was wrong about Jacques. A sharp knock at the door jolted her back to the present, and her quill froze mid-sentence, her eyes lingering over the word leave scrawled on the page. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, each beat seeming to echo in the silence that followed. She heard muffled voices from the other side, tense, hurried whispers that prickled her skin with a terrible sense of foreboding. The letters and documents scattered across her desk were forgotten as she strained to listen, a quiet dread settling over her. ''You need to tell her, Fernando,'' Esme¡¯s voice was low but unyielding, carrying the strain of words she¡¯d clearly repeated. ''You know what she¡¯ll say.'' Fernando¡¯s whisper wavered, each word catching as though dragged reluctantly from his throat. ''You know she¡¯ll want us to stay. She¡¯ll¡­ she¡¯ll think we¡¯re abandoning her.'' Esme scoffed, her tone laced with an edge of frustration. ''Fine. I¡¯ll tell her myself.'' Sofia paused, the letter slipping from her hand, drifting down onto the stack of correspondence cluttering her desk. The quiet murmur of their voices through the door sent a chill through her, each muffled word unravelling her composure. She took a slow breath, willing her heart to slow its wild thumping against her ribs. ''Come in,'' Sofia called, her voice clear, steady¡ªa facade she¡¯d practised. She watched the door, every nerve on edge, as if steeling herself would make her impenetrable. She knew whatever they were about to say would not be easy to hear. Esme stepped inside first, her face drawn, a packed bag slung over her shoulder. Sofia¡¯s heart gave a painful twist. It was the boots that truly shook her¡ªthick-soled, worn boots she only wore for travel, dust from countless roads clinging to their seams. The sight of them made Sofia¡¯s stomach turn, her breath catching in her throat as the terrible truth sank in before a word was spoken. Esme looked her in the eye, her expression caught between sympathy and resolve. ''We wanted to tell you in person,'' she began, her voice soft but stern. ''Thought it¡¯d be easier for you to hear.'' Sofia¡¯s face hardened instinctively, forming a mask of steel that concealed the turmoil rising inside her. She forced herself to keep her chin high, to swallow down the sharp sting of betrayal that threatened to spill from her lips. This can¡¯t be happening. She clutched the edge of her desk, fingers digging into the wood until her knuckles whitened, a thin veneer of control over the torrent building inside her. ''You can¡¯t,'' she said suddenly, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation. ''We were going to go together.'' Esme stilled, her jaw clenching as she forced herself to meet Sofia¡¯s pleading gaze. ''I know you¡¯re upset¡ª'' ''Upset?'' Sofia¡¯s voice tore through the room, the rawness of her fury reverberating off the walls. She vaulted from her seat, fists clenched tightly at her sides. ''We were meant to go together!'' Her words hung heavy in the air, thick with accusation. The sound of her own voice, ragged and edged with betrayal, felt foreign¡ªlike it belonged to someone else, some other girl who had been left behind. Esme¡¯s face hardened ''You¡¯re the queen now, Sofia,'' she said, her voice mimicking the cold detachment of her own lord father, Lord Gallo. ''Your place is here. And ours¡­'' She trailed off, her eyes flashing with a hint of something Sofia couldn¡¯t quite place¡ªguilt, perhaps, or regret. ''Our place is not.'' Sofia¡¯s breath came in shallow bursts, her anger simmering dangerously close to the surface. She fought against the urge to scream, to release the storm that raged inside her. Every fibre of her being roared at her to let it out, to rail against them for abandoning her in the darkest hour of her life. These were supposed to be her friends¡ªher friends. The people she could count on when everything else was falling apart, the ones who would stay, no matter the title, no matter the crown. And now they were casting her aside, leaving her shackled to a throne she never asked for, leaving her alone to wear the weight of a kingdom she wasn¡¯t ready to bear. Esme glanced back at the door. ''Fernando!'' she barked, her voice harsh. ''Get in here! If I have to look her in the eye, then you do too!'' She strode over to the door, wrenching it open and reaching into the dim corridor. She pulled Fernando into the room, her grip on his arm unyielding as she dragged him into the light. He stumbled forward, blinking under the candlelight from Sofia¡¯s desk, his green eyes wide with guilt and fear. His gaze flickered up to meet Sofia¡¯s, but he dragged it away, as though her pain were too much for him to bear. His lips trembled, and when he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a broken whisper. ''I¡¯m sorry, Sofia,'' he murmured, the shame in his eyes stark against his usual charm. ''We wanted to tell you¡­'' Sofia looked at the two of them, her pulse pounding in her ears, her heart a tangled mess of anger, hurt, and betrayal. She could barely bring herself to breathe, each inhale feeling like a knife twisting in her chest. These were the people she trusted most in the world. The ones who¡¯d whispered promises of loyalty when they were children, the ones who swore they¡¯d never leave her side. And now, when she needed them more than ever, they were turning their backs. ''Get out,'' she hissed, her voice barely more than a whisper, but fierce, filled with a quiet rage that left no room for argument. She nodded stiffly towards the door. ''The pair of you. Just¡­ get out.'' Esme held her gaze for a long, painful moment, something unreadable flashing in her eyes¡ªperhaps a silent plea for Sofia to understand, or an apology she was too proud to voice. But she merely nodded, nudging Fernando towards the door. He shuffled past her, casting one last remorseful look back at Sofia. Sofia clenched her fists tighter, refusing to let him see how broken she was. The door slammed behind them, a sharp, final sound that echoed through the room, reverberating in the silence they left in their wake. Sofia stood frozen, her vision blurring as the truth crashed over her in a wave of cold realisation. They were gone. She was truly, utterly alone. The first tear slipped down her cheek, hot and stinging, and before she knew it, her hands flew up to her face, desperate to hold back the flood of emotions she¡¯d been fighting all this time. But it was futile. The grief, the anger, the suffocating loneliness¡ªall of it burst free in broken, shuddering sobs that filled the empty room. She sank onto her bed, shoulders trembling as she buried her face in her hands. The tears fell freely now, and she did not stop them. How can I? How can I be strong, like a queen¡¯s meant to be, when everyone I love is gone? Her mother, her father¡­ both lost to death. And now Esme and Fernando¡ªlost to their own choices, choosing to walk away when she needed them most. The walls around her blurred as her mind spiralled back to the weight of that crown she¡¯d never wanted, the suffocating duties, that prison of a throne. Everyone was gone. She had no one left. The next morning, Sofia walked through the streets of Palomia to the steady, haunting beat of a single drum. Each strike resonated in her bones, a mournful cadence matching the dull ache in her heart. Her steps were measured, slow, each one an effort to hold back the tremors threatening to take over her entire body. She wore a dress of the finest black silk, heavy and stifling as it draped her shoulders, trailing like the shadow of her grief. A delicate veil covered her face, blurring the world around her, a thin shield against the wave of sorrow in the streets. She clung to its concealment, grateful for its protection, hiding the rawness in her eyes, the sharp edges of her pain that threatened to shatter her weak facade. Beside her, Luis walked in the armour of the royal guard, its once-brilliant gold now dull in the sombre light of morning. He looked straight ahead, his face pale and expressionless, his lips pressed into a hard line. The armour, so recently a symbol of family pride, now hung on him like a curse, weighing down his steps, transforming him from a young prince to a stoic sentinel. Sofia glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her heart aching not only for their shared loss but for the boy who had been forced too soon into the harsh roles of manhood, of a soldier and mourner. Ahead of them, King Geraldo¡¯s coffin rested atop a wooden platform, its dark mahogany gleaming in the morning light. Draped in the royal gold of House Paloma, it lay open, exposing her father¡¯s face to the heavens. His features were stiff and cold, transformed from the warm, familiar expressions she had once known into something remote, distant. The once-commanding lines of his face were softened, smoothed by the silence of death, yet still held the unmistakable gravity of a king. Regal, even now. Sofia¡¯s heart twisted with each reluctant step toward him, the painful truth sinking deeper with every drumbeat. On either side of the road, the people of Palomia stood in solemn lines, forming a path of silent, grieving witnesses. The streets were unrecognisably quiet, as if the city itself mourned. Merchants who had once haggled with joy, bakers and smiths who filled the air with laughter and song, now stood silent, their eyes glistening with unshed tears, clutching white roses in their hands. The roses were tradition, a symbol of honour and farewell. One by one, they stepped forward, casting their flowers onto the wooden platform.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Each rose that landed sent a fresh shard of pain through Sofia¡¯s heart, a slow suffocation as the fragrant blossoms piled up. Soon, her father¡¯s figure was almost lost beneath the layers of petals, the delicate blooms encasing him in a final, poetic shroud. She watched as children placed their roses with trembling hands, as old men and women lowered their heads in reverence, whispering prayers and quiet farewells. The sea of white roses grew, spilling over the edges of the platform, until the coffin seemed to be floating atop a field of sorrow, a wave of mourning that would carry him to his final rest. Sofia¡¯s throat tightened as she forced herself to walk on, the weight of her role pressing down on her with every step. Her fingers curled into fists beneath her veil, fighting against the urge to turn away, to run from the unbearable truth before her. The path was long, each step a painful reminder of the future she could not escape, the crown that would soon settle on her head, the throne that awaited her. As they reached the cathedral, the heavy oak doors groaned open, their echo reverberating through the stone halls like a mournful wail. Sofia¡¯s heart pounded painfully in her chest, each beat louder than the next. She could barely breathe as she crossed the threshold, the air inside thick with incense and history. Sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows, casting fractured patterns of red and gold across the cold marble floor, lending the sanctuary an eerie, otherworldly glow. The cathedral felt like a place between worlds¡ªwhere the living came to say goodbye to the dead, and the dead went to rest. The council members waited, their faces marked with an understanding silence, their hands ready but hesitant. Normally, it was the royal guard who would carry the king inside, their presence a symbol of honour and protection. But after what had happened, after Sir Eduardo¡¯s betrayal, still fresh in her heart, Sofia couldn¡¯t bear the thought of those men¡ªmen who wore the same armour, men she could no longer trust¡ªcoming anywhere near her father¡¯s body. Serben stepped forward first, his face stoic and unyielding. His hands, calloused and steady, found their grip on the polished wood of the coffin. Sofia watched as he braced himself under the weight of his old friend, his expression flickering for just a moment¡ªgrief flashing in his green eyes before he locked it away behind a mask of iron duty. The rest of the council moved forward, each member mirroring Serben¡¯s reverence, their fingers trembling only slightly as they took their places around the coffin. The pallbearers heaved together, lifting the coffin as though it held the very heart of the kingdom. Sofia could barely look at it without feeling the prickling, tearing pain in her chest, the sensation of a hollow abyss opening where her father¡¯s presence once was. She forced herself to remain still, to hold her composure, but the urge to scream, to run to the coffin and cling to it, nearly overcame her. Instead, she turned her gaze down, the burn of unfallen tears filling her eyes. As they moved deeper into the cathedral, the organ¡¯s low, mournful notes filled the space, spilling down from the vaulted ceilings like liquid sorrow. The sound was beautiful, haunting¡ªa cry of despair plunging into her bones. Every chord echoed off the high stone arches, rebounding and swirling around her until the very walls were weeping with her, mourning with her. She had spent many moments of her childhood in this cathedral, back when both of her parents were alive, when it was a place of wonder and quiet joy. Now, the very air felt oppressive, the sanctity that should have brought comfort only intensifying her grief. She slipped into one of the pews at the front, her brother beside her, his hand trembling as he gripped the edge of the seat. He sat so straight, trying so hard to appear strong, yet Sofia could feel the turmoil inside him. He was barely more than a boy, and here he was, a knight, the captain of the royal guard, forced to bury his father, to watch him disappear into the shadows forever. As the council bore the coffin forward, Sofia took in the flickering torchlight that lined the walls, casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the faces of kings carved in stone. The figures seemed to watch her, hollow eyes following her every breath, a silent jury to her grief. She thought of her father¡¯s face, cold and lifeless beneath that shroud of roses, and she tried to reconcile that image with the memory of him alive¡ªhis eyes bright with laughter, his voice steady and full of life. The contrast was too sharp, too cruel, and the thought of him lying here, forever silent beneath those towering walls, felt like a final, brutal twist of fate. Sofia¡¯s gaze drifted upward, to the impossibly high ceiling where light struggled to reach, swallowed by the darkness. She could not imagine him here, trapped in the stone tomb, but she told herself he would be at peace within these walls, surrounded by the silence he had always respected. As she thought of him resting here, the quiet strength that had defined him forever contained within these stones, she fought to steady her breathing, to keep her hands from shaking. The thought was cold comfort, but it was all she had left. ''Sofia,'' a soft voice broke through the haze of her thoughts. Sofia¡¯s heart lifted at the sound, so familiar yet distant in the wake of her grief. She turned, her breath catching as she beheld a woman in her mid-forties, whose presence felt like a balm in a world now rough and unyielding. She stood there, her long, dark hair flowing over one shoulder, her brown eyes soft and full of the warmth Sofia remembered from her mother. ''Aunt Isabela,'' Sofia breathed, a small, fragile smile breaking through the sadness etched into her face. Isabela¡¯s gaze held her with such tenderness it forced a lump to rise inside Sofia¡¯s throat. ''You look well,'' Isabela said, nodding slowly, her tone gentle but knowing. ''As well as one in your position can, I suppose.'' There was a deep understanding there, a silent acknowledgement of the burdens Sofia carried. No pity, just the quiet strength of someone who had seen much in life and knew what loss could do to someone. Sofia looked up at her, and the ache in her chest swelled, her arms longing for an embrace, for the comfort that only family could give. She swallowed, fighting to maintain her composure. Aunt Isabela must have sensed her silent plea because, in an instant, she stepped forward, pulling Sofia close and wrapping her in a tight embrace. Sofia¡¯s cheek pressed against her aunt¡¯s shoulder, and as her aunt¡¯s arms circled around her, she felt as if she were a child again, wrapped in the safety of her mother¡¯s arms. ''I am so sorry, my dear,'' Isabela whispered, her voice thick with grief. Sofia felt the faint tremor in her aunt¡¯s hold, the evidence of her own sorrow, and the shared pain brought an unsteady comfort. She bit down on her lip, struggling to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. She had held them back all morning, but now, in the warmth of her aunt¡¯s embrace, the walls she¡¯d built around herself began to crumble. Sofia could smell the faint hint of lavender on her aunt¡¯s dress, an echo of her mother¡¯s favourite scent, and it brought with it a flood of memories¡ªmemories of long, lazy afternoons with her mother and Aunt Isabela, the sound of their laughter weaving through the air like a melody. Her mother, now only a memory, and her father, lying cold within the cathedral. Her friends, too, had left her alone. Jacques had betrayed her. She fought against the realisation that clutched at her heart: everyone she¡¯d relied on, everyone she had loved, was gone. And yet, here was her aunt, her one remaining anchor. Isabela tightened her hold and leaned in to speak softly in Sofia¡¯s ear, her voice gentle yet brimming with fierce conviction. ''You will do this, Sofia. I know it in my heart. You were born with your father¡¯s strength and your mother¡¯s kindness. But if you stumble, if you ever need me¡­'' She pulled back slightly, meeting Sofia¡¯s gaze, her eyes warm with promise. ''I am only a raven away.'' A small, shuddering breath escaped Sofia¡¯s lips. Her hands clung to her aunt¡¯s for a moment longer, reluctant to let go. There was a part of her that wanted to stay there, buried in the comfort of her aunt¡¯s arms, safe from the merciless world that waited just beyond. But her father¡¯s coffin lay only a few paces away, and she could no longer run from the burden she¡¯d inherited. Sofia gave a slight nod, summoning every ounce of strength within her to step back. Isabela¡¯s hand lingered on her shoulder, a grounding presence, before she gently released her, giving her one last look of pride and reassurance before moving down the aisle to join the congregation, her dark form a steady silhouette against the cold stone of the cathedral. As Sofia watched her take a seat, a strange peace settled over her¡ªa fleeting strength that she held onto, willing herself to remember her aunt¡¯s words, to believe that she was not entirely alone. As the service began, the bishop¡¯s voice filled the cavernous cathedral, recounting tales of her father¡¯s strength and unwavering dedication. ''He was a rock in the community,'' he said, his voice resonating off the high, arched walls. ''A guiding light in our last war with Galia, and a beacon of justice and resilience.'' The words swirled around Sofia, hollow and echoing, filling the space but leaving her heart untouched. They felt like distant echoes, spoken in a language she could no longer understand. She heard the phrases¡ªa rock, a light¡ªbut they seemed to bounce off the wall of grief encasing her, muffled, unreachable. She glanced at Luis. Her brother was trembling, his face blotchy from held-back sobs. He dabbed at his eyes with a white cloth, his fingers shaking. Seeing his pain stirred something deep inside her¡ªprotective, fierce. Sofia reached over and took his hand in hers, locking her fingers around his, feeling the strength of his grip as he held on tightly, as if her touch alone could weather him in the storm of their loss. His gaze dropped to their intertwined hands, and he squeezed them even closer, pulling her hand into his lap, clinging to her for comfort. The fragility in his eyes was like a mirror, reflecting her, reflecting her own need to feel normal in this moment where nothing felt real. ''And now,'' the bishop¡¯s voice cut through the air, reverent and solemn, ''I¡¯d like to invite Her Majesty, Queen Sofia, and His Highness, Prince Luis, to say their last goodbyes.'' A lump formed in Sofia¡¯s throat, and her breath caught. She felt a slight shiver, her pulse quickening as the reality of it struck her. This was truly the last time she would see her father¡¯s face, the last time she could be close to him, even in death. She glanced over at Luis, whose lip quivered despite the determined set of his jaw. He nodded to her, giving her hand another tight squeeze, a silent promise that he would be strong for her, and she for him. They rose together, and she leaned into him as they stepped forward, an unspoken unity, two shadows cast by the same sorrow. As they moved closer, Sofia¡¯s heart pounded so hard it felt as though it might shatter her ribs. Each step toward the coffin brought more of her father¡¯s features into focus¡ªhis peaceful expression, the quiet dignity in the lines of his face. Luis sank to one knee before the coffin, his fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of the polished wood. His voice wavered, barely audible, as he began to recite the vows of the royal guard¡ªwords meant to be strong, proud, yet choked with sorrow as he spoke them over their father¡¯s resting form. Each line was a struggle, his voice catching on the syllables as he made promises of loyalty, of sacrifice, of duty, words that had bound their father as king and protector. But now, spoken over a lifeless body, the vows seemed hollow, a ritual that could not bring him back. Sofia stood over the coffin, her gaze riveted on her father¡¯s face, her breath shallow and uneven. She tried to steady herself, to banish the image of him lying there, so unnaturally still, but she couldn¡¯t look away. She could barely remember the last words he¡¯d spoken to her, the blood of the dove runs thick, the last moment they¡¯d shared, lost now in a blur of court responsibilities and her last fear-riddled complaint over her readiness for the throne. Not for many years, I hope. Princess will do for now. The people had always called King Geraldo II a good king, a just ruler who had shepherded Eastamere through wars, shortages, and countless struggles. The lords had echoed those sentiments at every council meeting. But none of that mattered now. She was not here to say goodbye to a king; she was here to say goodbye to her father¡ªthe man who had always wrapped her in his arms after her nightmares, who had told her stories to fill her heart with hope, who had listened patiently as she presented an idea to the council, no matter how nonsensical, and laughed softly when her nerves got the better of her. Without saying a word, Sofia leaned down, her lips pressing to his cold forehead. She closed her eyes, trying to feel him there beneath her touch, as if she could summon some last trace of warmth, of life. It might have been seconds, it might have been hours¡ªtime had lost all meaning. In that silent, sacred moment, she willed him to stay, to come back. Her heart ached with every beat, each pulse a silent scream, Please, Father, don¡¯t go. I can¡¯t do this without you. I¡¯m not ready. I¡¯m not! But the world around her remained indifferent, and no answer came from the stillness. She opened her eyes, her vision blurred with unshed tears. Slowly, she pulled herself back, feeling the weight of each step as though her limbs were stone. She could not linger here¡ªnot when the crypt waited to swallow him, not when her people expected her to be strong. The ancestors would claim him now, and her place was among the living. Taking a deep breath, Sofia moved back toward the pews, her body feeling hollow, emptied by the loss. Beside her, Luis had risen, his face streaked with fresh tears, his cheeks shimmering in the dim torchlight. She reached out and took his hand, feeling the warmth of his small, trembling fingers in hers. He squeezed her hand again, clutching it tightly as though he feared that, in letting go, he too would be lost. The service stretched on, the delicate hymns and solemn music weaving a soft cocoon around the mourners, muffling the grief that hung thick in the air. Every note seemed to drift up to the cathedral¡¯s high vaulted ceiling before settling heavily back down, blanketing them all in sorrow. Sofia kept her eyes fixed on her father¡¯s coffin, her heart sinking deeper with each passing minute. The memory of his voice whispered through her mind, I¡¯ll be back, my love, I promise. The words seemed to taunt her now, echoing painfully in the cavernous space, as though he might still step forward, smile at her, and pull her into a final embrace. Finally, the council members moved forward, solemn and precise, each gesture steeped in ritual. They lifted the coffin once more, and with a muffled thud, closed it, sealing her father within. A sense of finality settled over the room, cold and sharp. Sofia¡¯s throat tightened, and she could almost feel the emptiness that would follow¡ªthe world without her father, the throne without its king. In the centre of the cathedral, a trapdoor was opened with a low groan, revealing the staircase descending into the crypt. It yawned open like a mouth, dark and unyielding, the stone steps leading to the resting place of generations past. She imagined her father would join them now, lying in quiet companionship with the ancestors he had spoken of with such reverence. Down there, her mother lay as well, her presence only a memory now, a fading warmth on the edge of Sofia¡¯s heart. The thought of them both, together in that cold, eternal tomb, twisted her grief into something nearly unbearable. Slowly, the council members began the descent, lowering the coffin down into the dark. She watched it slip away, swallowed inch by inch until only shadows remained, his legacy¡ªtheir legacy¡ªfading with it. Her father¡¯s words echoed once more: I¡¯ll be back, my love, I promise. But this time, they sounded hollow, a promise he could never keep. Sofia gripped the edge of the pew, her chest burning with a pain she hadn¡¯t felt even when her mother had passed. She had been a child then, lost and inconsolable. Now, she was grown, the Queen, and though the pain was sharper, more refined, she was no less devastated. She felt as though her heart had been hollowed out, leaving only a fragile shell to carry her forward. Her vision blurred, the walls of the cathedral shifting in waves, and she fought to hold herself together, to keep from shattering completely. A gentle touch on her shoulder drew her back. She looked up, blinking away her tears, desperate for whoever it was not to see her grief. Serben¡¯s dark silhouette loomed over her, his face etched with urgency. He leaned down, his voice low and urgent. ''Your Majesty,'' he whispered. A chill crept up Sofia¡¯s spine. The cathedral, the funeral, even the crushing weight of her grief seemed to recede, pushed aside by a sudden, tense awareness. Her mind raced as she searched Serben¡¯s face, his grave expression confirming the seriousness of what he was about to tell her. ''What is it, Lord Serben?'' she asked. ''There is trouble at the palace. I¡¯m afraid we have company.'' Chapter X- A Song Of Swords Eventually, it would grow to a point where Jacques¡¯ incessant pacing would drive him mad. His cell was suffocating, its walls narrow and looming, pressing closer with each passing day. How long have I been here? he thought. Weeks? Months? Time had unravelled within these grey, unyielding walls, stretching and bending into endless, indistinguishable days. His body was stiff from confinement, each step a reminder of his stolen freedom. But pacing was all he could do. It kept his thoughts from sinking into despair as he grappled with the bleak truth¡ªhe was no closer to proving his innocence. The trial loomed over him, relentless, its presence felt in every silent moment, every echoing creak in the stone. Tomorrow, his fate would be sealed if he couldn¡¯t find something, anything, that might absolve him. But the empty cell offered no secrets, only a crushing silence that made his heartbeat thunder in his ears. Desperation clawed at him, a wild, gnawing thing that no amount of pacing could quieten. His gaze drifted to the small slit of a window cut high into the wall, his only link to the world outside. He stood on his toes, straining to see through the narrow gap, and for a moment, he caught a view of the famed Eastamerean capital of Palomia. The city stretched below, almost surreal in its beauty¡ªa kingdom in mourning, blanketed in muted shades of grey and white. It seemed impossible, almost cruel, that life could continue so serenely while his own hung by a thread. Solemn figures filled the streets, moving like a procession of ghosts. Their faces were cast downward, sombre and silent, hands holding white roses as they trailed toward the towering cathedral where King Geraldo¡¯s funeral was being held. The heavy beat of mourning drums thudded faintly in the distance, steady and haunting, like a heartbeat in the belly of the city. The sound grew louder in Jacques¡¯ ears, matching the tempo of his own dread. The weight of his circumstances bore down on his shoulders like an iron yoke, compressing his breath, his very thoughts, until his pacing became frantic. He strode back and forth, faster and faster, his boots scraping against the rough, unyielding stone, as though movement alone might stave off the despair clawing at his mind. But no matter how swiftly he moved, he couldn¡¯t outrun the thought that gnawed at him: the sword¡ªhis sword¡ªthe cursed, hallowed blade that had landed him in this dank cell, and which might soon be the undoing of everything he had ever known. He could still picture it with painful clarity. The sword was beautiful, fierce, and darkly majestic¡ªits ancient steel capable of feats only whispered about in legends. It had been his father¡¯s gift, bestowed upon him in a rare moment of solemnity, a family relic forged in such an unyielding metal that, rumour had it, it could even deflect lightning. Once, it had marked the strength of their bloodline, an emblem of conquest that had endured wars and toppled kings. Now, in the hands of the Eastamereans, it was nothing more than a piece of damning evidence, twisted to implicate him in the assassination of Jacques¡¯ would-be-father-in-law. Great joke, he thought bitterly. Here he was, the joke, a victim of his own prized inheritance. If only he¡¯d broken the blade himself rather than let it fall into the hands of those who¡¯d turn it against him. The bitter taste of regret lingered in his mouth as he clenched his fists. What an insidious trap fate had laid, turning something he¡¯d treated with so much indifference into the instrument of his demise. Outside, the drums thudded in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, each beat resonating like a hammer driving the final nails into Jacques¡¯ coffin. As they buried their king, Palomia also prepared for the trial. He could imagine it¡ªthe mourners in black, their faces grave as they passed through white-paved streets to witness the guilty verdict; and no one outside would shed a tear for Jacques if the gallows became his final destination. Some of them would no doubt even cheer and thank the Gods that such evil was finally gone from the world. Sir Finn Alisser sat with his back against the cell wall, his gaze tracking Jacques¡¯ relentless pacing with a mix of concern and something darker¡ªa faint hint of distrust that clung to the stale air between them. ''What are you doing?'' Finn¡¯s voice broke the silence, rough but cautious, as if he feared the question itself might snap Jacques¡¯ tenuous hold on reason. ''Thinking of a way to get us out of here,'' Jacques replied curtly, a bitterness threading through his words that was impossible to suppress. He halted his pacing and leaned against the opposite wall, his eyes drifting to the narrow, taunting glimpse of Palomia beyond. The heat in the cell was stifling, even with the daylight dimming. By day, the stone walls baked like a furnace, and at night, the cold seeped in, merciless and bone-deep. The coarse cotton blanket they¡¯d given him was barely more than a shred of cloth, its fabric rough against his skin, thin as a split potato sack. He¡¯d clutched it in desperation on the bitterest nights, but it was a laughable defence against the damp chill that gripped him to his marrow. As he stared into the fading light, he felt Finn¡¯s eyes boring into him, unrelenting. ''Did you really do it?'' Finn asked, his voice blunt but steady, his gaze fixed like a sword tip aimed at Jacques¡¯ heart. ''Do what?'' Finn didn¡¯t answer. He only continued to watch, his silence a stone in the pit of Jacques¡¯ stomach. Jacques laughed¡ªa short, bitter sound. ''Oh, so I need to convince you now, hmm?'' His words came out harsher than intended, but he didn¡¯t care. ''Fine. I¡¯ll tell you the exact same thing I told the Princess. I had nothing to do with her father¡¯s death.'' Finn¡¯s jaw tightened. ''The deed was done with your blade.'' Jacques¡¯ shoulders tensed at the reminder. ''Look, I can deny it up to the moment they chop my head off. It won¡¯t make a difference. We just have to entertain this mummer¡¯s farce and let Sofia decide.'' The words felt hollow as he said them, a fragile lie crumbling in his own mouth. He knew full well that there was no justice coming his way. The trial was nothing more than a performative gesture to make Sofia feel better about executing him¡ªa spectacle arranged by someone with power, someone who had decided Jacques was a loose end that needed to be tied up for good. He clenched his fists, trying to stamp out the hopelessness simmering inside him, but it was as untameable as the heat that made the cell walls close in around him. ''They¡¯ve already chosen the ending to this story, Finn. They¡¯ve painted me as the murderer, as the traitor, and no one¡¯s interested in anything I have to say. I might as well stand there in silence and let them have their fun. This isn¡¯t a trial¡ªit¡¯s a fucking waste of time.'' Finn¡¯s face was unreadable, but a flicker of something softened his hard gaze, just for a moment. ''And yet you still hope Sofia will believe you.'' Jacques let out a weary sigh, his chest tight with frustration. ''Hope?'' he echoed, the word twisted with self-mockery. ''Maybe. It¡¯s a fool¡¯s hope, Finn. She¡¯s lost her father, her security. The people are demanding justice, and someone out there is more than willing to offer me up like a lamb for slaughter. Sofia may want to believe I¡¯m innocent, but someone has made damn sure there¡¯s enough doubt to seal my fate. Someone wants me dead, Finn, but I don¡¯t know who.'' The thought sent a pang through him, sharp and bitter. He couldn¡¯t deny he¡¯d like to trust Sofia, believe in her fairness, her keen sense of justice. But grief made people see things that weren¡¯t there, made them cling to convenient lies over painful truths. He saw her in his mind¡¯s eye, the Queen seated in the judgement hall, her face pale, her eyes clouded with sorrow as she tried to look at him and see anything other than her father¡¯s blood. Finn¡¯s gaze softened, but only slightly. ''And if it¡¯s all as you say¡ªif it¡¯s truly hopeless¡ªwhy not try to escape now?'' Jacques looked back at him, a wry smile touching his lips. ''You think I haven¡¯t considered it? I¡¯ve mapped every inch of this cell, counted the guards¡¯ steps, noted every single shift in their rotation. But the walls are thick as mountain stone, and the guards are armed to the teeth. There¡¯s no way out, Finn¡ªnot without a miracle.'' The door to the cell creaked open, and Jacques turned, his gaze hardening as one of the royal servants shuffled inside. It was Carles¡ªa scrawny child, with a mop of greasy brown hair falling into his eyes, a smattering of spots across his pallid skin, and a near-toothless smile that dripped with disdain. Jacques had come to loathe the sight of him, the only Eastamerean he¡¯d seen with any regularity in this dank prison. Carles seemed to savour every moment he spent in Jacques¡¯ cell, relishing the fall of a once-noble prince into these rank depths. Carles held a bowl in his grimy hands, moving closer with an exaggerated sneer. ''Here¡¯s your last meal,'' he jeered, tossing the bowl toward Jacques with a rough flick. Jacques snatched it from the air, the congealed soup inside barely shifting from the impact. The fetid smell wafted upward, thick and sour, making his stomach turn. Biting back his disgust, Jacques forced a smile, though his voice held a sharp edge. ''Our lives hang in the balance, good sir. The least you can do is get us a leg of lamb.'' Carles threw his head back with a coarse, barking laugh. ''I¡¯m sure you¡¯d like that, Your Grace.'' He emphasised the title with a mocking sneer, the twisted grin revealing a few rotten stubs of teeth. Without another word, he backed out of the cell, his laughter echoing down the stone corridor as he pulled the door shut behind him with a heavy thud. Jacques clenched his teeth, his hand tightening around the bowl until his knuckles turned white. You little shit, he thought, the words swirling inside him like venom. The indignity of it all clawed at him, but he swallowed the urge to lash out. Any misstep, any hint of anger or pride, could be used against him. He¡¯d learned that much. Even a servant could twist his words, turn them into another nail in his coffin. But Carles¡¯ parting laughter echoed in his mind, feeding the storm of rage and frustration that had been building inside him since the arrest. He had to cling to his last shred of restraint¡ªSofia. She had to see sense. She had to see that he was no murderer. He¡¯d once thought her gaze had held something, a hint of interest or intrigue perhaps, when he¡¯d met her at his father¡¯s peace tournament. He remembered the subtle way she¡¯d looked at him from beneath her lashes, her mouth twitching as if stifling a smile at one of his jokes. She¡¯s heard the tales about me, he¡¯d thought back then, even let himself laugh at the thought. She probably believed he was some arrogant prince, some creature incapable of love or loyalty. And maybe, he¡¯d admitted to himself, maybe she was right. But he¡¯d caught a spark of something in her eyes, and that had been enough to make him think he could change, or at least try. Now he scoffed at his own foolishness. Perhaps I haven¡¯t disappointed her after all, he thought bitterly, but she¡¯s certainly disappointed me. At least when Aubery had left him, she hadn¡¯t locked him up, hadn¡¯t condemned him to rot in this cell. Sofia had not only turned her back¡ªshe¡¯d made him her enemy. Every night, as he lay sleepless on the hard stone floor, the weight of his failure bore down on him. Only weeks ago, he¡¯d been on the verge of something incredible¡ªa union that would bridge two rival nations. He¡¯d let himself imagine a future: his name spoken in the same breath as great kings, a legacy that would last beyond his own lifetime. And Sofia¡ªhe¡¯d thought she might be by his side through it all. Instead, here he was, branded a traitor, a murderer, his head set to roll if his betrothed¡¯s court found him guilty. You fucking idiot! He thought. Jacques¡¯ mind raced, piecing together the clues like fragments of a shattered mirror. He clenched his fists, the rough stone wall pressing against his back as he leaned into it, his mind clawing for clarity. Finn¡¯s right¡ªshe has my sword. His father¡¯s sword, kept in his quarters under lock and key or, on lazier days, tossed on the floor beside his bed. Yet, somehow, it had ended up in the hands of Sir Eduardo Jeffro, the assassin. The only way that could have happened was if someone had taken it from his quarters, as a deliberate attempt to frame him. But who would go through such lengths to stage this? Jacques¡¯ head throbbed as he went over the faces in his mind¡ªmembers of the court, those whose eyes lingered a little too long when he spoke, those whose whispers fell silent when he entered the room. He forced himself to take a steady breath, knowing he needed to stay sharp. The prime suspect had to be Lord Serben, the shadow on Sofia¡¯s shoulder, a man so entrenched in Eastamere¡¯s power structure that the kingdom itself seemed woven around him. His history with Sofia¡¯s father was well-documented: they¡¯d been close once, closer than brothers. But while Geraldo had always been loved by the people¡ªa hero whose name would live on in ballads¡ªSerben¡¯s legacy was of a darker, more insidious nature. He was a man of whispers, secrets, and dealings in shadows. Jacques knew that if Serben had taken it upon himself to orchestrate a plot, it would be ruthless, merciless, and calculated down to the finest detail. Maybe Serben had wanted Geraldo dead, Jacques thought. He could almost picture it: Serben, simmering with resentment, watching as Geraldo basked in the love of the people, overshadowed by his friend¡¯s fame. But if Serben harboured jealousy or hatred toward his friend, why implicate me? Why ruin the life of a foreign prince who had done nothing to him? The easiest way to start a war was to kill a king, and the thought allowed Jacques¡¯ mind to turn to Lord Keylor Gallo, the old warhorse, the king¡¯s steadfast general, a man who had built his reputation on the blood-soaked battlefields of Eastamere and the border. Gallo had once commanded entire armies with ease, his voice bellowing over the clamour of war as he led troops into slaughter. But as the years wore on, so had Gallo¡¯s glory. For years now, he had been sidelined, growing bitter and stagnant under Geraldo¡¯s peace-first rule. Jacques could picture it: Gallo, seething under the king¡¯s obsession with treaties and alliances, watching his years of battlefield victories rust as peace infected his once-mighty kingdom. Now, with Sofia¡ªa girl and the sole heir¡ªinheriting the throne, it would have only added salt to Gallo''s wounds. He would loathe the idea of bending the knee to a young queen raised to value peace over conquest. Perhaps Gallo believed that, by removing Geraldo, he could take back what he believed was rightfully his: a kingdom once again primed for war, one where his expertise would shine. Gallo was a relic, but a dangerous one, ready to ignite a conflict to prove he was still a force to be reckoned with. But it didn¡¯t make sense for Gallo to target Jacques if the aim was to draw Galia into a war. Father would never fight for me, he thought bitterly, even if there was no other choice. Father had two sons, and Rick was the prized one¡ªthe favoured son, the heir whose head their father would gladly go to war to protect. Rick was the golden son, with a face as fair as a knight out of a bard¡¯s tale, his virtue so well-established that any accusation of murder would be laughed off as a cruel jest. But Jacques¡ªhe wasn¡¯t so lucky. He had never been viewed as the honourable one. He knew how his rough edges and dark looks cast him in shadows even when he stood under the brightest of lights. He looked the part of the rogue, the misfit who might turn to crime out of envy or desperation. If Gallo, or anyone, wanted to pin this on someone, I¡¯m the perfect target, Jacques realised grimly. But Jacques forced himself to consider the most obvious suspect of all, King Rickard himself. The very notion clawed at his insides, cold and merciless, but he couldn¡¯t shake it. He knew his father¡¯s ruthless streak all too well, knew how he looked at him with those eyes that could slice a man apart. A disgraceful son like Jacques? Father might indeed see him as little more than a pawn to be sacrificed. Father was nothing if not pragmatic, and war had always been his favoured language. Under King Rickard¡¯s rule, conflict wasn¡¯t just a necessity but a tactic to assert dominance, to draw entire kingdoms under his heel. And what better excuse than the murder of one¡¯s own son? Jacques¡¯s stomach twisted at the thought. His death could be the spark, a move to fan the flames of hatred and galvanise the people into action against Eastamere. And with Sofia on the throne¡ªa queen who would be no Geraldo when it came to fighting a war¡ªFather could see her as a weakness he¡¯d exploit without a second thought. She would be no match for a kingdom built on years of calculated violence, trained under King Rickard¡¯s iron rule. Even the possibility that his father could scheme this made Jacques¡¯ blood curdle. Could you do that to me, Father? Could you let them kill me in cold blood and twist my death into a justification for slaughter¡ª It was evil, even for a man as hard-hearted as King Rickard Rue, but Jacques couldn¡¯t bring himself to deny it. ''My own father,'' he muttered, the words searing his throat. Saying it aloud was like breathing in smoke, bitter and stifling. It was a betrayal more profound than he¡¯d ever imagined, a betrayal that bled him from the inside out. Jacques¡¯s gaze lingered on the crimson message across the wall opposite him: Save me. The letters, painted in desperate, erratic strokes, were slowly fading with age, but in this stifling heat, they seemed to glisten, vibrant and fresh. Flies clung to it, drawn to the dried blood that marked a plea he couldn¡¯t help but feel deep in his own bones. Jacques tried to push the thought aside, but it gnawed at him. Who had they been? A disgraced noble, an unfortunate thief, or some other political scapegoat, caught in the crosshairs of some powerful fuckery? Had they faced their own grim judgement day, waiting on the mercy of a ruler who held their life in their hands? Jacques forced himself to look away. He would not let that desperate scrawl become a spectre haunting his mind when he stepped into the hearing chamber. He¡¯d face the court and his fate with as much defiance as he could muster. Yet as much as he tried to stay resolute, his mind kept wandering back to how the execution might unfold here in Eastamere. He¡¯d witnessed it enough back home. His father had ordered a handful of executions in his time, though far fewer than his infamous predecessor, King Jacob Ayasem, who¡¯d turned executions into a near-weekly sparky spectacle, or so the books said. Jacques had seen the condemned led up to the high wooden platform outside the royal palace, the air simmering with the crowd¡¯s anticipation. The prisoners would be offered their last words¡ªa final act of dignity in a moment devoid of mercy. He remembered Sir Theon Balogun standing beside the condemned with his hand steady on his sword, his face a mask of stoic duty. The Silver Knight¡¯s voice would boom out as he asked if they had any final words, and there was always a horrible stillness, a terrible hush, as the condemned took one last look at the faces of the crowd, then at the distant gaze of the King himself. With a final nod, Sir Theon would raise his blade, and with one swift, practised stroke, it would be over. The head would fall, and Theon, with all the solemnity of a soldier completing a sacred rite, would lift it to the crowd, bellowing, ''Gods save the king!'' Then, as if the world had merely paused for an instant, the crowd would scatter, the citizens of the capital returning to their daily lives, the severed head and lifeless body swiftly cleared away as if they¡¯d been nothing more than props in a grim play. Would Sofia be the one to do it here? Would she really step forward, her father¡¯s halberd in hand, and carry out her supposed vengeance? He nearly laughed at the thought, the image so absurd that it almost seemed a comfort. But his chuckle died as he realised the bitter truth: even if she didn¡¯t swing the blade herself, she¡¯d be there. She would watch, just as his father had watched, distant and detached, the way royalty were supposed to be. A chill ran through him, sharp and stinging. He could almost picture her eyes, steely and unreadable, fixed on him as judgement fell. The cell door creaked open, and light spilled into the dim room in a narrow stripe. A figure stepped into the doorway, blocking the light. Jacques¡¯ stomach twisted, an involuntary reflex he¡¯d reserved especially for Carles.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. So, his time had come. This was either his escort to the trial chamber or one last humiliation, courtesy of that toothless wonder. He shot a glare toward the doorway, just catching the shift of Carles¡¯s figure as he addressed a shadow outside. ''They¡¯re in there,'' Carles said, his tone frantic. Jacques sneered, unable to bite back his words. ''Oh, get on with it, you son of a bitch!'' His voice was rougher than he¡¯d intended, cracking on the last word. The taste of bile was sharp in his mouth as he tried to swallow his bitterness, but it was no use. The very air reeked of contempt and stale regret. And the words that had slipped from his mouth lay between them, sharp as any sword. A chuckle, deep and familiar, filled the space as the shadow took a step forward, revealing himself. ''Now, is that any way to speak to your brother?'' Jacques squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light, the afterimage of his brother¡¯s form still floating in his vision. ''Rick?'' He blinked, trying to clear his head, but the figure before him remained steady. It was no illusion¡ªRick was truly here, standing tall and battle-ready, the polished black of his armour casting a dull gleam in the cell¡¯s half-light. His black and white cloak was nowhere in sight, an ominous sign. Rick never abandoned it unless he was preparing for a fight. Behind him, Sir Theon Balogun and Sir Orchis Vortigon loomed like silent shadows, their swords unsheathed, each man¡¯s stance taut with the tension of imminent danger. Their eyes flickered around the cramped cell as if expecting an ambush to spring from the very shadows. Jacques could only stare, his mouth hanging open in shock as his mind scrambled to comprehend the sight of them. ''What are you¡ª'' Before he could finish, Rick lunged forward, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat and enveloping Jacques in a fierce embrace. The force of it nearly knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, Jacques found himself stiff, frozen with confusion as his brother¡¯s arms encircled him. This wasn¡¯t a mere formality or a show of power; Rick¡¯s grip was tight, almost desperate, as if his very life depended on it. ''I thought I was too late,'' Rick breathed, his voice thick with relief. His breath came out in shaky gasps, the fa?ade of the stoic prince cracking as he held Jacques like a man who¡¯d just been pulled from the edge of an abyss. As Rick¡¯s arms wrapped around him, Jacques felt a warmth he¡¯d nearly forgotten, a small flicker of solace amid the unrelenting darkness he¡¯d been drowning in. For what felt like an eternity, he¡¯d known nothing but cold gazes, every set of eyes that met his swimming with suspicion and thinly veiled contempt. The guards, the servants¡ªthey all looked at him like he was something unclean, a black stain in a court that prided itself on golden honour. Their silent judgement had burrowed deep, each glance carving out any remaining shred of dignity he¡¯d clung to. And yet, here was Rick, embracing him as if Jacques were no criminal but his flesh and blood, someone still worth saving. For weeks, Jacques had been haunted by the faces of those who condemned him. The disapproval he imagined in his father¡¯s expression was particularly vivid, that familiar scowl of disappointment etched into his memory from countless childhood transgressions. But it was Sofia¡¯s face that tortured him most, her eyes filled with furious grief. He¡¯d let himself believe, foolishly, that Sofia might see past the rumours and court gossip¡ªthat the girl he¡¯d comforted in the palace gardens and confessed his past heartbreaks to would somehow believe him. He¡¯d seen vulnerability in her eyes, a flicker of understanding when he told her about Aubery, the lost love he¡¯d never spoken of before. For a moment, he¡¯d dared to hope that Sofia would stand by him. Like a door slamming shut, Jacques felt himself plummeting, alone, cast out of whatever fragile connection they might have had. That look had hurt more than any insult or sneer from the courtiers ever could. She didn¡¯t just believe he was guilty; she saw him as something monstrous, a reflection of all the worst parts of his father. The memory of that look lingered, festering, as if every glance since had only confirmed what he feared most: that everyone, even Sofia, saw him as no better than the ruthless man who¡¯d raised him. But Rick¡ªRick had never looked at him like that. Not once, not even now. ''Theon, get Sir Finn to his feet,'' Rick said, his voice taut with urgency. Sir Theon strode forward, hoisting The Fish Knight up to his feet. Each creak of armour, each echo of a step, felt like a drumbeat of doom in the stifling stone walls. Rick¡¯s embrace was suffocating, a cruel reminder of how little hope Jacques had left. His brother¡¯s presence brought warmth, but it only fed the growing dread clawing inside him. Rick had doomed them all if the Eastamereans discovered he was here, if they caught him. Jacques shoved him back, his voice breaking with a mixture of terror and anger. ''Are you mad? What are you doing here?'' His words rang sharp against the thick air, cutting through the tense silence. Rick staggered, caught off guard by the force of Jacques¡¯ shove. When he finally steadied himself, he stared at Jacques, speechless and wide-eyed, his face a map of anguish and resolve. Jacques wanted to shake him, to make him understand the utter fucking madness of his actions, but he held back, fury simmering just beneath the surface. Doesn¡¯t he realise this so-called rescue is a death sentence for us all? Jacques couldn¡¯t bear the thought of his brother dying for his sake, of all his foolish bravery amounting to nothing. Sofia¡¯s case against Jacques was as brittle as old parchment, reliant on a single damning piece of evidence: his sword. That alone was enough to set the vultures circling, and Rick¡¯s interference would only confirm the worst of suspicions, sealing Jacques¡¯s fate beyond question. Rick¡¯s face twisted with a strange, unshakeable determination, his jaw tightening, eyes growing wide with unbreakable resolve. ''I know you didn¡¯t do it,'' he said fiercely. ''I couldn¡¯t just stand by and let them kill you.'' ''They¡¯ll kill you as well,'' Jacques hissed, the desperation thickening his voice. He glanced at the looming stone walls around them, their silence an oppressive reminder of the watchful eyes that could be anywhere, everywhere. ''All of you, if they catch you here.'' ''Your brother¡¯s right, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis said in a low, clipped tone, his gaze darting to the shadows cast by flickering torches along the damp, narrow corridor. ''It won¡¯t be long before the Eastamereans find out we¡¯re here. We must hurry.'' Rick¡¯s face darkened, defiant, a flicker of reckless bravery hardening his features. His hands clenched into fists, his breath quickening as he took a step toward Jacques, almost as if he could fight the weight of their reality with sheer will alone. ''I won¡¯t let them touch you,'' he said, voice quivering with intensity. ''I promise.'' ''That¡¯s not the point, you idiot!'' Jacques¡¯s voice rose, his heart hammering against his ribs as he fought to keep his voice steady, to make Rick understand the full horror of what lay ahead if they stayed here a second longer. He took a step forward, frustration clawing at him, ready to spill over into anger. But Rick must have seen something in his face, some glimpse of the despair Jacques tried to keep buried. His expression softened, and he seemed to shrink back, his resolve flickering like the unsteady torchlight. A long, shaky breath escaped Rick as he reached for Jacques¡¯s shoulder, a pleading, almost childlike hope lighting his eyes. ''We¡¯ll prove to Queen Sofia that you¡¯re no murderer. We¡¯ll find a way to show her¡­ show everyone. Together.'' He paused, his voice breaking. ''Please, Jacques, don¡¯t let them kill you for something we both know you didn¡¯t do. I can¡¯t¡ª'' He swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. ''I can¡¯t let you die.'' If you want to find who was behind this, then you might not have to look that hard, Jacques thought bitterly, the image of his father¡¯s cold, satisfied smile flickering in his mind like a spectre he could never shake. He could almost hear the cruel pleasure in his father¡¯s voice, the scorn lacing every word as he imagined Jacques brought to ruin, humiliated, his head raised on the block. His gaze met Rick¡¯s, and the weight of his situation pressed down like iron chains on his chest. In the dim, flickering torchlight, his brother¡¯s eyes were fierce, filled with a mix of resolve and pleading. Rick wanted to save him, believed he could¡ªbut he didn¡¯t understand the depth of betrayal that lurked in their bloodline, the lengths to which their father would go to gain more power. Jacques took a deep, unsteady breath, drawing in the stale air of the cell, bracing himself for what was to come. The hollow ache inside him only deepened. I¡¯m sorry, Sofia, he thought, and the thought of her face¡ªsmiling, happy¡ªflashed in his mind. He wished he could hold that image, but the harsh reality awaited them both. The next time he¡¯d see her, it would likely be across the battlefield as bitter enemies. She would have to stand by her crown, and he¡­ he would have to face her. One day. With one last, measured breath, Jacques nodded, accepting Rick¡¯s help and his own fate. A grappling hook¡ªa slender, sharp glint of salvation¡ªhung from an open window at the far end of the shadowed prison hall. The rope stretched taut and inviting, swaying gently as if beckoning them toward freedom. A gust of wind howled through the hall, cold and biting, seeming to scorn Jacques¡¯ escape. He could almost hear it, the mocking whispers accusing him, calling him a coward for slipping away from justice. As they ran, Jacques glanced sideways, meaning to question Rick about how he had broken into the palace so effortlessly. But his gaze found the boy, Carles, sprinting alongside them, keeping pace with surprising ease. Jacques blinked, his mind racing to piece together the boy¡¯s role in all this. You were on our side the whole time? He thought of Carles as he¡¯d known him¡ªa little shit, a royal pain in his arse. Clearly, the boy had been given a part to play and had played it flawlessly. He turned his gaze to Rick, the flickering torchlight casting a solemn glow over his brother¡¯s handsome face. Does Father know you¡¯re here, brother? he wanted to ask, but he kept silent. The small size of their rescue party told him all he needed to know. If their father had known, Rick would¡¯ve come with an army, with banners flying, all the weight of the Rue name and power. Jacques could only imagine the bitter argument, Rick¡¯s plea against their father¡¯s cold refusal, and the way his brother had gone against him, anyway. As usual, Rick¡¯s sense of loyalty had won out, reckless and unwavering. Rick had chosen his companions well. Sir Orchis, whose shrewd, dark eyes seemed to pierce through any plot or mystery, and who knew the ins and outs of a palace better than any enemy spy. And Sir Theon, the finest blade in the kingdom, his swordsmanship unmatched. These men could bring an army to its knees on their own if they had to. However, Jacques had little doubt that, had they both refused to come, Rick would have stormed the palace by himself, single-minded in his purpose. As they neared a staircase leading toward the upper halls, Carles came to a halt, glancing back with a determined glint in his eye. ''I¡¯ll create a distraction,'' he said, his tone filled with the courage of someone far beyond his years. ''Are you sure?'' Rick asked, breathless. ''You could come with us.'' Carles shook his head. ''You¡¯ll still need a man on the inside.'' He gave them one last, steady look. ''I wish you all luck.'' Jacques felt a strange pang watching him go. Here was a boy, barely old enough to wield a blade, risking everything for their cause. Jacques wanted to call out, to warn him of the danger, to ask if the fool understood the weight of what he was choosing. But Carles had already turned, his footsteps vanishing down the spiral staircase, his figure swallowed by shadows. In his wake, the dark, silent halls of the royal cells loomed around them like the stone jaws of a beast. Jacques¡¯ gaze swept over the remaining men¡ªhis brother, Sir Orchis, Sir Theon, Sir Finn¡ªand felt the weight of their mission settle on his shoulders. There was no turning back now. Carles¡¯ sacrifice, Rick¡¯s defiance, and the loyalty of their knights¡ªthey had all placed their lives on the line for him. A rush of guilt and grim determination stirred within him. They had to make it count. They ran through the dark hall, their footsteps pounding against stone, the relentless clink of armour echoing louder with each desperate stride. The small, grimy window at the end of the corridor grew closer, an aperture of hope against the oppressive weight of stone and shadow. Jacques forced himself to keep his eyes forward, to focus on escape. Though the thought of the perilous descent waiting on the other side sent a chill through him, the promise of a day in which his life wouldn¡¯t end¡ªnot yet¡ªfelt like a fragile miracle. With that thought in mind, he surged forward, his strides quickening. Then, suddenly, a sharp cry tore through the darkness. ''Over there!'' Jacques¡¯ heart leapt into his throat as he squinted into the blinding flash of gold. From down the hall, Prince Luis and the Eastamerean royal guard sprinted into view, their faces hard, their swords drawn, flashing menacingly in the dim light. The sight sent a jolt of pure adrenaline coursing through Jacques¡¯ veins, propelling him forward at a speed he didn¡¯t think himself capable of. He could hear Rick and the others keeping pace, their breaths laboured, but their resolve unwavering. The window was so close now¡ªmere paces away¡ªwhen Jacques heard the scraping halt of footsteps behind him. He skidded to a stop and spun around, just in time to see Rick turn to face the oncoming guards, his stance braced, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword. His gaze met his brother¡¯s, and the flicker of calm determination in Rick¡¯s eyes sent a spike of fear into Jacques¡¯ heart. ''Rick, what are you doing?'' Jacques cried, his voice raw with panic. Rick¡¯s jaw clenched, a steely resolve hardening his face. ''Orchis, get my brother and Sir Finn out of here now!'' His command cut through the tension like a blade, his tone brooking no argument. He looked at Jacques then, his expression softer but no less resolute. ''Go,'' he said. ''I¡¯ll hold them off.'' Jacques¡¯ throat tightened. ''No! You can¡¯t¡ª'' ''We need to go, Your Grace!'' Sir Orchis hissed, his grip like iron as he seized Jacques¡¯ arm and hauled him toward the open window. Sir Finn was close behind, his face set with grim determination. Ahead, Sir Theon had planted himself firmly beside Rick, his blade glinting like a warning in the dim torchlight. Suddenly, gold and black clashed in a blinding storm of metal. The Eastamerean knights charged, but Rick and Sir Theon met them in a seamless dance of deadly precision, each movement a calculated step in the song of swords that erupted around them. Rick''s blade flashed through the air, striking with practised ruthlessness, while Sir Theon moved like a shadow, his every cut a lethal promise. With each brutal swing, they reduced their enemies¡¯ numbers, the air thick with the scent of iron and blood. Nine knights became seven, then five¡ªa flurry of crimson and the metallic stench of death. ''Your Grace, we need to go, now!'' Sir Orchis yanked Jacques harder, pulling him toward the waiting window. The cold wind hit him like a slap, rushing through his white hair, but it wasn¡¯t enough to dispel the heat of the battle raging behind him. His heart hammered as he peered down, catching a glimpse of the dizzying drop below. The ground looked impossibly far, and for a moment, his mind betrayed him, imagining his body shattered like glass on the stones below. Jacques stole a glance at Sir Finn, whose sea-green eyes betrayed a momentary flicker of fear. ''Perhaps Sir Finn should go first,'' Jacques suggested, his voice barely audible over the chaos. The Fish Knight nodded, a look of quiet resolve crossing his face. Without hesitation, he positioned himself at the window, gripping the rope. Muscles taut with focus, he climbed through, his legs bracing against the wall as he began the perilous descent. Jacques held his breath, watching as Finn¡¯s figure slowly shrank, silhouetted against the yawning darkness below. A shout rang out, and Jacques whipped around just in time to see one of the golden-armoured knights break through the fray, his sword raised and aimed directly at the window. Jacques tensed, but before he could react, Sir Orchis stepped forward, intercepting the attacker with deadly calm. Their swords clashed in a frenzy of sparks and steel, a brutal dance that ended almost as quickly as it began. Sir Orchis twisted, his blade finding its mark with a sickening finality as he sliced through the knight''s throat. Sir Orchis grabbed the dying knight before he could collapse, his expression unflinching as he dragged the body toward the window and, with a fierce heave, threw it out. Jacques leaned out, just long enough to see the golden knight¡¯s body tumbling, twisting helplessly as it plummeted toward the ground. In an instant, it became a distant speck, then a terrible crimson smear against the stone. The sounds of battle raged louder, growing closer. Jacques turned back to his brother, his heart clenching. Rick was locked in a deadly rhythm with Prince Luis, each jab and slash a desperate attempt to push each other back. Rick¡¯s feet moved instinctively¡ªleft, then right, his blade snapping up to deflect each of Luis¡¯ strikes. But Luis was faster, his movements sharp and precise, exploiting each half-second Rick lost. Still, Rick pressed forward, a relentless force bullying Luis backward along the shadowed hall. Jacques edged closer to the window, his heart pounding in time with the clashing steel, wincing each time their blades connected with a shattering ring. Just kill him, Rick, Jacques thought, desperation curling through him. But even as the thought took form, a pang of guilt cut through his chest. The man sparring with his brother wasn¡¯t some faceless enemy¡ªit was Sofia¡¯s own blood. If Rick beat Luis here, it would not end with an arena¡¯s applause. If Luis fell, he would not rise; he would bleed out alone in these dark, cold cells, leaving Sofia with yet another loss to bear. Would she even survive it, he wondered, after losing her father as well? Luis stumbled, and for a moment, Rick loomed over him like a shadow. He raised his blade high, his face a mask of grim resolve. ''Rick!'' Jacques shouted, his voice taut with urgency. ''Forget him! Run!'' Rick half-turned at the sound, his gaze meeting Jacques¡¯. For an instant, it looked as if he might obey, that he might let Luis live and escape. But in that split second, Luis lunged, his blade thrusting low along Rick¡¯s leg. A flash of agony crossed Rick¡¯s face as he screamed, crumpling to one knee. His sword clattered to the floor, helplessly out of reach. Before Jacques could react, Luis drove his blade down into Rick¡¯s back, deep and merciless. Rick gasped, his body arching in pain before slumping to the cold stone. The world stopped. ''Rick!'' Jacques screamed, the sound tearing from his throat in a mix of horror and despair. His legs rooted in place, his vision tunnelling to his brother¡¯s collapsed form. Time slowed, every second stretching endlessly as Luis pulled his blood-slicked blade free, the dark glint of it a sickening reminder of the brutal finality of what had just happened. Rick lay motionless on the ground, his blood pooling beneath him, staining the prison hall in a dark, spreading red. Jacques¡¯ heart hammered, his body trembling as panic and guilt crashed over him. ''You¡¯ve got to go, Your Grace!'' Sir Orchis¡¯ voice cut through Jacques¡¯ dazed horror, his urgent tone sharp enough to wrench Jacques back into the present. Sir Orchis gripped him hard by the arm, pulling him toward the open window where the rope dangled like a lifeline to a world beyond this nightmare. Vision blurry with tears, Jacques resisted, a storm of grief and rage surging within him, threatening to drown him. ''Theon! Help him!'' he cried, his voice raw, pleading. Ahead, Sir Theon was locked in a fierce struggle, holding back Luis and two golden-armoured knights at once. His blade flashed as he twisted and parried, his stance unwavering as he fought like a man possessed, buying them precious seconds. Each swing was precise, each step calculated, but Jacques knew that even the legendary Silver Knight couldn¡¯t hold the line forever. ''Sir Orchis, for the final time, get him out of here!'' Sir Theon roared over his shoulder, the desperation breaking through his command, his voice ragged with strain. ''MOVE, YOUR GRACE!'' Sir Orchis shouted, his fingers digging into Jacques'' arm as he pulled him with renewed force. Jacques met Sir Orchis¡¯ gaze, struck by the fierceness in The Hawk Knight¡¯s sharp brown eyes, their dark depths grim and determined. But Jacques couldn''t bring himself to obey, couldn¡¯t turn his back on Rick, his brother, who lay wounded, dying, in the shadows of this cursed hall. He was frozen, his body unwilling to leave the brother who¡¯d risked everything to save him. ''I¡¯m not leaving him!'' Jacques choked out, defiance mixed with desperation, his heart splitting with the impossible choice he faced. Sir Orchis¡¯ jaw tightened, his tone turning ruthless. ''Your brother is lost, Your Grace!'' he shouted. ''We came here to rescue you, and that¡¯s what we¡¯re doing. Please, we need to go!'' Jacques looked down the hall and saw Rick''s motionless form, blood pooling darkly around him, painting the cold stone floor in a stark, terrible red. Jacques'' heart twisted as he realised the depth of his brother¡¯s sacrifice, the price he was paying for his own freedom. Rick had risked everything, defied their father¡¯s orders, and now¡­ now he was lying there, the life draining from him. The guilt was suffocating, a crushing weight on his chest, binding him to this place even as every second left him closer to capture. Sir Orchis¡¯ fingers slithered along Jacques¡¯ back, forcing him closer to the window. ''Rick needs me!'' Jacques cried, his voice a broken plea. ''He needs you alive!'' With a last surge of strength, Sir Orchis'' grip tightened, his fingers pushing against Jacques'' back, forcing him to the ledge. Jacques stumbled, his body fighting the pull toward the rope, every fibre of him wanting to run back to Rick, to refuse to leave him here alone. But Sir Orchis¡¯ resolve was unyielding, his strength pressing Jacques forward until he had no choice but to grip the rope. Jacques felt his descent in every strained muscle as the wind clawed at him, wailing in his ears as if mourning Rick¡¯s sacrifice. The bright blue of the heavens seemed cruel above him, their vast expanse a bitter contrast to the dark halls he¡¯d just escaped. He dared a glance upward and could almost swear he saw his father¡¯s disapproving scowl etched into the clouds, staring down with that familiar blend of judgement and disappointment. ''I¡¯m sorry,'' Jacques whispered, his voice swallowed by the wind as he slid lower, inch by inch, toward the unforgiving ground. Far above, Sir Orchis began his descent as well, The Hawk Knight moving with practised ease as he caught up with Jacques, glancing down at him with a silent urgency. Jacques kept his eyes fixed upward, waiting, praying to see Sir Theon appear at the window with Rick at his side, even if Rick was wounded¡ªeven if he isn¡¯t well. He just needed him alive. He needed that one, fragile assurance. But when Sir Theon finally emerged, he was alone. There was no sign of Rick. Jacques¡¯ heart sank, and when his feet finally touched solid ground, his entire body felt as if it had shattered. His legs wobbled beneath him, and he might have collapsed right there if Sir Orchis and Sir Theon hadn¡¯t flanked him, each gripping an arm, practically lifting him onto a waiting horse. They were speaking¡ªurgent words, instructions he was meant to follow¡ªbut Jacques barely registered them. The world around him blurred, the only sound in his ears the faint, ceaseless echo of Rick¡¯s scream. All he could see, over and over, was the image of his brother falling in the dark hall, blood pooling beneath him. The streets of Palomia whipped by in a blur, buildings and voices blending into a meaningless cacophony as their horses thundered through. Jacques caught brief glimpses of faces turning in shock, of watchmen shouting as they galloped past, but he chose not to hear any of it. He could only see his brother¡¯s face, imagine his dying breaths in that cold, merciless prison. Before he even realised what was happening, Jacques found himself being rushed onto a ship, his legs and mind numb as he was hurried into the dim cabin below deck. Sir Theon crouched beside him, his face etched with exhaustion and solemn grief. ''Rick¡­'' Jacques¡¯ voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, as he looked up at Sir Theon. He clenched his hands into fists, his knuckles white with the fear and desperate hope clawing at his heart. Sir Theon¡¯s head dropped, and for a moment, he seemed unable to meet Jacques¡¯ eyes. ''I¡­ I¡¯m sorry, Your Grace.'' His voice trembled, barely holding. ''But your brother is dead.'' The words hit Jacques like a dagger, carving into him with a ruthless precision that left him breathless. His mind went blank, his throat closing up as the world spun around him, distant and muffled. He was aware of Sir Theon saying something more¡ªperhaps words of comfort, perhaps a silent apology¡ªbut Jacques couldn¡¯t hear it. It was as if a dark curtain had fallen over everything, trapping him in this hollow, echoing emptiness. Back in his cell, a thousand questions had filled his mind: plans of what he would say to defend himself, to prove his innocence, and identify the real killer of King Geraldo. But now, with nothing left but the sound of waves against the hull and the darkness before him, only one question remained, growing louder and more terrifying with each passing second. How am I going to explain this to my father? Chapter XI- A Brothers Grief ''Where is my son?'' The King¡¯s voice boomed, echoing down the corridor like a thunderclap. Jacques flinched, the words slicing through the heavy silence of Rick¡¯s empty chamber. Every syllable reverberated through the cold, airless room, pressing down on him like an iron weight. Jacques sat slumped in a chair to the left of his brother¡¯s bed, his body rigid, trapped between a grief that refused to loosen its hold and the dread creeping steadily up his spine. He fixed his gaze on the vacant sheets. Every inch of that bed felt like an accusation. Across from him, Sir Theon sat in silence, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword as if it might anchor him against the coming storm. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the weight of his own emotions. Neither of them spoke. Words felt brittle, useless. Damn them all. The thought seized Jacques¡¯ mind, fierce and all-consuming, roiling through him like a torrent of blackened water. He wanted to damn his father for his cold, calculating decisions, for the distance that had carved its way through their family like a festering wound. He wanted to damn Rick for his reckless, foolish bravery that had led him into the jaws of death. He wanted to damn Sofia for her blindness, for the grief that had consumed her. Lord Serben, with his honeyed words and his influence, Lord Gallo, with his restless thirst for war, Prince Luis, who had taken Rick¡¯s life in the darkness of that prison hall, and King Geraldo, whose death had sparked this inferno of violence and death. And he wanted to damn Sir Theon, Sir Orchis, Sir Finn¡ªall of them, each who had lived while his brother lay dead. Most of all, he wanted to damn himself, to curse the helplessness that had kept him trapped in that prison cell while Rick swooped in to save him. Please, Rick¡­ Please forgive me. Footsteps stormed down the corridor, growing louder, faster, each one like a shard through Jacques¡¯ heart. He could feel the tremors in the floor, the rage pulsing through the walls as King Rickard approached. Jacques clenched his fists, trying to steel himself against the torrent he knew was coming, but his fingers shook, betraying the strength he tried to summon. He didn¡¯t know if he could face his father, if he could bear the judgement he would find in those icy, unrelenting eyes. I must. The door flew open with a force that might have ripped the hinges clean off. King Rickard stormed into the room, his presence like a maelstrom, dark and furious. He filled the space with a wrath that sucked the air from the room, making it harder to breathe. Father halted the moment he saw Jacques and Sir Theon alone in the dim chamber, his eyes wild, his posture tense like a feral animal. The realisation must have hit him all at once. Loss was not a dish King Rickard tasted often, and vulnerability even less so. Yet as the terrible truth washed over him¡ªthat his firstborn son, his heir, his golden legacy was dead¡ªanger flared beneath his grief, creeping up his neck in a visible flush, a seething heat radiating from his body. ''No¡­'' he muttered, voice breaking as he clenched his fists, his face contorting, twisting between anguish and fury. His hand shot out, seizing a glass wine jug from a table. ''No, no, no! NO!'' The final scream tore through the room like a war cry, and with a swift, savage motion, he hurled the jug across the room. It smashed against the stone wall, exploding into a shower of glistening fragments that rained down like broken stars. Wine trickled down the wall, a dark stain spreading like blood. ''Stupid boy!'' he spat, his voice filled with rage but hollow, betraying the depths of his pain. Jacques¡¯s chest tightened as he forced himself to speak, his voice fragile, quivering. ''Rick¡­ he was trying to protect me, Father.'' The King turned on him, laughter escaping his mouth¡ªa harsh, bitter sound edged with agony. ''Protect you?'' he scoffed, each word sharper than the last, slicing through Jacques like a blade. ''My son died for nothing. Nothing!'' Ordinarily, Father¡¯s barbs would slide off Jacques¡¯ back, but now they cut deeply, exposing a rawness he could hardly contain. Each word dug into him, twisting in his chest. He watched as his father¡¯s gaze drifted over to Rick¡¯s empty bed, and saw, for the briefest moment, the glimmer of a tear forming in his eye, an emotion his father would have never allowed in the past. ''My legacy,'' King Rickard choked out, his voice low, pained. ''All that I built¡­ all that I bled for¡­ nothing but an empty bed.'' Jacques¡¯ grief welled up, clawing at him from the inside. His vision blurred, the heat of unshed tears burning his eyes. But he wouldn¡¯t let them fall, not in front of his father. Not in front of the man who had hardened himself so deeply that he could barely recognise his own sons as anything but extensions of his own ambitions. Then Father turned to face him, his eyes dark and hollow. ''This is my reward,'' he sneered, his voice a low growl. ''For all my sins, for all I¡¯ve done, the Gods take the wrong son from me.'' Something within Jacques snapped. Anger roared to life in his chest, a fiery, churning force that bubbled up, nearly spilling over. He wanted to scream back, to blame his father for the coldness that had driven Rick into harm¡¯s way, for all the schemes and the bloodshed that had led to this moment. It¡¯s your fault he¡¯s dead, you cunt! The words trembled on his lips, tearing at his throat, desperate to escape. Instead, all Jacques could see was Rick¡¯s face in his last moments¡ªthe flicker of fear, the pain, the regret as he lay dying in that dark, unforgiving hall, giving his life for¡­ For what? ''Go.'' The King¡¯s voice sliced through Jacques¡¯ thoughts, cold and commanding. He pointed a finger at the door, his jaw clenched. ''Get out, the both of you.'' He took a shuddering breath, as if even the weight of his own grief threatened to crush him. ''I want a moment alone¡­ with my son.'' Jacques glanced over at Sir Theon, whose face was etched with lines of newly carved anguish, his shoulders sagging. The knight bowed, as if finding strength in his routine, and rose from his seat. Jacques followed, each step heavier than the last as he heard his father sink into the vacant chair, settling into the silence beside the remnants of Rick¡¯s spirit. The doors closed behind them with a solemn clang, sealing King Rickard alone in the room with his eldest son¡¯s absence, a sadness too thick for witnesses. Jacques lingered with Sir Theon by the door, silence wrapping around him, broken only by the soft crackle of torchlight casting jagged shadows over the stone walls. The darkened halls stretched ahead, narrow and oppressive, like the corridors of a nightmare he could never wake from. Sir Theon¡¯s quiet voice broke the stillness, heavy with sorrow. ''I failed him.'' His voice trembled, the steady strength he was known for buckling under the weight of the confession. His head hung low, and his hand gripped his sword hilt, not in readiness but as if he needed its solidity to keep from crumbling entirely. Jacques studied the old man, catching the sorrow in Theon¡¯s faded blue eyes. Those eyes, which had once seemed so fierce, so unbreakable, were now clouded with the helpless agony of a man who¡¯d watched the boy he¡¯d helped raise slip from his grasp. The guilt clawed deep inside Jacques, sharp and unrelenting as he remembered cursing Sir Theon¡¯s name, damning him in his heart for not saving Rick¡¯s life. King Rickard wasn¡¯t the only one who¡¯d lost a son in Eastamere. Sir Theon had been there for every victory, every wound, and every moment that had shaped Rick¡¯s path. He had watched with pride as Rick grew from an eager boy to a powerful, fearless man, each duel won like a badge of honour not just for Rick, but for Theon himself. Jacques could almost see it, the memory of Rick in the training yard, the way he would turn and flash Theon a grin after besting an opponent. Theon had watched him bloom, watched his skill sharpen like the edge of a blade, only to witness that same blade fall to fate¡¯s cruel hand. ''No. You didn¡¯t,'' Jacques said, putting a hand on Sir Theon¡¯s shoulder. ''You were just doing your job.'' Jacques stayed his hand, trying to lend some comfort despite the storm raging in his own chest. The knight''s shoulders were tense, the sorrow in his eyes mingling with something sharper¡ªa simmering confusion that seemed to eat at him, gnawing at whatever certainty he once held. ''How did that blade fall into Jeffro¡¯s hands?'' Theon said, his voice low but insistent, as though hoping that by saying it aloud, the pieces might somehow fit together. ''It makes little sense. I knew Geraldo¡¯s skill. I saw how good he was on the battlefield. Jeffro should¡¯ve never come that close, should¡¯ve never even had the chance to¡ª'' He broke off, his jaw clenching in frustration. Jacques¡¯ gaze drifted to the door that separated them from his father, a door that felt as heavy as the weight of everything unsaid. He knew, on some level, that his father was suffering too. And yet, the thought gave him no solace¡ªonly the hollow, jagged pain of betrayal. He wanted to tell Theon everything that had clawed at him since that night, to scream the truth until it filled the silent hall, until it broke the stone walls and left nothing standing. But he couldn¡¯t. Not yet. Not even to the man who had stood beside his brother every step of the way. Sir Theon lifted his head, a grim shadow crossing his face, and looked past Jacques as soft, hurried footsteps echoed against the cold stone floor. Mirielle appeared from around the corner, her maids trailing in her wake, but her gaze locked solely on Jacques. The faint glimmer of her tears illuminated her face, pale and streaked with barely contained sorrow. ''Jacques... tell me it¡¯s not true,'' she whispered, her voice trembling, each word as fragile as a spider''s silk glistening in the morning light. She clutched her hands to her chest as if trying to hold herself together, her desperation raw and bare. Jacques opened his mouth, but the sight of her tear-streaked face¡ªa portrait of hope about to be shattered¡ªmade his own voice falter. If he spoke the truth, he would have to face his own grief, a grief threatening to engulf him. Sir Theon shifted his gaze to the princess, his own resolve tempered by years of duty. ''I¡¯m afraid it is, my lady,'' he said softly, each word a blade cutting through the silence. The world seemed to tilt beneath Jacques¡¯ feet. He watched as Mirielle¡¯s legs buckled, and her maids rushed forward, encircling her, their murmurs of consolation soft but futile. She clutched at them weakly before breaking free, eyes wild, an anguish that demanded action overcoming her. She staggered toward the closed doors. ''The King shouldn¡¯t be alone in there,'' she choked out, her voice a mix of fury and sorrow. Sir Theon moved swiftly to block her path, his imposing frame filling the doorway. ''I¡¯m sorry, my lady,'' he said, his tone kind but unyielding, ''but you cannot go in.'' Mirielle¡¯s breath hitched, her tears continuing to flow, but her sorrow had sharpened into defiance. ''I said,'' she repeated, her voice low and fierce, each word laced with an agony too great for her slender frame to contain, ''the King shouldn¡¯t be alone right now, good sir.'' ''I really must insist-'' ''Stand aside, Theon! Now!'' Mirielle roared, the hall ringing with the force of her command, the weight of her grief crashing over them all. Jacques met her tear-filled eyes, his own heart breaking under the burden he bore. He gave a small nod, his permission as silent as it was painful. Sir Theon swallowed hard and, with a heavy sigh, stepped aside, his duty bowing to her will. Mirielle pushed past him, her movements almost desperate as she disappeared into Rick¡¯s chamber. The heavy door fell shut behind her with a muted thud, leaving Jacques and Sir Theon alone in the echoing silence of the hallway. Jacques could feel the familiar ache growing in his chest, a wound that had no hope of healing tonight. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, the memories flooding over him, each one ripping at his heart. Exhaustion called for him, a weariness so deep he feared it would never leave. He needed to be by himself. He needed to be with Aubery. Jacques yawned. ''I¡¯m going to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.'' Sir Theon managed a weary nod, the lines of fatigue etched into his face deepening. ''Yes... Yes, I believe I will, Your Grace. Shall I see you to your chambers?'' Jacques shook his head, unable to bear the weight of any more company, not even from those who cared about him. ''No... thank you, Theon.'' Jacques turned and trudged down the dimly lit hall, each step a battle against the tears. The palace, normally filled with whispers and soft echoes, now felt as hollow as the pain gnawing at his heart. Each guard or servant he encountered bowed with heads lowered, their voices hushed as they murmured, ''Your Grace.'' Jacques could only offer a stiff, strained nod in return, his voice lodged in his throat, strangled by the enormity of his suffering. He approached the stone steps and ascended, though each step dragged a thousand-ton weight. The stairway, winding up into the shadows, stretched out endlessly before him. Every footfall echoed, heavy and slow, like a mournful toll, and the palace walls seemed to close in, pressing the unbearable weight of his grief. The air grew thick as he climbed, each shallow breath mingling with his memories, making it harder to breathe. At the top of the stairs, the door loomed like a shadowed monolith; the wood warped and weary. It sagged, melting like paint sliding down a forgotten canvas, its surface cracked and aged. Jacques reached out with a trembling hand, his fingertips brushing the cold, worn handle, and he took a shuddering breath, summoning the strength to turn it. The door creaked open, the sound almost a groan, as if the wood itself was weary of secrets and unfulfilled potential. He stepped through and flung himself into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The sharp sound reverberated through the empty chamber, filling the silence with a lingering echo. Jacques pressed his back against the door, panting, the adrenaline of holding himself together beginning to ebb away, leaving only the raw ache of his grief. He clutched at his chest, his heart pounding against his ribs¡ªa relentless drumbeat that refused to let him rest. Then he saw her. The unfinished portrait of Aubery stood on its easel, the colours as vibrant as they had been that last afternoon before the peace tournament. Her golden hair seemed to gleam in the light, each delicate stroke capturing the strands that had once danced in the breeze. Her smooth skin, the warmth of her smile, and the spark of laughter in her ocean-blue eyes¡ªall so faithfully rendered that it felt as if she were standing before him, alive and breathing. Yet now those strokes were a cruel mockery, taunting him with the life he could never again share with her. Images of Rick invaded his mind¡ªthe way he¡¯d looked that day, clad in the battle armour of House Rue, the black and white cloak solemn and proud. He remembered Rick¡¯s firm embrace, the desperation in his eyes as he promised to help solve the mystery of King Geraldo¡¯s murder. But it was the memory of his brother¡¯s final form that haunted him most¡ªthe cold, lifeless body he had left behind in the darkness, the face he had once known so well now a distant, hollow shell. For a moment, Jacques glanced around, his eyes darting to every corner of the room, fearing someone might intrude on his anguish. But there was no one; he was truly and utterly alone. As that realisation settled over him, a trembling sigh escaped his lips, and he surrendered to his anguish. The tears came freely, and he could not stop them. His body shook with each sob, each ragged breath a reminder of everything he¡¯d lost, every thread that had held him together now frayed and snapping. He stumbled forward, his hand outstretched, reaching for Aubery¡¯s image, desperate to touch even a shadow of her warmth. But his legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed at her feet, his fingers brushing the floor as if hoping she might somehow reach back from across the veil. His forehead pressed against the cold ground, and he let his tears spill, a river of pain flowing unchecked. All he could do¡ªall he had left to give¡ªwas this outpouring, an offering to the Gods that he hoped, prayed, might somehow ease his brother¡¯s passage to wherever he had gone. His mind drifted to their childhood, to simpler times when they were just boys. He remembered dinners at the great hall, when Rick would sneak an extra potato onto Jacques¡¯ plate when their father wasn¡¯t looking. He remembered their playful scuffles, the laughter they¡¯d shared, even the moments of jealousy or rivalry. He could picture Rick¡¯s guilty expression the first time he¡¯d seen Aubery¡¯s painting, a mixture of pride and dread. All those memories were now his only connection now¡ªa bloody inheritance that clung to him like a second skin. Jacques pressed his hands to his face, his fingers digging into his temples, desperate to claw away the ache that settled deeper with each passing moment. He felt the weight of it¡ªthe emptiness, the endless, suffocating ocean as he walked this path alone, with no one left to share his burden. His father¡¯s gaze would now be solely on him, the crushing expectation to fill a brother¡¯s shoes, to live up to a father¡¯s ambitions, all without a soul to lean on. In the heavy silence, it was only a matter of time before it broke him completely. A thunderous bang rattled the door, jolting Jacques from a shallow, haunted sleep. His eyes snapped open, only to be assaulted by the piercing midday light flooding the chamber. The bright, unyielding rays burned away the remnants of sleep, exposing every shadowed corner of his exhaustion and dragging him, unmercifully, into consciousness. ''Your Grace.'' Sir Orchis¡¯ voice slithered through the door¡¯s narrow cracks, thin and insistent, its sickly cadence needling into Jacques¡¯ skull like an unwelcome echo. ''Your Grace¡­ are you awake?'' Jacques groaned, his head throbbing as if Sir Orchis'' words were worms burrowing deeper into his mind, each one laden with the oily malice he had come to recognise. He forced himself upright, his body a symphony of aches and protests, each muscle as heavy as lead. With a shallow, shuddering breath, he murmured, ''Yes, Sir Orchis¡­ I¡¯m awake.'' As he staggered to the door, Jacques braced himself against the cold, unyielding wood, leaning into it as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He cracked it open, his gaze dull and weary, only for The Hawk Knight¡¯s face to immediately fill the narrow space. The man¡¯s smile was sharp, calculated, slicing through Jacques'' thin resolve with an archer¡¯s precision. There was nothing kind or comforting in that expression¡ªit was the smirk of a predator who had found his prey weakened and alone. ''You look awful,'' Sir Orchis observed, his tone dripping with a feigned sympathy that barely masked his satisfaction. Jacques¡¯ mouth twitched. ''Thank you for noticing,'' he replied, forcing steel into his voice. ''Now, have you come to comment on my appearance, or do you actually need something?'' Sir Orchis¡¯ eyes gleamed, his smirk unfaltering as he took a small step closer, his form shadowing the doorway. ''I wish to speak with you,'' he replied smoothly, ''in private, if I may. Can I come in?'' Jacques sighed, weariness carving deep lines into his face. ''Sir Orchis,'' he replied, his voice a hoarse murmur, ''I¡¯ve just lost my brother. Whatever you have to say, I¡¯m sure it can wait.'' He moved to close the door, his fingers gripping the wood as if he could bar The Hawk Knight¡ªand all that he represented¡ªfrom his world. Sir Orchis¡¯ foot shot out, jamming the door with an unyielding force. ''It can¡¯t wait,'' he hissed, his voice dropping, losing the slippery charm it had held a moment before. There was a hunger in his eyes now, a glint of something dark and dangerous. Despite the hot flare of anger in his gut, Jacques hesitated, a nagging suspicion gnawing at the edges of his mind. Sir Orchis Vortigon was insufferable, but he was no fool¡ªhe wouldn¡¯t risk angering the King¡¯s only living son without a reason. And whatever that reason was, Jacques sensed it was something calculated, something twisting in the bleak spaces of Sir Orchis¡¯ mind. With a reluctant sigh, Jacques pulled the door open, stepping back into his chambers. He watched as The Hawk Knight stepped in, his movements slow, controlled, like a viper curling up for the strike. A tension crackled in the air between them, a silent threat looming, heavy and suffocating, as the door clicked shut behind him. Sir Orchis began to pace, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a smudge of blood, each heavy step punctuating the quiet in the room. His sharp gaze fixed ahead, unseeing, as though speaking to someone invisible. ''You are the heir to the throne now, Your Grace,'' he said, his voice low as he circled Jacques like a wolf circling wounded prey. ''You know that, don¡¯t you?'' Jacques¡¯ scowl deepened, a sharp tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. ''Thank you for reminding me.'' The word heir had become an iron weight on his shoulders, something he hadn¡¯t yet allowed himself to fully accept. Yet here Sir Orchis was, forcing him to confront it, pressing the crown into his hands as if daring him to drop it. Sir Orchis tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of amusement. ''Ah, but you¡¯ve created a dilemma for yourself,'' he drawled, almost like he¡¯d rehearsed it. ''A sheepdog running straight into the buzzard¡¯s claws.'' Jacques¡¯ patience was wearing thin, Sir Orchis'' cryptic insinuations grating against his fraying nerves. ''What are you trying to tell me, good sir?'' he snapped, his voice laced with simmering frustration. Sir Orchis stopped his pacing, turning sharply to face Jacques, his expression hardening into something sharper, colder. ''Before your brother left for Eastamere, Princess Mirielle had a gift made for him¡ªa sword, exquisite in design, crafted by the best smiths, or so she claimed. I asked to inspect it, out of curiosity, of course. She obliged.'' Jacques¡¯ frown deepened, a sick feeling crawling up his spine. ''And?'' Sir Orchis paused, letting the silence stretch between them, thick with unspoken menace. ''The blade was¡­ peculiar. It looked like steel at first glance, yet under closer scrutiny¡­'' His lips curled into a smirk. ''It shattered like glass the moment I tested its edge.'' Jacques felt a shiver creep into his bones, flashes of his brother¡¯s duel with Prince Luis replaying like a terrible spectre. The song of steel, his brother''s gasp¡ªa moment that had burned itself into his memory. ''What are you saying?'' ''I¡¯m saying that the Jubilees had a hand in your brother¡¯s death. And they¡¯ve been at this far longer than you realise. Think, Your Grace: Lord Wesley oversees the royal navy, his influence vast, his reach unseen. The princess¡ªyour brother¡¯s devoted wife¡ªplaced a weapon in his hands that would¡¯ve failed him, a fatal flaw hidden in plain sight. And Sir Mandon, a knight of the royal guard¡­'' He let the implication hang, his eyes narrowing as they met Jacques¡¯. ''They¡¯ve positioned their pieces with exquisite care. King Geraldo¡¯s death was the first move, and your brother¡¯s demise¡­ the second. The game has begun, Your Grace, and whether you realise it or not, you are their next target.'' Jacques could only stare, his heart racing as his mind swirled in a storm of suspicion and denial. Sir Orchis¡¯ words burrowed into him, unyielding and relentless. Mirielle Jubilee¡ªa traitor? A murderer? He¡¯d distrusted her from the moment she arrived at court, yes, but this? His blood ran cold, his thoughts tangling into a knot of anger, grief, and doubt. ''What about my father?'' Jacques said, his voice dropping to a hard whisper. ''He had better cause than anyone for wanting me dead.'' Sir Orchis froze mid-step, the smirk sliding across his face like a knife glinting in the dark. He turned slowly, and for the first time, Jacques saw the man¡¯s teeth in a full, unrestrained grin¡ªsharp and white. ''That¡¯s treason you¡¯ve just uttered, Your Grace,'' he said softly, drawing out each word with a dangerous, almost mocking emphasis. Jacques clenched his fists, biting back the retort that hovered on his lips. So is accusing the future Queen. But he kept his silence, swallowing his defiance as his mind spun, sifting through the dark web of implications in Sir Orchis¡¯ words. Each accusation felt like a stone added to the weight already crushing his shoulders. His father, his brother, his sister-in-law¡­ they had all been players in this deadly game, and now he stood ensnared, thrust onto the board as the unwitting king-to-be. For a brief moment, he allowed his gaze to flicker toward Aubery¡¯s portrait, her face soft with laughter that only he could hear, her eyes bright with a kindness he hadn¡¯t felt since the day he¡¯d met her. The sound of her laughter echoed in his mind, a ghostly reminder of a world where betrayal and suspicion had yet to take root. ''I need you to be certain, Orchis,'' Jacques said, dragging his gaze back to Sir Orchis, his voice tinged with desperation. ''Are you sure the Jubilees are involved?'' Sir Orchis¡¯ face tightened, the grin vanishing as he fixed Jacques with a level, unreadable stare. For a heartbeat, there was no sound in the room but the muffled thud of Jacques¡¯ pulse, his heartbeat pounding like the beat of a distant war drum. Without a word, Sir Orchis nodded, his silence carrying more weight than any spoken affirmation could. Jacques stroked his chin, his fingers brushing over the rough stubble as he mulled over the words. Whether he liked it or not, he would have to ¡®play the game,¡¯ as Sir Orchis had so eloquently put it. He¡¯d have to question everything, trust no one, and mask his every thought behind a veneer of calm. But this is my brother we¡¯re talking about, he reminded himself, the memory of Rick¡¯s easy laughter like an ache in his chest. He clenched his jaw and fixed Sir Orchis with a stare as cold as iron. ''If you knew Mirielle was trying to kill my brother, why didn¡¯t you try to stop him from going to Eastamere?'' The accusation edged his voice, each word laced with barely contained resentment. Sir Orchis¡¯ expression was hard to read, a smooth surface masking whatever calculations lurked beneath. ''I tried, Your Grace,'' he replied, meeting Jacques¡¯ gaze without a flicker of hesitation. ''Trust me, I did.'' ''Trust you,'' Jacques scoffed, the bitter taste of disbelief in his mouth. ''Why should I trust you? How are you any different from everyone else in this place?'' His voice cracked through the silence like a whip, the accusation heavy between them. For a long moment, Sir Orchis said nothing, his face an impassive mask. Then, a slow, thin smile crept across his lips, one that felt as practised as it was unsettling. ''I am a knight of the royal guard, Your Grace,'' he replied, each word smooth as polished stone. ''I took a vow, and it is my duty to keep it.'' His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, his fingers drumming lightly over the hawk crest engraved into the pommel. ''On my honour as a Vortigon.'' And how much is that worth? Jacques thought with a bitter twist of his lips, a stab of disdain shooting through him. Sir Orchis hadn¡¯t sworn on his honour as a knight, he¡¯d noted, nor on the King¡¯s life. Instead, he¡¯d invoked the name of his own house¡ªas though the hawk¡¯s loyalty carried more weight than the blade. Sir Orchis¡¯ smile widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes, as if he could sense Jacques¡¯ suspicions simmering just beneath the surface. ''You¡¯re wise to question me, Your Grace,'' he said, voice soft, almost approving. ''Trust is a rare commodity these days, especially for a prince who¡¯s lost a brother to treachery.'' He let the words hang in the air, watching Jacques with a gaze as sharp and as cold as steel. ''But make no mistake¡ªI serve you, Your Grace. My oath binds me to your protection, no matter the cost.'' Another weight settled on Jacques'' chest, cold and unyielding, adding to the crushing burden of being heir to his father''s throne. He glanced again at Aubery¡¯s painting. She called to him, her laughter soft and lilting in his memory, filling his mind like a song he couldn¡¯t silence. I love you, Aubery¡¯s voice floated to him as if on a distant breeze, gentle yet haunting. Her love had been nothing but an illusion¡ªa mere mask Aubery had worn, just as every other figure in his life seemed to wear one. No one had truly loved him, not with a whole heart. No one except Rick, who was now a lifeless memory¡ªa casualty of ambition and duty. Rick had been his one ally, his one source of warmth in a kingdom so ruled by shadows and power that even sunlight struggled to reach him. And now¡­ now all he had was the throne, that cold, golden monstrosity in the throne room. His father¡¯s legacy of steel and splendour. And it was Jacques¡¯ duty to protect it. Rick can¡¯t protect it anymore. Jacques took a deep breath, the air cutting cold and sharp in his lungs. ''Thank you, Sir Orchis,'' he said at last, his voice flat, the words thick with the taste of iron as he tightened his jaw to swallow the pain rising in his chest. The knight¡¯s revelation had ignited something fierce within him¡ªa blaze that burned hotter than his sorrow, a fire that demanded not just justice but something far darker, more primal. Revenge, perhaps. Any misstep in this treacherous game could bring ruin upon him faster than any blade. Every move now would be another trial, a different trial, each decision a test of his own endurance, and each enemy a silent predator in the shadows. Sir Orchis inclined his head, his expression neutral, yet his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a hawk watching its prey move precisely where he wanted. ''Thank you, Your Grace,'' he said smoothly, as if he¡¯d already expected this response, as if he had been waiting for the moment Jacques would submit to duty. Silence lingered in the room, thick and suffocating, wrapping around Jacques like a shroud as the wind howled just beyond the window, an eerie whisper through the gaps in the stone. It sounded almost like a voice, a mournful cry from some long-forgotten part of him, the part that called for Aubery, for Sofia. ''There¡¯s a meeting in the throne room, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis said, his tone now clipped, perfunctory. ''It¡¯s already been going on for an hour.'' Jacques clenched his fists, jaw set, and he let out a long huff of irritation, though he felt a small relief at having missed the initial drudgery of court. Even so, he could already feel the heat of his father¡¯s displeasure, the unspoken reprimand that awaited him for arriving late. ''Fine,'' he said with a reluctant nod. ''Take me to the throne room.'' Jacques felt the heavy grandeur of the throne room pressing down on him. It stood aglow with the flickering light of braziers, casting shifting shadows on the opulent carvings that decorated the walls, each flame illuminating tapestries woven with tales of war and victory, reminders of a legacy Jacques¡¯ father had crushed. The scent of smouldering embers mingled with the thick perfumes that clung to the courtiers, a pungent, heady blend that made the air feel almost stifling. Around the throne, nobles clustered in vibrant hues, their silks and velvets a kaleidoscope of reds, greens, pinks, and purples, vivid yet dissonant against the muted browns and greys of the gentlemen standing nearby. Each gaze in the room was a weapon, cutting, judging, masked by decorum yet sharp, nonetheless. Jacques entered from the side, flanked by Sir Orchis, as his eyes drifted over to the throne itself¡ªa looming, gilded cage of cold metal and jewels. His father sat upon it, bathed in a radiant golden light that seemed almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the stern, unmoving face he wore. Jacques could feel the King¡¯s presence, silent yet commanding, watching with a gaze as hard and unyielding as the throne itself. Across the hall, Jacques caught sight of Mirielle. She stood apart, her ladies-in-waiting arranged around her like sentries, their faces serene yet alert. The princess¡¯s gown was the colour of wet ink, its flowing fabric pooling at her feet like a dark stain against the polished stone. As their eyes met, she smiled¡ªa slow, familiar smile that sent a cold shiver down Jacques'' spine. It was the same smile she had once reserved for Rick, a smile that held promises, soft laughter, and hidden glances. Jacques remembered the first time he¡¯d seen her. She had been twenty then, her beauty like a burst of light in the stony halls of his father¡¯s palace. Lord Wesley had presented her as if she were a gift, her beauty so dazzling even the hardest men would soften at the sight of her. She had looked every inch the angel, with her hazelnut hair and her gentle laugh. For a fleeting moment, Jacques had believed in beauty for beauty¡¯s sake, believed that such a person could be genuine in her affection. Now, that image lay in tatters, the angel transformed into something else entirely. Jacques¡¯ mind drifted to a story his Uncle Malleon had told him when he was young. Ancient tales of demons from the underworld, creatures that took the form of beautiful women, each one a servant of the devil. They said these demons could enchant even the noblest of hearts, bending powerful men to their will with nothing but a glance. He remembered one story in particular¡ªof Jaceryon, an elven lord who had fallen to the wiles of one such demon. Her name had been lost to time, but her deeds lingered, like a stain on history. With her beauty, she had seduced Jaceryon, her words like poisoned honey, her laughter a web in which he became hopelessly entangled. She had convinced him to murder his kin, to turn against his own, until he was finally brought low by his treachery. Jacques couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that he was staring at one right now. Mirielle¡¯s allure hid something dark now, insatiable. Her smile felt sharper, each glance a calculated move in a game he hadn¡¯t even known he was playing. She was no angel. She was something else entirely¡ªa devil clothed in silk, a temptress with blood on her hands. Seven of the ten royal guard stood in a rigid line before the throne, their black armour gleaming in the golden light that poured from the high windows. At their centre stood Sir Theon Balogun, his broad frame casting a shadow that stretched across the polished marble floor. Their gloved hands gripped the hilts of their swords, the leather creaking faintly under the pressure of their grips. Though silent, their presence loomed heavy, a shield of flesh and steel separating the King from the rest of the court. To the left of the throne, Dennis, the King¡¯s steward, stood with his shoulders stiff and his head slightly bowed, unfurling a scroll that trembled faintly in his hands. His voice, thin but steady, echoed through the chamber, commanding the attention of everyone present. ''And finally,'' Dennis declared, ''in light of recent events, it is the wish of His Majesty that the safety of himself and his family be at the pinnacle of priority in the coming days.'' The hall fell still, the murmurs of courtiers evaporating into silence as all eyes turned to the throne. Slowly, deliberately, King Rickard rose from his seat, his movement underscored by the faint creak of the ancient chair beneath him. Though his age showed in the careful way he straightened, his presence filled the room with unyielding authority. ''Sir Theon Balogun,'' the King said, his voice firm and clear, cutting through the tense air. ''Please, stand before the king.''You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. The air grew heavier as Sir Theon stepped forward. His boots struck the marble with measured precision, each step echoing ominously in the vast chamber. When he reached the centre of the room, he turned sharply and dropped to one knee, his head bowed low. The soft clink of his armour reverberated through the room like the final note of a dirge. ''Your Majesty,'' Sir Theon said, his voice calm and unwavering. ''As always, you have my sword.'' ''Yes, Sir Theon,'' the King replied, nodding slightly, his tone distant. ''Very good. Please, take off your helm.'' Sir Theon hesitated for the briefest of moments¡ªso fleeting it might have gone unnoticed to any but the most watchful eyes. He reached up, the gesture slow and deliberate, and removed his helm, tucking it under his arm. His face was a canvas of weathered lines and scars, a testament to decades of service. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was tight, and his blue eyes burned with grim determination, as though he already sensed whatever King Rickard would say next. ''I understand, good sir, more than anyone, your skill and your honour,'' Father began, his words measured but carrying an undercurrent of burning rage. ''But now it is time to put your armour aside and live out your days as a citizen of this country.'' The words fell like a hammer blow, sending a collective gasp rippling through the room. It wasn¡¯t loud¡ªjust a hushed, startled exhale from the crowd¡ªbut it carried the weight of disbelief, as if the very foundation of the throne room had shifted beneath their feet. Jacques¡¯ heart lurched in his chest, a cold dread spreading through him like icy water. His gaze darted between the King and Sir Theon, his mind struggling to process the significance of what he¡¯d just heard. ''I¡¯m sorry, Your Majesty. I must¡¯ve misheard you,'' said Sir Theon Balogun, The Silver Knight, veteran of three wars and the King¡¯s most trusted protector. His voice, usually steady as a war drum, wavered¡ªa rare crack in his unshakeable composure. The weight of his words hung in the air, as though the mere act of questioning the King was enough to set the court aflame. ''Oh no, you heard me quite well, good sir,'' the King shot back, his tone sharp as a dagger. His back straightened as he stood, the divine light of the braziers catching his dark hair. But there was no divinity in his expression, only the cold, unrelenting authority of a monarch who had made up his mind. Silence gripped the throne room like a vise. Courtiers exchanged wide-eyed glances, their whispers dying in their throats. All eyes locked onto The Silver Knight and the King, the tension so thick it seemed to choke the air from the room. Sir Theon¡¯s gaze darted around aimlessly, as though seeking an anchor in the sea of disapproving stares. His jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as he struggled to find words. The great hall, so vast moments ago, now felt stifling, its walls pressing in with the weight of unspoken judgement. Finally, Sir Theon spoke. ''Your Majesty,'' he began, as if addressing a petulant child who had crossed a line, ''I have been a knight longer than your sons have been alive. My blade has spilled blood to protect this crown and fuel your¡­ ambitions. I have more experience than the rest of the royal guard put together.'' His words carried the weight of truth, but beneath them simmered a dangerous defiance, like a storm brewing just beyond the horizon. The King prowled forward, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury. ''And yet,'' he said, his voice cutting through the thick air like a sword, ''it was you who betrayed me, Theon. You, who allowed my son to go on that suicide mission¡ªa mission I strictly forbade, a mission that cost my son his life!'' Sir Theon¡¯s shoulders tensed, as though bracing for a physical blow from his king. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the leather of his gloves stretching. For a fleeting moment, his mask of composure faltered, and his emotions flashed across his face¡ªshock, disbelief, and a deep, festering betrayal. Jacques felt a wave of nausea wash over him, his stomach twisting. He gripped the edge of the column he stood beside, his knuckles whitening. Not a single courtier dared to speak or even move. The air thickened, pregnant with unspoken tension, every breath measured and held as all eyes remained fixed on the two figures at the centre of the storm. Sir Theon raised his head, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He locked eyes with King Rickard, defiance and sorrow swirling in his gaze, like a storm clashing against a stone fortress. ''He would¡¯ve gone anyway, Rickard,'' Sir Theon said at last, his voice low but steady, like the rumble of distant thunder. The use of Father¡¯s given name landed like an earthquake, a stark departure from protocol that sent ripples of unease through the silent crowd. Sir Theon¡¯s words were not spoken with disrespect or malice, but the intimate weight of a shared history, of years spent side by side on battlefields and council chambers. ''I¡¯m proud of the man he became. As you should be.'' Jacques saw the change ripple through his father. The steel in King Rickard¡¯s expression faltered, cracking like ice under pressure. His lips parted, as though to retort, but no words came. The fury in his eyes softened into something else¡ªsomething darker, heavier. Regret? Grief? The transformation was almost imperceptible, but Jacques caught it, and the sight sent a chill down his spine. Father took an unsteady step backward, his boots striking the stone floor with a hollow echo that reverberated through the chamber. The space between the King and his knight widened, but it felt far more than the few feet it truly was. For a moment, it seemed as if King Rickard might recover his composure, might lash out or counter Sir Theon¡¯s defiance. Instead, his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and he turned away, retreating to stand in front of the throne. He tried to maintain his glare, to summon the commanding presence that had always defined him, but the effort was brittle, fragile. His jaw tightened as he folded his hands behind his back, his posture rigid once more. ''Who shall replace me as captain?'' Sir Theon asked, his voice measured but taut, the strain evident in his clenched jaw. His eyes bore into the King, searching for some semblance of reason, something that might salvage the dignity being stripped away from him. ''At least tell me that.'' The King¡¯s steward, Dennis, stepped forward, unrolling the scroll with meticulous precision. The faint crackle of parchment echoed through the silent hall as the steward''s eyes scanned the text. Every second of hesitation stretched unbearably, a creeping dread coiling around Jacques¡¯ chest like a viper. He already feared the answer, though he prayed to be wrong. ''The King has determined that Sir Mandon Jubilee will take your place as the captain of the royal guard.'' A sudden, sharp clang shattered the oppressive silence as Sir Theon hurled his helm to the ground. The polished steel bounced and rolled, the sound reverberating like thunder against the high stone walls. The violent act stunned the court into an even deeper silence, broken only by the sharp intake of Jacques¡¯ breath as he fought the urge to cry out. Jacques¡¯ gaze darted to the far side of the room, where Mirielle stood, her brown curls catching the flicker of brazier light. She wore a grin¡ªa slow, triumphant curve of her lips¡ªthat froze his blood in its veins. It wasn¡¯t just a smile. It was a weapon, sharp and deliberate, designed to mock and wound. You fucking idiot, Father. What are you doing? ''SIR MANDON!'' Sir Theon¡¯s bellow roared through the throne room, shaking the very air. His face, ruddy with fury, betrayed every ounce of composure he had clung to moments before. ''The boy¡¯s never even seen an arrow come his way!'' ''My decision is final!'' the King roared, his scowl icy. ''The King and his councillors have nothing but gratitude for your years of service, good sir,'' Dennis said, his voice faltering as he fumbled with the edges of his scroll. His hands trembled slightly, betraying the discomfort he tried so hard to mask. ''And he assures you that you will have a house and servants to care for you, at no additional cost to yourself.'' Sir Theon let out a derisive snort, his lip curling in disgust. ''Oh please,'' he spat, his voice dripping with venom. ''A glorified pit to bury me in when I die, that¡¯s what I call it.'' His words sliced through the heavy air like a blade. ''I won¡¯t stand for this! I am a knight, and I will always be a knight!'' His voice rose, a thunderclap in the otherwise suffocating silence of the throne room. King Rickard¡¯s expression didn¡¯t waver. His voice was calm, cold, and sharp as ice. ''Then I offer you a choice,'' he said, his words slow and deliberate, each one falling like a thunderclap. ''I know you were accompanied by one other knight.'' He leaned forward slightly, his presence towering over the room despite the distance between them. ''Name him, and the position of captain remains yours. Deny me the information I want, and you shall never set foot in this city again.'' The words hung in the air like the toll of a death knell, reverberating through the vast chamber. Jacques felt his pulse quicken, his heart hammering against his ribs as his gaze darted to Sir Orchis. The Hawk Knight stood at ease, his arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips as he stared at Sir Theon. Frowning, Jacques¡¯ attention flicked back to The Silver Knight. His frame remained rigid, but his eyes¡ªthose sharp, piercing blue eyes¡ªburned with defiance. Sir Theon stood taller, his back straightening, his voice steady and unwavering. ''There were no other knights with us, Your Majesty,'' he said, each word carrying the weight of conviction. ''The prince and I went alone.'' A palpable tension rippled through the room, tightening its grip on everyone present. Even the ever-present murmurs of the courtiers had died away entirely, leaving only the distant crackle of the braziers and the faint whistle of a breeze slipping through the stone walls. Jacques held his breath as his father¡¯s hard glare met Sir Theon¡¯s. The King¡¯s jaw clenched, the faintest tremor betraying his frustration. ''So be it,'' the King said finally, his voice low and dangerous, his words sinking like lead. ''Leave before I change my mind.'' Sir Theon didn¡¯t move at first. His gaze remained locked on the King for a long, tense moment, as though he were burning the memory of this humiliation into his soul. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned on his heel. His boots struck the stone floor with a measured cadence, the sound echoing in the silence like the tolling of a bell. Jacques stood frozen as Sir Theon marched away, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. The knight¡¯s steps were heavy, laden with resignation, yet his head remained high, his back unbowed. As he passed, Sir Theon¡¯s eyes locked with Jacques¡¯, just for a heartbeat. In that fleeting moment, Jacques saw everything¡ªrage, defiance, and an indelible bitterness that seared like a branding iron. There was no plea for help, no attempt to justify or explain, only the silent declaration of a knight who refused to yield. The moment passed, and Sir Theon continued his march, the air seeming to ripple with his fading presence. Jacques¡¯ throat tightened as he watched Theon¡¯s figure grow smaller, retreating into the shadows at the far end of the throne room. The heavy doors groaned open, and then, with a resounding thud, they slammed shut behind him. The warm light of the braziers seemed dimmer now, their flames dancing like shadows on the edges of Jacques'' vision. The air thickened with disbelief, a cold stillness settling over the assembled lords and ladies. Jacques felt it seep into his skin, making his breath shallow and his fingers tremble at his sides. The King¡¯s face remained a mask of unyielding authority, his sharp gaze fixed ahead as though Sir Theon¡¯s departure had been nothing more than a passing breeze. There was no hint of regret, no flicker of hesitation¡ªonly the cold determination of a king. It was the same expression Jacques had seen countless times before, and yet today, it felt more alien than ever. ''And I want this message spread across every corner of Galia,'' The King¡¯s voice rang out. ''As of today... we are at war.'' The announcement swept through the room like a cold wind, chilling everyone to the core. Jacques caught the wide-eyed stares of some of the younger lords, their faces pale as they whispered hurriedly to their companions. Others¡ªthe seasoned warriors and grizzled commanders¡ªstood stone-faced, their expressions unreadable, though Jacques could see the glint of concern in their eyes. The King moved from his throne with the deliberate grace of a man who knew the eyes of a kingdom were upon him. He cast one final glance at the room, his gaze imperious and unyielding, before turning sharply on his heel. His black coat engulfed him like a shadow as he strode towards the doors leading to the council chamber. The oak door groaned open, then slammed shut with a thunderous finality, leaving the throne room in a stunned silence. For a moment, time had stopped. Jacques stared at the empty throne, his mouth slightly open, his body frozen. The ornate golden seat, once a symbol of stability and order, now seemed cold and forbidding, an unspoken reminder of the man who wielded its power with such ruthless finality. The lords and ladies began to stir, their vibrant garments swirling like restless waves as they whispered among themselves. Some exchanged grim nods and hurried towards the exits, eager to begin their preparations for the long journeys back to their lands. Others lingered, their faces drawn with unease, their whispers carrying the weight of uncertainty. Jacques caught fragments of their conversations¡ªwords like war, madness, and Theon floating through the air like poison. The room seemed to blur around him, the once vibrant colours of the nobles¡¯ attire fading into a muted haze. His thoughts churned in a chaotic storm, memories of his childhood clawing their way to the surface. He was a boy again, standing in this very hall, watching his father declare war on Eastamere with fire in his eyes and a hunger for blood in his voice. This is not strength, Jacques thought gravely, this is madness. Sir Theon¡¯s dismissal played over and over in his mind, the knight¡¯s defiant words ringing in his ears. Jacques clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His father had discarded a man who had served the realm with unwavering loyalty, as though he were nothing more than a broken toy. And to replace him with Sir Mandon Jubilee? Jacques¡¯ stomach churned at the thought. Sir Mandon, who lacked even a fraction of Sir Theon¡¯s experience, who had never faced the horrors of battle, who had never felt the sting of an enemy¡¯s blade. His appointment as captain of the royal guard was not just reckless¡ªit was dangerous. Jacques¡¯ gaze flicked to Mirielle, who stood near the far wall, her delicate features lit by the flickering brazier light. She still wore her faint, knowing smile, her hands folded neatly before her. Jacques swallowed hard, his throat dry as a desert. Mirielle, Sir Mandon, and their father, were all playing a dangerous game, one that could tear the kingdom apart. Jacques kept his fists clenched as he turned towards Sir Orchis, his voice low and strained. ''Ride after Sir Theon. Try to convince him to stay. If we¡¯re at war, we¡¯re going to need him.'' Each word felt like a plea disguised as an order, laced with urgency and the weight of unspoken fears. He could feel the enormity of the request lingering in the air, a tension that even the steady flicker of the braziers couldn¡¯t dispel. Sir Orchis raised an eyebrow, his lip curling in a faint sneer. ''Judging by his tone there, Your Grace, I doubt he¡¯d come back here even if I offer him a million gold coins.'' ''I know,'' Jacques said softly, though his throat felt raw, ''but please talk to him.'' For a moment, Sir Orchis stared at him, his piercing gaze weighing Jacques as though measuring the sincerity of the request. Then, with a reluctant nod, he relented. ''As you wish,'' he said curtly, his tone clipped. ''But don¡¯t hold your breath. Sir Theon Balogun¡¯s a proud man, and you¡¯ve seen what pride does to wounded hearts.'' His gaze lingered for a beat before he turned to leave, his soft boots echoing off the marble floor like a countdown. Jacques exhaled shakily as Sir Orchis made his way towards the entrance, a flicker of hope tempered by the sinking feeling that Sir Theon was already gone. His hand instinctively brushed the edge of the column beside him, as though grounding himself in the cool stone. ''What will you do?'' Sir Orchis called over his shoulder, his voice carrying a note of curiosity, perhaps even doubt. Jacques¡¯ mouth felt dry as he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He turned his gaze towards the throne, its gleaming surface reflecting the firelight in molten waves. ''I need to have a little talk with my father.'' Jacques¡¯ boots scuffed the marble floor as he sharply turned away from Sir Orchis. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with unspent fury. When he reached the oak door to the council chamber, its ancient wood darkened by centuries of use, his hand hesitated for a fraction of a second before shoving it open. The iron hinges groaned in a drawn-out, metallic protest, as though unwilling to grant him entry. The frigid air of the staircase hit him like a slap, carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone and musty parchment. He descended into the dimly lit chamber; the torchlight casting jagged shadows that seemed to claw at the walls. The narrow steps led downwards, their edges worn smooth by countless footsteps of those who had tread this path before him¡ªkings, knights, traitors. His pace quickened as he neared the bottom, the faint flicker of lamplight ahead pulling him like a beacon through the gloom. The chamber stretched out before him, its walls lined with shelves crammed full of knowledge and secrets: crumbling books, fragile scrolls, and maps curling with age. A scent of old ink and decaying parchment hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of candle wax dripping from iron sconces. The flickering light seemed to dance mockingly over the council table¡ªa massive, polished expanse of oak that dominated the room, its surface scarred with the marks of countless arguments, strategies, and desperate decisions. At the far end sat King Rickard himself, his figure cloaked in shadow save for the faint gleam of his signet ring as he tapped the table''s edge with restless precision. Before him lay a sprawling map, its surface smudged and stained, the border between Galia and Eastamere marked by jagged mountains. He raised his head slowly, the movement almost deliberate, and fixed Jacques with a gaze as cold and unforgiving as a winter gale. His face, chiselled and pale under the lamplight, was unreadable but for the faint curl of disdain tugging at the corners of his mouth. ''You¡¯ve finally come out of your room, I see,'' he said, his voice low and cutting, each word laced with contempt. ''I must be in some lucid nightmare!'' Jacques shouted, his voice cracking with a mixture of anger and disbelief. ''You¡¯ve just dismissed Sir Theon from our royal guard, and now you¡¯re declaring war? Have you lost your mind?'' Father leaned back in his chair and studied Jacques with the calculating gaze of a predator weighing its prey. ''You would be content,'' he said slowly, deliberately, ''with being protected by a knight who failed to save the life of your own brother?'' Jacques¡¯ chest tightened as the accusation landed, sharp and cruel. ''That wasn¡¯t his fault, Father!'' he retorted, his voice raw with emotion. ''He tried to save him!'' ''Did he? He failed. I do not take failure lightly.'' Jacques¡¯ fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms until they threatened to draw blood. ''But you¡¯ve replaced him with Mandon Jubilee!'' he shouted, the name dripping with disdain. His mind conjured an image of The Coast Knight¡¯s smug face, the sharp lines of his jaw twisting into a smirk that mocked him even now. ''Why shouldn¡¯t I?'' Father¡¯s tone was icy, his brows lifting as though daring Jacques to contradict him. ''He is a skilled warrior who will take his vows seriously. Something Sir Theon apparently could no longer do.'' The words struck like an arrow, and Jacques struggled to contain the storm of emotions churning inside him. His mind raced, unbidden memories flashing before him¡ªRick¡¯s duel against Prince Luis, the deadly dance of steel in the dark. The sound of clashing swords echoed in his ears, each ring of metal a cruel reminder. He could still see Rick¡¯s grim determination as he stepped into that duel, could still hear his own horrifying cries as his brother fell. And then there was Sir Theon, his grief frozen inside of him, yet his voice choked with the effort to contain it: I failed him. ''Sir Theon has served this family with unwavering loyalty for years,'' Jacques said, his voice trembling with fury. ''How can you throw him away like this?'' Father¡¯s expression hardened, his gaze piercing. ''Loyalty means nothing if it cannot protect my family.'' ''The Jubilees are up to something, Father,'' Jacques said, his voice dropping to a strained whisper. ''You should not trust them.'' Father¡¯s fist slammed against the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber like thunder. Jacques flinched despite himself as Father rose from his chair, his towering presence casting a long shadow across the room. ''I will not change my mind!'' the King roared, his voice booming with an authority that seemed to shake the very walls. His glare was like ice, freezing Jacques in place and stripping him of whatever resolve he had left. He¡¯s running into the buzzard¡¯s claws, Jacques thought bitterly, his stomach twisting with dread. And he¡¯s dragging me with him. The King¡¯s face softened slightly, his scowl easing into a thoughtful frown. ''Nevertheless, I¡¯m glad you are here. I wanted to speak with you. Sit down.'' With a deliberate motion, the King pushed a chair out. The dark wood gleamed faintly in the candlelight, its ornate carvings catching Jacques¡¯ eye as he clawed back his composure. He hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. When he reached the table, the polished oak felt cool and smooth under his fingertips, grounding him. His gaze flicked to the flagon of wine at the centre of the table, its deep crimson contents sloshing faintly as if beckoning him. Jacques reached for it without waiting for permission, the faint metallic clink of the stopper breaking the silence. He poured himself a generous glass, fully expecting a sharp reprimand from his father. ''You think I haven¡¯t dived into that jug once or twice myself over the last day?'' King Rickard said, raising an eyebrow. Jacques blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then, despite himself, he let out a quiet laugh. ''Rick used to tell me a story about the only time he ever saw you drunk,'' Jacques said, swirling the wine in his glass. ''You lugged about like a bear, bellowing nonsense. I believe you even threatened your cupbearer with execution because he¡¯d run out of wine.'' The King groaned, dragging a hand down his face. ''A level I¡¯ll never stoop to again,'' he muttered, though his lips twitched faintly at the corners. He raised his glass and took a measured sip, his movements slow and deliberate, as though savouring the act itself. Jacques followed suit, the warmth of the wine spreading through him as he drank. When the King placed his glass back on the table, his gaze drifted, roaming the chamber. His eyes lingered on the shelves of books, the rolls of parchment tucked neatly into alcoves, the massive maps pinned to the walls like trophies of an unending hunt. There was a wistfulness to his expression, an unfamiliar softness that Jacques hadn¡¯t seen in years. ''For the first time,'' Father began, ''I¡¯ve finally appreciated why these maps and books are here in the council chamber.'' He gestured faintly toward the walls, his hand moving as though tracing invisible lines on the maps that adorned them. ''King Jacob used these maps whenever he planned a battle. It¡¯s the reason he hardly ever lost one.'' ''I imagine the lightning powers helped as well,'' Jacques said dryly, wiggling his fingers in a mock display of magic. ''Yet I beat him,'' Father said, his voice sharp and cutting through the heavy air. He¡¯d ignored Jacques¡¯ comment entirely, leaning back in his chair with a slow, deliberate ease. His chin lifted, eyes glinting with the pride of a man savouring a victory long past. ''As I saw my victory in my dreams, I made them come true. I brought down the greatest dynasty the world has ever seen.'' His voice grew stronger, brimming with a self-assuredness that seemed to breathe life back into him. ''My family was strong. My family stood uncontested.'' His eyes, alight with memories of glory, glistened as though the golden days itself had come alive before him. The victories, the sheepdog banners, the cries of enemies falling before his might¡ªit all shone in his expression. For a moment, he wasn¡¯t a man staring down the present but a conqueror revelling in the echo of his past. But then he turned, the fiery glint of pride in his eyes extinguished as his gaze met Jacques¡¯. What replaced it was colder¡ªharder. A glare that pierced Jacques like ice. ''Now what do I have?'' Father¡¯s mix of disappointment and accusation twisted in Jacques¡¯ chest like a dagger. Rage surged through him, rising from the pit of his stomach to burn behind his eyes. His mind churned with memories, vivid and relentless. The sound of ringing steel echoed in his ears¡ªthe clash of swords in the dim, filthy Eastamerean cells where his brother had fought. He saw it again in his mind¡¯s eye: Rick¡¯s desperate struggle, the blood spilling onto the cold stone, staining the hall like a cruel mockery of their family¡¯s once-mighty legacy. ''You think you¡¯re the only one suffering? The only one that¡¯s ever suffered?'' Jacques blurted, his words tumbling out like arrows loosed from a bow before he could catch them. His voice trembled with the weight of his grief, his anger, his unspoken accusations. Father¡¯s eyes narrowed, his entire frame going still. The air between them grew heavy, charged with tension. ''What did you say?'' he asked, his tone deathly quiet¡ªa dangerous calm that cut through Jacques¡¯ anger like a warning. Every instinct in Jacques¡¯ mind screamed at him to back down, to swallow the words threatening to pour out. But his grief had no leash, and his scorn was a dam ready to burst. The memory of his father¡¯s disappointed scowl¡ªthe same one he had worn so often, the same expression that had haunted him through long, sleepless nights in Sofia¡¯s dungeon¡ªnow stood before him again, real and unforgiving. This time, Jacques couldn¡¯t contain it. ''All my life, you¡¯ve acted as if you¡¯ve only just defeated King Jacob yesterday,'' Jacques said, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and bitterness. ''You beam whenever conversations turn to your rebellion. You take some sort of twisted pleasure in reminding everyone that you clinched victory. All this nonsense about seeing it in a dream.'' His words came faster now, years of frustration spilling out unchecked. ''It¡¯s obvious why you rebelled. You rebelled because my grandfather¡¯s death made House Rue look weak, and you wanted to mend your wounded pride!'' Father sprang from his chair, the heavy oak groaning under his sudden movement. His towering frame cast a long shadow over Jacques, his presence dark and oppressive, like a storm closing in. ''How dare you speak about your grandfather like that!'' Father roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Jacques didn¡¯t flinch. Instead, he rose from his seat, his movements slow but deliberate. He stood eye-to-eye with his father, defiance burning in his glare. ''And my mother,'' Jacques said, his voice quieter now but no less sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. ''You treated her death like a defeat on the battlefield rather than the loss of someone you loved. She made House Rue look weak, and you hated her for it. Oh, but it was fine, wasn¡¯t it? You had a perfect son to carry on your precious legacy.'' Father¡¯s face darkened further, veins bulging at his temples as his hands clenched into fists. ''You listen¡ª'' ''No!'' Jacques bellowed, his voice louder than his father¡¯s, the words echoing with a force he didn¡¯t know he possessed. He jabbed a finger into his father¡¯s chest, hard enough to make the king take a half-step back. ''For once, you¡¯re going to listen to me!'' He leaned in closer, his finger still pressing against the leather of his father¡¯s doublet, his voice a low growl now, seething with years of pent-up resentment. ''No one is ever good enough for you, are they? Not me, not Mother, not Rick¡ªno one!'' Jacques¡¯ voice cracked, but he pressed on, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his emotions in check. ''All you¡¯ve ever seen is weakness. But what happens to your precious legacy now? What happens when I¡ªJacques Rue¡ªthe physical embodiment of everything you despise, stand as the only thing you have left?'' The air between them crackled with unspoken words, the tension almost suffocating. Jacques¡¯ eyes locked onto his father¡¯s, daring him to respond, to strike, to do something. But he did nothing. Not even a word. A soft creak broke the silence. Jacques turned his head sharply, his breath still coming in ragged bursts. The door to the council chamber had opened, and standing in the doorway was Princess Mirielle. She stood there, striking as ever in her flowing black dress that seemed to drink in the dim light of the chamber. Her brown eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene before her: the King¡¯s towering rage, Jacques¡¯ defiance, the palpable heat of a confrontation moments after it had erupted. What¡¯s she doing here? Jacques thought, his jaw tightening as he clenched his fist, careful to keep it out of her sight. His gaze followed Mirielle as she swept into the room with an elegance that only deepened his unease. Her dress whispered against the stone floor as she moved, her stride measured, her posture regal. She didn¡¯t acknowledge Jacques directly, but he could feel her presence bearing down on him like a weight. She moved toward the council table with a confidence that set his nerves alight. His father, still as stone, watched her approach without a word, his face carved from ice. Jacques exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, but his heart wouldn¡¯t stop pounding, its rhythm echoing in his ears like the drumbeat of an approaching army. ''You are correct, Jacques,'' his father said at last, breaking the suffocating silence. His voice was unexpectedly calm, almost weary, as if the storm of their argument had passed through him entirely. Slowly, King Rickard lowered himself back into his seat, his movements deliberate, his gaze piercing. ''You are all I have left. Your assistance will be vital.'' Jacques froze. His father¡¯s words landed like icy water, momentarily quelling the fire in his chest, leaving only confusion in its wake. He frowned, the lines of his brow deepening as he watched his father. The tension between them hadn¡¯t dissipated; it had simply shifted, taking on a new and unfamiliar shape. ''Assistance?'' Jacques repeated, his voice cautious. He sank back into his chair, though it offered no comfort, the polished wood hard and unyielding against his arse. King Rickard¡¯s sharp eyes didn¡¯t waver as he spoke, his tone steady but cold, like a general issuing orders before a final march. ''I will ride out and take our forces east,'' he said, his words weighted with grim determination. ''Sir Finn Alisser will accompany me. Together, we will take Eastamere with one fell swoop.'' Father¡¯s hand moved to the hilt of the dagger at his waist. He drew it with a deliberate slowness, the blade catching the light of the chamber¡¯s flickering torches. Without breaking his gaze from the map spread across the table, he raised the dagger high and drove it into the parchment with a force that made Jacques flinch. The point of the blade pierced the name Palomia, splitting the inked letters apart. ''I will avenge my son,'' Father growled, his voice a low rumble of fury. The quiet ferocity in his words sent a shiver down Jacques¡¯ spine. For a moment, the room was silent but for the faint hum of the torches. Jacques stared at the blade embedded in the map, his mind racing. His father¡¯s hands remained on the dagger¡¯s hilt, his knuckles white with tension, as though the act of stabbing the map had not satisfied his wrath. Images flashed through Jacques¡¯ mind¡ªSofia¡¯s eyes shimmering with fear, her neck tensing as her head separated from her body. He imagined her lifeless features mounted on a spike, the flesh rotting in the sun as a warning to all who dared oppose the sheepdog of House Rue. A cold shiver rippled through Jacques¡¯ body, twisting his stomach into knots. He could feel the weight of his father¡¯s rage, the raw, unrelenting need for vengeance that burned in his eyes. It terrified him. ''Father,'' Jacques said hesitantly, his voice unsteady. ''You don¡¯t have to¡ª'' ''You will stay here in the capital,'' King Rickard commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. Jacques blinked, certain he¡¯d misheard. ''What?'' he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief. ''What do you mean? What are you asking me to do?'' ''Rule,'' the king said bluntly, the word dropping like a stone into the room¡¯s tense silence. He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Jacques, the weight of his expectation almost suffocating. ''You¡¯ll be named regent king within the day, and you will assume all the responsibilities of myself and your brother before you. You¡¯ll steady this city and ensure it does not falter while I am gone. If you get even a whiff of treason from any of the council¡ªSir Orchis, Sir Robert, Sir Bryce¡ªyou will make sure they are disposed of.'' Jacques stared, his mouth slightly ajar, his mind struggling to process the enormity of his father¡¯s decree. The room seemed to close in around him, the flickering torchlight casting the walls in restless, ominous shadows. ''Disposed of?'' Jacques repeated faintly, his voice barely above a whisper. ''Permanently,'' Father finished, his tone as sharp and final as the blade he had buried in the map only moments before. Jacques felt the floor tilt beneath him, his stomach twisting with fear and dread. He had anticipated many things from this conversation¡ªorders to march to war, rebukes, even a cruel punishment¡ªbut not this. His father had always seen him as a liability, a disappointment, someone unworthy of the family name. Now, suddenly, he was to rule in his father¡¯s absence, to carry the weight of the Rue legacy on his shoulders. A legacy that had already crushed his brother. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as the polished wood bit into his palms. His heart raced, the sound pounding in his ears like a war drum. Jacques¡¯ gaze darted to the map, the dagger still lodged in Palomia, its hilt gleaming in the dim light. ''You¡¯re putting him in charge?'' Mirielle asked, a flicker of irritation breaking through her otherwise composed tone. The King turned to face her, his expression cold and measured. ''Yes, my lady. He will rule in my stead. You disapprove?'' Mirielle blinked, her long lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks. The flicker of green flame in her pretty brown eyes extinguished almost as quickly as it had appeared. She smiled, serene and poised, though Jacques caught the faint tightening of her jaw. ''Not at all, Your Majesty,'' she said smoothly. ''I have every confidence Prince Jacques will rise to this challenge.'' The King nodded, satisfied. ''Your loyalty is appreciated, Mirielle, and it will aid us in the war to come. That is why you will rule alongside him.'' Jacques froze mid-sip, the rim of the wine glass trembling against his lips. For a moment, he wondered if he¡¯d misheard. He slowly lowered the glass, his fingers tightening around the stem as dread coiled in his chest. ''What did you just say?'' he asked, his voice low and strained, the edges fraying with disbelief. King Rickard turned his attention back to Jacques, his tone casual, almost dismissive. ''Princess Mirielle will be named regent alongside you. She is to share in your responsibilities during my absence.'' The words struck Jacques like a wet fish. He turned to Mirielle, his gaze meeting hers, searching for any sign of smugness behind her mask of innocence. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her smile polite, unreadable. But her eyes... they danced with quiet triumph, like a fox slipping into a henhouse. He remembered the story Sir Orchis had told him about the broken blade, and how Father had replaced Sir Theon with Sir Mandon. His chest tightened, a cacophony of thoughts roaring in his mind. No, this can¡¯t be happening. This fool can¡¯t be serious. ''Father,'' Jacques began, his voice wavering despite his attempt at control. ''What exactly does this mean? Rule alongside me?'' ''It means precisely what it sounds like,'' Father replied coolly. ''Princess Mirielle will share the duties of governance with you. Decisions will be made jointly. She will temper your inexperience with her good faith amongst the common folk and ensure no voice goes unheard in my court.'' Jacques¡¯ hands curled into fists. The wine glass trembled dangerously in his grasp, and for a moment, he considered shattering it just to release some of the pressure building inside him. Mirielle? My co-regent? He thought of the rumours, the whispers of the broken blade, of Mirielle¡¯s connections to this conspiracy that circled this war. The image of Sir Theon¡¯s grief-stricken face flashed through his mind, and then Sir Mandon¡¯s smug smirk as he set to take his place. He could almost hear the winds changing, the ominous feeling that he was a helpless sea bird ready to be snatched out of the sky. ''Are you sure this is wise, Father?'' Jacques said, his voice tight, barely concealing his anger. ''The council is already a battlefield of divided loyalties. Adding another regent, especially one with no¡ª'' He stopped himself before the words no Rue blood could escape, though the implication lingered in the air. Mirielle raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. ''Your Grace,'' she said softly, her tone laced with feigned offence, ''I only seek to serve the crown. Surely you don¡¯t think me incapable of offering aid in such a trying time?'' Her words burned. Jacques clenched his jaw, feeling the trap closing in around him. ''I question no one¡¯s capabilities,'' he said, forcing the words out, though each one felt like swallowing shards of glass. ''I only wonder if this arrangement is... practical.'' Jacques¡¯ eyes flicked to his father, searching desperately for any sign of wavering, any hint that this could still be undone. But King Rickard¡¯s face was a mask, implacable and cold as carved stone. The silence in the chamber pressed down on Jacques¡¯ shoulders, heavy and suffocating. His thoughts churned, spiralling into dark corners. No matter which path he imagined, every road lead to ruin. He saw the buzzards already circling, their dark, hungry eyes glinting with anticipation. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. If he had been given sole regency¡ªtrue power¡ªthen perhaps he could have tackled the growing Jubilee threat. Perhaps he could have rooted out the snakes in his father¡¯s court before they sank their fangs any deeper. But now? Sharing the crown with Mirielle was equal to surrender. ''The Jubilees will be a vital ally in our war,'' his father declared, breaking the silence. Your war, Jacques wanted to spit, the words burning in the back of his throat. But he clamped his teeth together, biting down hard on his frustration. He had already said enough reckless things today¡ªmore than enough to tempt his father into rescinding even this bitter scrap of authority. And Jacques knew, deep down, that as much as this arrangement filled him with dread, losing the regency altogether would be worse. He took a slow, steadying breath, though it did little to quell the storm raging in his chest. ''This is a huge responsibility, Father,'' Jacques said at last, his voice carefully measured, though a faint tremor betrayed him. ''You¡¯ve never placed this kind of faith in me before. Why now?'' Father¡¯s expression didn¡¯t shift, but a flicker of something¡ªpride? grief?¡ªdanced behind his piercing blue eyes. For a moment, Jacques thought his father wouldn¡¯t answer at all. Then, with a heavy sigh, he said the words. ''You¡¯re my son.'' A silence passed through the council chamber, Jacques unable to think, let alone speak. He held his father¡¯s stony gaze, the conviction there for all to see. Strangely, Jacques¡¯ throat clammed, threatening to choke him. ''And you said it yourself¡­'' Father¡¯s gaze dropped, his hand brushing over the edge of the map before them. ''You¡¯re all I have left.'' King Rickard rose slowly from his seat, his movements deliberate, as if each step carried the weight of a kingdom¡¯s expectations. His broad shoulders squared as he strode toward the wooden cabinet on the far side of the council chamber, the faint groan of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the march of an army. When he reached it, he paused, resting his hand on the intricately carved handle for a moment before pulling it open. From within, he drew forth a blade. The metal gleamed in the candlelight, its craftsmanship flawless¡ªan identical replica of the sword Jacques had left in Eastamere, the one stained with the blood of their king. Father turned back toward Jacques, holding the sword with a reverence that made Jacques¡¯ stomach churn. ''To mark the occasion,'' the King said, his voice low but heavy with meaning, ''I had your sword remade.'' He crossed the room with purposeful strides, halting before Jacques and lowering the weapon into his hands. ''Take it. It¡¯s yours.'' The cold steel settled into Jacques¡¯ grasp, its weight far heavier than its physical mass could justify. It pressed down on him like an unspoken accusation, a reminder of every failure, every life lost. His grip tightened instinctively, his knuckles turning white. Jacques cast his thoughts away, grasping desperately for the vibrant brushstrokes of his paintings, for Aubery¡¯s smile and the vivid colours that had once been his refuge. But those memories slipped through his fingers, smothered by the overwhelming gleam of gold¡ªthe gold of a king¡¯s crown, the gold of a future he didn¡¯t deserve. Before he could find the words to respond, Father¡¯s voice broke through the suffocating silence. ''But¡­'' The single word hung in the air, taut with impending revelation. ''You also have a wedding to prepare for.'' Jacques¡¯ breath caught in his throat. He looked up sharply, his chest tightening as his father continued, his tone as unwavering as ever. ''While I cover the land, you will cover the sea. For that, we will need ships. The Jubilee fleet is the largest in the realm. You, Jacques, will marry Mirielle, securing our relationship with House Jubilee¡ªand the ships we require.'' The words pierced Jacques¡¯ heart like a wooden stake. For a moment, he couldn¡¯t breathe, couldn¡¯t think. He turned his gaze toward Mirielle, who stood poised and unflinching. Her brown eyes gleamed with a quiet victory, and her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. A nest of adders writhed in Jacques¡¯ gut, twisting and knotting until he thought he might be sick. He forced himself to meet her gaze, but the effort only brought Rick¡¯s lifeless body crashing into his mind. The prospect burned¡ªhis brother¡¯s blood pooling on the cold stone, the glint of a blade wielded in Mirielle¡¯s hand. It was actually happening. History was repeating itself, playing out like some cruel jest of the Gods. ''I¡¯m not¡ª'' ''I¡¯ll hear no more of it, Jacques.'' King Rickard¡¯s voice was sharp and final, each word striking like the crack of a whip. His steely glare pierced Jacques, rooting him to his chair. ''You will do your duty, as I have.'' Jacques wanted to protest, to shout, to demand some semblance of choice in the life being thrust upon him, but his father leaned closer, his imposing shadow swallowing the light between them. ''I said this to your brother once,'' Father continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. ''And I will say the same to you. You must choose. Become the man the realm needs you to be and see this house endure for a thousand years, or collapse into weakness like the Ayasems did. The fate of our family will fall on your shoulders now.'' His words were a blade, sharp and merciless, slicing through Jacques¡¯ resolve. ''I suggest the pair of you prepare for your first days as rulers. You have much to address.'' The weight of his father¡¯s command crushed Jacques, leaving him paralysed in his seat. The enormity of what was being asked of him wrapped around his chest like iron chains, pulling him deeper into a pit of despair. Ruling an entire city, the lives of hundreds of thousands now resting squarely on his shoulders¡ªit felt insurmountable. And now, Mirielle would be tied to that burden too, her scheming presence another weight to bear. ''Go.'' The King¡¯s voice was cold and absolute, a sovereign¡¯s command that left no room for defiance. ''Now.'' Jacques rose slowly, the legs of his chair scraping against the stone floor with a jarring screech that reverberated in the oppressive silence of the chamber. He grabbed his wineglass with an almost defiant force and strode toward the staircase. Each step felt heavier than the last, his movements sharp and mechanical, as if his body were rebelling against his mind. Behind him, Mirielle¡¯s voice rang out, sweet and gracious, yet tinged with unmistakable triumph. ''Thank you, Your Majesty,'' she said, the words dripping with practised humility. ''It is an honour to serve you.'' Jacques barely registered her words, his focus fixed on the door ahead. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand, its delicate stem on the verge of snapping. As he reached the doorway, the golden flash of the throne caught his eye, its opulent brilliance cutting through the dim light of the chamber. The gleam blinded him for a moment, forcing him to blink. When his vision cleared, the throne still stood there, an unyielding reminder of his inheritance, its ornate carvings mocking him with their silent grandeur. A cruel symbol of everything he¡¯d never wanted, and everything he now couldn¡¯t escape. Chapter XII- The Queens Choice Luis lay sprawled on his bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. Sweat clung to his forehead and soaked the collar of his nightshirt, the damp fabric clinging to his trembling body. His eyelids fluttered, caught in a frantic rhythm as his mind slipped into a dream, dragging him away from the pain wracking his body. He was a boy again, no older than eight, his small frame propped against the rough bark of a tree. The shade from the towering oaks dappled his skin with shifting patches of sunlight. Above him, the leaves whispered secrets to the breeze, their rustling a gentle, soothing counterpoint to the laughter of the other children. Their carefree voices danced around him, blending with the natural melody of the forest clearing, yet Luis remained apart, cocooned in his own little world. A heavy book lay open in his lap, its gilded edges catching the sun like treasure. It was a prised relic from his father¡¯s library, the leather cover worn smooth from countless readings. The words pulled him in, their magic transporting him to a faraway realm where brave knights battled impossible odds. He read of a hero, a warrior of unyielding courage, who stood before a sheer, rousing tower. The princess, delicate and radiant as a moonlit rose, awaited him at the summit, her raven hair flowing like ribbons in the wind. Luis¡¯ heart quickened as he imagined the knight¡¯s gloved hands grasping the rock, his muscles straining with every climb. Above, a shadow loomed¡ªa monstrous, serpent-like beast, its coiled body a terrifying mass of scales and power. Luis¡¯ small fingers traced the illustration, the dragon¡¯s wings spread wide, casting darkness over the tower where the princess waited. How do they do it? he wondered, his eyes wide with awe. How do knights face so much terror and emerge unscathed? The answer was always the same. A knight, despite every peril, always triumphed. Every single time. ''What are you reading?'' Luis flinched slightly at the voice, glancing up from his book to find Aurelio standing over him, his green eyes wide with curiosity, reflecting the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Aurelio¡¯s face was flushed from running, a faint sheen of sweat glinting on his brow, but his usual energy radiated from him like a fire that never burned out. ''Just another story about a knight,'' Luis said, his voice quiet, almost reverent, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile tranquillity of the moment. ''A story? Can I look at it?'' Luis nodded, closing the book carefully and handing it over. Aurelio dropped down beside him with unrestrained enthusiasm, the cool shade of the tree wrapping them both in a protective shell. He opened the book to the first page, his finger trailing the lines of text as he read aloud, his words stumbling but determined. ''Do you think we¡¯ll ever be knights one day?'' Aurelio asked suddenly, looking up from the page, his voice tinged with wonder. His bright eyes shimmered with unspoken dreams, as though he could already see them both in shining golden armour, swords raised in the air. ''One day, maybe'', Luis replied, his tone thoughtful, measured. ''When my sister is queen.'' ''When do you think that will be?'' Luis shrugged, glancing down at his hands, where dirt clung to his fingernails from climbing the tree earlier. ''Don¡¯t know. Soon, maybe?'' ''I hope not,'' Aurelio said, his voice softening. His gaze drifted toward the forest¡¯s edge, where the sunlight sparkled on the grass like spilled gold. ''I like it when we can be like this¡ªwhen we can read books, leave our problems behind, and live how we want.'' Luis studied Aurelio¡¯s face, seeing the faint shadow of worry tugging at his usually carefree expression. ''You do know, if we become knights, we can never travel anywhere too far from the queen, right? You know that, don¡¯t you?'' Aurelio¡¯s brow furrowed, his cheerful optimism dimming. ''Really?'' he asked, his voice almost a whisper, the words laced with disappointment. But after a pause, he grinned, though it didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. ''Oh well. I suppose, with you there, it¡¯s not all that bad. Besides, the knight always comes out the other side unharmed.'' Luis opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Something about Aurelio¡¯s certainty felt fragile, as if daring to question it might crack it wide open. The sound of leaves rustling overhead filled the silence between them, mingling with the distant chirping of birds. For a fleeting moment, Luis allowed himself to believe in the promise of the knight¡¯s story, the guarantee of safety, the hope of triumph. But the memory dissolved. The warmth of the sun faded into a biting chill, the rustling leaves replaced by an oppressive silence. The sprawling tree and Aurelio¡¯s hopeful grin disappeared like smoke, leaving Luis alone in the dark. His eyes peeled open, and the world came rushing back¡ªcold, heavy, and suffocating. The stale air clung to his lungs, and the pain followed, sharp and relentless, spreading through his leg like a raging fire. The knight always comes out the other side unharmed. Luis¡¯ leg was blazing, the searing pain radiating from his thigh like molten iron pressing against his flesh. Each throb felt like torture, and every flicker of movement ignited fresh agony, sharp enough to make him clench his teeth until his jaw ached. Restless torment, as if some demon was digging its claws deeper into his leg with each passing second. When he finally forced himself to pull the duvet back, the sight nearly made him retch. The bandage wrapped around his thigh stained a deep crimson, spreading like a disease. The air felt colder against his exposed skin, sending a shiver through his trembling body. He realised he was wearing nothing but a thin cloth shirt, its rough fibres chafing his sweat-slicked skin. His golden armour¡ªonce gleaming, a symbol of his station¡ªwas nowhere in sight, stripped away. Weakness clawed at him, and a flicker of panic stirred in his chest. He reached out, fingers shaking, and grazed the edge of the bandage. The slightest pressure sent a jolt of white-hot pain shooting up his leg, threatening to drag him under. Memories surged through his mind in jagged, fragmented flashes, each one bringing fresh humiliation and regret. He had been chasing the Galians, desperation driving every step as they tried to escape. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth as he ran, the ache in his arms as he raised his sword. He¡¯d killed one of them¡ªPrince Rickard. The prince¡¯s startled cry echoed in his head, followed by the wet, sickening sound of his blade plunging into Rickard¡¯s back. Luis¡¯ breath hitched as the memory sharpened. He¡¯d thought of the peace tournament in Galia, of how Rickard had bested him then. He could still see the jeering crowd, still feel the sting of failure burning in his chest as Rickard claimed victory. That shame had fuelled him, made him relentless. Luis had replayed every moment of that loss in his mind, dissecting every mistake, every misstep, until he understood the prince¡¯s every move. And yet... The image of Sir Theon Balogun loomed large, eclipsing the satisfaction of Rickard¡¯s defeat. Luis clenched his fists as he recalled the clash of steel against steel, the sheer force of Sir Theon¡¯s strikes. The knight was like a storm¡ªunrelenting, powerful, impossible to stop. Luis had tried to anticipate him, to outmanoeuvre him, but he countered everything with crushing precision. Luis barely held his ground before Sir Theon¡¯s blade found its mark. The memory of that moment¡ªof the sword plunging into his thigh¡ªwas vivid, a flash of unbearable pain that turned his legs to stone. He could still hear the hiss of steel slicing through flesh, feel the cold, merciless bite of the blade. His body had betrayed him then, collapsing under the weight of agony. He remembered hitting the ground hard, the taste of dirt mixing with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. The world had blurred, and through the haze of pain, he¡¯d seen Sir Theon vanish, slipping away like a shadow while Luis lay helpless. Luis groaned, his head pounding as if trying to punish him for dredging up the memory. He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples, desperate to push the thoughts away, but they lingered, mocking him. He was alive, but barely. And despite all his training, his ambition, and his victories, he had been outmatched. The realisation stung almost as much as the wound itself. The door to his chambers creaked open, the sound like a dagger scraping against stone. A shadow stretched across the dimly lit room, growing longer as the door swung wide. Luis tensed, the pain in his leg clawing at his nerves like a wild beast. For a fleeting moment, his fevered mind conjured the worst¡ªa spectre of death or the devil himself, come to claim his battered soul and drag him to hell. The figure stepped into the light, dissolving the shadow, and Aurelio¡¯s familiar face emerged, framed by the soft glow of a candle. His comforting smile pushed away the dark thoughts lingering in Luis¡¯ mind. Relief mixed with exhaustion, but when Luis tried to sit up, his body betrayed him. A searing jolt shot through his leg, and he collapsed back onto the mattress, his breath escaping in a sharp gasp. ''Don¡¯t move,'' Aurelio said, his voice steady yet tinged with concern. He knelt beside the bed, holding a wooden cup filled to the brim with water. ''I¡¯ve got this. You need to drink.'' Luis blinked, disoriented. ''How¡­ how long has it been?'' ''You¡¯ve been out for five days.'' ''Five days?'' Luis¡¯ voice cracked, disbelief and unease mingling with the rasp of his parched throat. His head swam at the revelation, time feeling like a shapeless void in his mind. ''Here,'' Aurelio said gently, guiding the cup to Luis¡¯ lips. The first cool drops of water touched his tongue, and Luis drank greedily, the liquid washing away the dryness that had turned his throat to stone. Relief spread through him like a balm, momentarily dulling the edges of his pain. Aurelio stayed close, steadying the cup until every drop was gone. ''Slow down,'' he murmured, though his tone lacked reproach. He placed a reassuring hand on Luis¡¯ shoulder, his grip warm and grounding. Luis leaned back, his head pressing into the damp pillow. Even breathing felt like a battle, every inhale tinged with a sharp ache. The throbbing in his leg refused to relent, a cruel reminder of how broken he was. ''I¡¯ll inform the queen you¡¯ve woken up,'' Aurelio said, standing. His movements were calm, knightly, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes¡ªsomething fragile. As he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder, his smile faint but genuine. ''I¡¯m glad you¡¯re awake, Luis. I¡­ I thought I¡¯d lost you.'' The raw emotion in Aurelio¡¯s words hung in the air like a confession. Luis wanted to reply, to offer some assurance in return, but his throat clenched, and the words refused to come. All he could do was watch as Aurelio disappeared into the shadows, the soft sound of his retreating footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence. For a moment, Luis lay still, his chest heaving. The pain in his leg dragged his focus back with a brutal force. He reached for the damp cloth resting on the bedside table, pressing it to his sweat-soaked forehead. His skin burned with fever, and every muscle felt taut, as if stretched to its limit. He clenched his teeth, biting down against the waves of agony that rippled through him. His thoughts swirled chaotically, flickering between memories of his training and the here and now. He had faced danger before, fought against some of the most skilled warriors the realm had ever seen. But here he was, confined to a bed, fighting a battle against his own broken body. This is not how I die, he thought, the words more a plea than a declaration. He sucked in a sharp breath and released it slowly, forcing himself to focus. To endure. The door creaked open, the sound splitting the tense quiet of the room. Sofia stepped inside, her brow furrowed with worry, the faint lines on her face betraying the weight of recent days. Behind her loomed Serben Diae, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the dimly lit chamber. The two moved forward in tandem, but as Sofia¡¯s eyes landed on Luis, her expression hardened, transforming into the resolute countenance of a queen. ''Close the door, Aurelio,'' she commanded, her voice firm and composed. ''As you wish, my queen.'' Aurelio bowed deeply, his hand steady as he pulled the door closed behind him. The soft click of the latch echoed through the room, leaving Luis alone with Sofia¡­ and Lord Serben. The moment the door sealed shut, the mask of royal composure Sofia wore cracked, then shattered entirely. Vulnerability flickered across her face like a fragile flame. Without hesitation, she rushed to Luis, her footsteps light yet urgent, as if afraid even the floor beneath her might slow her pace. She fell to her knees beside his bed, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce, almost desperate embrace. The faint scent of lavender clung to her, a small reminder of their mother. Luis¡¯ leg flared with crippling pain at her touch, a sharp sting that forced a hiss through his gritted teeth. He stiffened against her hold, his fingers clutching the bed linens. Sofia froze, pulling back immediately as if she¡¯d been burned. ''Sorry,'' she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes shimmered, tears threatening to fall, though she blinked them away. ''I thought¡ª'' Her words caught in her throat. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. ''I thought I¡¯d never see you again.'' Luis swallowed, forcing a faint smile onto his pale, sweat-slicked face. ''I am fine, my queen,'' he said, his tone calm despite the inferno blazing in his thigh. ''Give me a few more days, and I¡¯ll be as right as rain.'' Sofia¡¯s brow furrowed, and she let out a sharp exhale, equal parts frustration and affection. ''We¡¯re alone, Luis,'' she said softly. ''You don¡¯t have to be so formal.'' Luis attempted a chuckle but winced instead, the motion tugging at his wound. ''I¡¯m just getting my practice in now,'' he said, his smile wavering but persistent. ''I¡¯d rather look the fool in private than at court. The captain of the royal guard must act accordingly, after all.'' Sofia and Serben exchanged a troubled glance, their faces shadowed with an unspoken weight. Luis noticed the flicker of hesitation in her eyes and felt an icy dread coil around his chest. ''What is it?'' he asked, his voice cracking slightly. The knot in his stomach tightened with every second they stayed silent. Sofia¡¯s lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, her eyes brimmed with tears that clung stubbornly before spilling over, carving shimmering tracks down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away, but it was too late¡ªLuis had seen her unravelling. ''I¡­'' Her voice broke, trembling as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. ''I¡¯m sorry, dear brother.'' A tremor started in Luis¡¯ hands, spreading through his arms like a creeping frost. His heart pounded against his ribs, loud and insistent. ''What¡¯s the matter? Tell me.'' Sofia exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the bed frame to steady herself. Her knuckles turned white. ''After your accident, Doctor Renando examined your leg,'' she began, each word slow, as though saying them too quickly might break her. ''She said¡­ she said it will never truly heal. You¡¯ll never move as you once did.'' The world tilted. Luis struggled to sit up, the sheets tangling around his waist. His ears burned, his mind racing to make sense of her words. ''What are you saying?'' Sofia hesitated, glancing at Serben for support. When none came, she pressed on, her voice cracking under the strain. ''I¡¯m saying that you can no longer be the captain of my royal guard.'' Her words dropped like an executioner¡¯s axe. ''You¡¯re my brother, and I love you more than anything, but I have to make a choice. After what happened to Father, I can¡¯t take any chances.'' Luis froze, Sofia¡¯s words cutting him deeper than Sir Theon Balogun¡¯s blade ever could. He stared at his sister, wide-eyed, the disbelief etched into his face. ''No,'' he whispered, his voice barely audible. ''No, this can¡¯t be true.'' He leaned forward, ignoring the fiery pain that erupted in his leg, and reached for her hand. His grip was trembling, desperate, but he didn¡¯t care. ''We can figure something out. I¡¯m sure Doctor Renando is mistaken. Maybe if she looked at it again¡ªmaybe if I explained it to her, she¡¯d see¡­ she¡¯d understand¡­'' His words stumbled over one another, rushed and frantic. ''It¡­ it doesn¡¯t even hurt that much.'' As if in cruel defiance, a sharp, searing pain shot through his injured leg, wrenching a gasp from him. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out, refusing to acknowledge the truth that clawed at the edges of his denial. ''Luis¡­'' Sofia¡¯s voice broke again as she knelt beside him. Tears streamed freely now, her hands trembling as she reached for his. ''I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so sorry.'' The strength Luis had mustered to sit up evaporated, leaving his muscles weak and shaking as he collapsed back onto the bed. Tears spilled onto the pillow, warm trails that stung his cheeks, but he didn¡¯t bother to wipe them away. His breath hitched as he choked on the grief welling up inside of him. Sofia¡¯s voice reached him, soft and filled with guilt, her apologies spilling over and over. But they couldn¡¯t touch him now. The words were hollow, echoes that barely grazed the edges of his despair. This wasn¡¯t just a decision the queen had to make. This was his sister¡¯s decision. This was his life¡ªhis work, his pride and joy¡ªtorn away in a single, devastating blow. ''Come, my queen,'' Serben said gently, his tone careful but firm as he placed a steadying hand on Sofia¡¯s shoulder. ''Let us leave your brother in peace.'' ''No!'' Sofia¡¯s voice cracked as she yanked her shoulder free, turning to face Serben with fiery defiance. ''I can¡¯t leave him here alone like this!'' Her voice was desperate, tinged with an ache that cut through the room like their father¡¯s halberd. Luis closed his eyes, the faint pressure of tears clinging to his lashes as his jaw tightened. He didn¡¯t want to hear this¡ªnot his sister¡¯s guilt, not Serben¡¯s reasoning, not the suffocating sympathy in their voices, a tone he¡¯d suffer for the rest of his life. There was nothing anyone could say to him now. He wanted them gone. ''Just go,'' he heard himself say, the words dry and rasping, as though dragged up from the depths of his chest. The silence that followed was deafening. He forced himself to look at Sofia, his gaze locking onto hers. Her face fell, her mouth opening slightly in shock, as though the weight of his words had struck her like a physical blow. ''I¡­ I just¡­'' He swallowed hard, fighting to steady his voice. ''I just can¡¯t look at you at the moment.'' Sofia¡¯s breath caught, and he saw the flicker of devastation that rippled across her features. She blinked quickly, her lashes glistening with tears she was fighting to keep at bay. Her distress was like a storm barely contained within her, her lip trembling as she struggled to speak. Luis¡¯ heart twisted at the sight, guilt gnawing at him even under the crushing weight of his own despair. He wanted to take it back, to hold her hand and tell her he didn¡¯t mean it¡ªbut he couldn¡¯t. The loss of his armour, the very foundation of his identity, was too fresh, too raw. A part of him had been ripped away, leaving only black emptiness where his purpose had been. ''Luis¡­'' Sofia whispered, her voice trembling with the effort to keep her composure. ''Please.'' ''Come, my queen,'' Serben urged again, his voice a quiet anchor. Sofia¡¯s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her as though Luis¡¯ words had broken something inside her. Sofia turned toward the door, her movements slow and reluctant, as though every step was a battle she didn¡¯t want to fight. Luis turned his face away, staring at the ceiling, blinking furiously to stop the flood of tears that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn¡¯t watch them leave. He couldn¡¯t. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, each one dragging against the weight of his grief. The pain in his leg pulsed like a cruel heartbeat, but it was nothing compared to the ache deep in his soul. Yesterday, he had been a knight, a captain, a protector of the realm, unbeatable. Now he was just¡­ Broken. The silence pressed in around him, cold and unyielding. It was all that remained. That, and the unrelenting pain. The door to Luis¡¯ chambers closed with a resounding thud, the sound reverberating through the corridor like the toll of a funeral bell. Sofia stood frozen, her trembling hand still clutching the latch, unsure she had the strength to let go. When she finally did, her knees buckled, and she staggered backward, leaning heavily against the cold wall for support. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, her chest heaving as the weight of what she¡¯d done settled over her. Tears blurred her vision, but she didn¡¯t try to stop them. She couldn¡¯t. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as though the sharp pain might anchor her to reality. ''That was the hardest thing I¡¯ve ever had to do,'' she whispered, her voice breaking, the words barely audible over the echo of her own sobs. They hung in the air, brittle and fragile, before completely shattering under the weight of her grief.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Serben moved closer, his shadow falling over her like a shield. ''My queen¡ª'' he began, his tone low, steady, yet edged with concern. Sofia didn¡¯t let him finish. She turned toward him and buried her face in his chest, the soft surface of his green doublet cold against her flushed skin. What strength she¡¯d summoned in Luis¡¯ presence crumbled entirely, leaving her hollow and exposed. Her shoulders shook violently as she wept, her hands clutching Serben, holding on to him for dear life. Serben¡¯s arms encircled her, though his grip was hesitant¡ªperhaps uncertain of how to comfort his new queen, the daughter of his oldest friend. He steadied her, lowering her gently to the floor, her sobs muffled against him as she clung tighter. ''Your Majesty,'' Serben said, his hand stroking the back of Sofia¡¯s head, ''It¡¯s all going to be fine. I will make sure of that.'' ''I¡¯ve never¡­'' Sofia¡¯s voice cracked, her words stumbling through the tears that refused to stop. ''I¡¯ve never seen him like that before. So...broken.'' Her breath hitched, and she shook her head, tears streaming unchecked down her face. ''I ripped his heart¡­ I crushed it right in front of him.'' Sofia buried her face deeper against Serben¡¯s chest, the faint scent of iron and leather mingling with the salt of her tears. She closed her eyes for a brief, painful moment, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw him¡ªher brother, lying in his bed, his body curled into itself like a broken toy soldier, his face twisted with sorrow. She could almost hear the soft, trembling sound of his weeping, the kind that came from a place of deep, unspeakable grief. His soul¡ªshe imagined it hollowed out, an empty void where all things he had once believed in, the armour he once wore as both protection and purpose, had shattered. The thought of him like that¡ªlost, questioning everything, questioning himself¡ªwas unbearable. Her throat tightened. I can¡¯t leave him in there alone. The words burned in her chest, but they felt like a betrayal, like a cruel denial of everything she was born to be. She could feel the phantom weight of a crown on her brow, heavier than ever before. It seemed to mock her, reminding her that this was the cost of being queen. Her own brother¡ªher only remaining family¡ªhad just become another casualty in this game she played. But then, before she could reach for the door, Serben¡¯s hand shot out, gripping her arm with a force that completely startled her. His fingers dug into her skin, and he yanked her back. She stumbled into him, her pulse quickening as his green eyes¡ªpiercing, unwavering¡ªlocked onto hers with an intensity that froze her in place. ''No!'' Serben said, his voice low, fierce, and firm. Sofia tried blinking away her tears. She never would¡¯ve expected this¡ªfor him to pull her away, as if she were a child running blindly toward danger. His gaze bore into her, his mouth set in a hard line, but there was something else there too, a vulnerability¡ªjust a flicker¡ªthat softened his expression. ''I understand your pain, truly I do.'' His grip on her arm loosened, but he didn¡¯t release her. ''You¡¯ve made a great step today. You¡¯ve made your first choice as queen.'' He paused, his gaze never wavering. ''And believe me, it doesn¡¯t get any easier.'' Sofia¡¯s chest tightened at the weight of his words, but the agony of seeing Luis in such torment eclipsed everything else. The image of him, shattered and alone, rattled in her mind, refusing to be silenced. She shook her head, unable to silence the echo of his cries, the raw, fractured look in his eyes she could never erase. How could I leave him now? Serben¡¯s voice dropped, becoming softer, but no less resolute. ''You do not need to do any of this alone. I will help you in any way I can. But your brother cannot. Not anymore.'' Serben¡¯s words were a bitter reminder. Luis was no longer the man he had been. He was something else now¡ªbroken, lost, and clinging to a past that no longer existed. And though it tore her apart to admit it, Serben was right. I am the queen now, Sofia thought, fighting to banish her brother from her mind. I need to focus. Sofia wiped away the tears that had begun to trickle down her cheeks, feeling the sting of their salt against her skin. She looked up at Serben, her gaze unsteady, but determined. She had no choice. She couldn¡¯t afford to falter. Not now. Not when so much was at stake. ''Now, if you feel strong enough,'' Serben said, ''Lord Gallo and I would like to discuss something with you in the council chamber.'' Sofia wiped away the tears from her face. ''Lead the way, Lord Serben.'' Serben gave her a nod, his expression softening just slightly, though there was still that unwavering resolve in his eyes. Without another word, he turned and began walking, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. Sofia followed, though each step felt heavier than the last. The further they walked from Luis¡¯ room, the greater the pull in her chest, as though the very air around her was urging her to turn back, to return to him, to fix what she had broken, to undo the damage. But she forced herself to keep moving, the burden of duty settling on her shoulders like a suffocating cloak. She couldn¡¯t afford to waver now. Her father was dead, her kingdom teetered on the brink of war, her brother was lost in his own despair, and Jacques¡ªJacques was still out there, free, despite everything he¡¯d promised her, sworn to her. Her kingdom was at the mercy of forces she couldn¡¯t control, and if she was to lead it, she had to rise above personal loss, above everything. She had to bear the weight of the crown. Sofia and Serben navigated the palace halls in heavy silence, their footsteps echoing like distant drumbeats against the polished wooden floor. The flickering light from mounted torches cast wavering shadows along the walls, lending the corridor an eerie, almost oppressive quality. The faint hum of muffled voices came from somewhere ahead, growing louder as they approached the council chamber. They entered a narrow passage adorned with stained-glass windows. Moonlight filtered through the coloured panes, painting fractured rainbows on the floor. The effect was hauntingly beautiful, though Sofia barely noticed. Her thoughts were heavy, her chest still tight from the weight of her brother¡¯s anguish. Serben reached for the council chamber door and pushed it open with deliberate care. The hinges creaked, but something sharper drowned out the sound¡ªa steady, rhythmic thumping. Sofia froze, her heart pounding as the noise grew louder. She stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping past Serben to the source of the sound. A chair stood in the centre of the chamber, its wooden legs scraping slightly against the stone floor with each impact. Tied to it was Carles, a young servant boy, barely in his adolescence. His head hung low, his face flushed, but the red mark blooming across his cheek told Sofia everything. Lord Gallo loomed over him, his face twisted in a scowl. His gloved hand swung again with a sickening crack that echoed in the chamber. Carles flinched, his muffled whimper cutting through Sofia¡¯s heart like a blade. ''My Lord!'' Sofia shouted, her voice breaking the spell. She thrust herself forward, her eyes wide with shock. Gallo froze mid-strike, his arm hovering in the air like a predator caught in the act. Slowly, he turned toward her, his breath ragged and his expression cold. ''Your Majesty,'' he said, lowering his arm with a reluctant stiffness. ''What is the meaning of this?'' Sofia demanded, her voice sharp but tinged with disbelief. She could feel the heat rising to her face, her shock quickly giving way to blazing fury. ''This boy,'' Lord Gallo growled, his teeth grinding audibly as he poked a leather-clad finger at Carles, ''has been sending letters to Sir Orchis Vortigon of the Galian royal guard. Every one of our movements¡ªevery strategy¡ªwas in their hands before we could act!'' The boy raised his head, his face streaked with tears and blood. ''I never, Your Majesty! I never!'' he croaked, his voice cracking with desperation. ''Quiet, boy!'' Gallo roared, backhanding him across the face with another sickening smack. ¡®Stop hitting him!'' Sofia¡¯s voice exploded, reverberating off the chamber walls with a force that stunned even her. The fury that surged through her felt volcanic, her body trembling with the effort to restrain herself. She fixed Lord Gallo with a glare so fierce it made even the battle-hardened lord falter. Gallo took a step back, his jaw clenched so tight it looked as though it might shatter. ''Your Majesty,'' he said, his tone dripping with barely concealed venom, ''this little wretch¡ª'' ''Is just a boy!'' Sofia interrupted, her voice laced with disgust. She stepped closer, her presence filling the room despite her comparatively slight frame. ''I will not stand by and watch you brutalise a child in my hall. Do you understand me? Step. Away.'' For a tense moment, Lord Gallo¡¯s eyes burned into hers, defiance flickering behind them. Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned on his heel, stalking a few steps away like a dog reluctantly leaving a bone. ''Thank you, my lord,'' Sofia said coldly, though her gaze never left him. Gallo sneered, his lip curling as he reached into his breast pocket. ''You may want to reconsider your sympathy, Your Majesty,'' he said, his voice low and cutting. He withdrew a crumpled piece of parchment and held it out toward her. ''This was found in his quarters.'' Sofia hesitated, her eyes narrowing. She took the note with trembling fingers, her palms damp as she smoothed it out. Sir Orchis, I have disposed of Prince Rickard¡¯s body the best I could, but I know it will never compare to the loss Galia has received from his death. I assure you, however, that I will remain your loyal servant and will update you on Queen Sofia¡¯s future plans as soon as I can. Carles. Sofia¡¯s vision blurred as a fresh wave of anger surged through her. She lifted her head from the letter, her eyes blazing as they bore into the boy tied to the chair before her. ''Why?'' she demanded, her voice cold and cutting, yet trembling with suppressed rage Carles looked up at her, his face pale and streaked with sweat. His bottom lip trembled so violently he seemed incapable of speaking. His wide, terrified eyes darted between Sofia and Lord Gallo, as though searching for some shred of mercy in either of them. ''I never meant to hurt anyone¡ª'' ''Yet you did,'' Sofia snapped, stepping closer, the letter trembling in her hands. Her voice rose, each word laced with fury. ''Good men are dead because of you. My brother lies wounded¡ªcrippled¡ªbecause of you. So I ask, for the final time...'' She paused, her voice dropping to a low, icy tone that seemed to drain the air from the room. ''Why did you do it?'' The boy¡¯s sobs shook his thin frame, his words breaking into ragged gasps as he looked up at Sofia with wide, tear-streaked eyes. ''He promised¡­ he promised I¡¯d be a lord one day,'' he choked out, his voice trembling. ''A lord of a huge castle, with gold and jewels to last for generations, he did.'' Sofia felt a surge of disbelief and anger welling inside her. The naivety, the blind greed¡ªit was almost too much to bear. Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she stared down at the boy, who seemed so small, so utterly pathetic in the confines of the wooden chair. ''He can¡¯t promise you anything, you idiot,'' she snapped. ''He¡¯s a royal guard! Not a king, not a lord. He has nothing to offer you but lies!'' Carles flinched as though she had struck him, his face twisting with fresh fear. ''Please¡­'' he whimpered, his voice barely audible. ''Please, my queen¡­ I beg you. Don¡¯t kill me.'' ''He¡¯s committed treason, Your Majesty,'' Gallo said, his words heavy with finality. ''The law is clear. There is only one punishment for treason.'' Sofia¡¯s jaw tightened. She could feel Lord Gallo¡¯s eyes on her, as if daring her to waver. Her father¡¯s voice echoed in her mind¡ªcalm, resolute, unyielding in matters of justice. For all his wisdom and mercy, King Geraldo II had never hesitated to dispense the ultimate punishment when the crime demanded it. Treason was the highest of crimes. It threatened not just the throne, but the kingdom itself. And yet¡­ Her gaze fell on Carles again. He wasn¡¯t a hardened criminal or a calculating traitor. He was just a boy¡ªnowhere near a man¡ªcaught in the tangled web of someone else¡¯s deceit. She had heard of Sir Orchis Vortigon, the infamous Hawk Knight. His tongue was as sharp as his blade, a silver instrument capable of weaving lies into promises so enticing that even the strongest minds faltered. Carles would have been no match for him. He¡¯s no player. He¡¯s just a pawn. If that were true, then executing Carles would do little to bring her closer to her true enemy. Perhaps, she thought, there¡¯s another way. Could she turn this pawn into a weapon against its master? Could she use Carles to unravel Sir Orchis¡¯ network, to prepare herself for the conflict to come? Doubt gnawed at her. Is this justice? Am I letting sentiment cloud me, or am I doing the right thing? The weight of the decision pressed down on her, heavier than the crown she wore. Sofia turned toward Lord Serben, her voice steady but quiet. ''Lord Serben,'' she said, her tone carrying a faint edge of hesitation. ''I¡¯d like to discuss something with you¡­ outside this room.'' Lord Serben raised an eyebrow, his gaze searching her face as if questioning why this conversation couldn¡¯t take place in Lord Gallo¡¯s presence. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he gave a curt nod nonetheless. Without a word, Serben stepped forward, his hand gripping the door handle. The hinges creaked, the sound sharp in the heavy silence, as he propped it open and gestured for Sofia to step through. The air in the hallway was cooler, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat that had seemed to build in the council chamber. Sofia stepped into the corridor, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady her breathing. Behind her, the door shut with a resounding bang, the echo reverberating down the stone walls like the toll of a distant bell. For a moment, she stood still, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, fingers digging into the fabric of her mother¡¯s gown. The weight of everything threatened to crush her, but she refused to let it show. She straightened her back, forcing herself to stand tall, even as her heart raced. ''The war has already started, hasn¡¯t it?'' she asked, her voice quiet but firm, though dread coiled in her stomach like a living thing. Serben¡¯s face darkened. He reached into his pocket, his movements deliberate, and withdrew a folded scrap of brown parchment. With careful precision, he placed it in her hands. ''A raven came this morning,'' he said solemnly. Sofia unfolded the parchment, her fingers trembling slightly. The ink was dark and hastily scrawled, a message chilling in its simplicity. The King is on the move. Her heart sank as she read the words, the ominous weight of their meaning settling heavily on her shoulders. She looked up at Serben, searching his face for any hint of hope, but his expression remained grim. ''King Rickard is moving with his forces,'' Serben explained, his voice low, deliberate. ''After the death of his heir, he has declared war on our country. He¡¯s ready to tear us apart, and he won¡¯t stop until he¡¯s satisfied.'' Sofia¡¯s breath hitched. The hall seemed to grow colder, the air thick with the spectre of the coming storm. In her mind, the looming figure of King Rickard took shape, larger than life, his shadow stretching over her kingdom. She had heard the stories¡ªeveryone had. King Rickard Rue, the man who had crushed King Jacob Ayasem, one of the most powerful rulers in history. And now Sofia had taken his son from him. Her stomach twisted with a mix of fear and fury. She wanted to cry out, to curse the Gods for putting her in this impossible position, for setting her kingdom on a collision course with one of the most dangerous men alive. But more than that, she wanted to curse Jacques. Jacques. The name sent a surge of boiling anger coursing through her veins, burning away the chill that had settled there moments before. She could still see his face in her mind¡¯s eye, those blue eyes glinting with false innocence as he swore to her¡ªswore¡ªthat he hadn¡¯t killed her father. The memory of his lies twisted like a knife in her chest. He had played her, manipulating her grief, her trust, her desperation for answers. And now he was gone, a phantom slipping through the cracks, leaving nothing but chaos in his wake. She thought of her brother, Luis, lying broken and bloodied after he tried to stop Jacques from escaping. The image burned itself into her mind: the pale, desperate look in his eyes, the crimson spreading across his clothes, his body a shattered remnant of the man he once was. Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The fury inside her was almost too much to contain. ''I am the blood of the dove,'' she whispered under her breath, the words a mantra, a reminder. Her father¡¯s dying words, her legacy. She could feel it coursing through her veins like molten iron. And the blood of the dove runs thick. If Galia¡¯s king would strike the first blow, Eastamere¡¯s queen would need to meet it with her own¡ªand strike harder. She would not allow hesitation to undermine her. ''I have an idea,'' she said, her voice steady, though the weight of her plan threatened to crush her. ''But I didn¡¯t want to go through with it without consulting you first.'' Lord Serben regarded her with a measured gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he nodded for her to continue. ''I intend to use the boy, Carles, as a ruse,'' she began, each word carefully chosen as if they were stepping stones across a monster-infested river. ''I will let him return to his masters, allow him to believe he has escaped justice. From there, we will stage a diversion¡ªmake it seem as though our focus is entirely on meeting King Rickard¡¯s forces in the field.'' She paused, her heart pounding, before adding, ''But while the royal army holds him there, I will flank his kingdom with a fleet of ships and strike at his capital directly.'' The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. Lord Serben¡¯s expression remained unreadable, his sharp green eyes fixed on her as he considered her proposal. ''And what fleet will we use for this?'' he asked, his tone calm but probing. Sofia hesitated for a fraction of a second, then forced herself to draw upon the endless hours spent poring over the mountains of parchments littering her desk. There, buried in the tedium of debts, taxes, and complaints, she had found her answer. ''Lord Barcen¡¯s fleet,'' she said. The memory of the report sprang to mind¡ªLord Barcen¡¯s colossal debt to the crown, the fortune he owed after years of skimming taxes and hoarding resources. ''It¡¯s said his fleet is one of the finest in the world. If he owes the crown a debt, that debt will be my key to securing his ships.'' Serben¡¯s brows shot up, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual stoicism. ''The Barcen fleet,'' he repeated, stroking his pointed chin thoughtfully. His silence stretched for a moment, the faint sound of distant footsteps echoing through the hall. ''So, what do you think?'' Sofia asked, her voice steady, though her hands clasped tightly in front of her, betraying her nerves. She hoped for Lord Serben¡¯s approval, yet his silence stretched unbearably long. He kept stroking his chin, the movement slow, as if each passing moment weighed her idea further down into the depths of absurdity. Finally, he exhaled, breaking the silence. ''I warn you, Your Majesty,'' he said, his tone measured, ''the Barcens are not like us. They are shrewd, ruthless, and relentless in their dealings. They drive a hard bargain, and I promise you, they will not treat you with the respect your position warrants. Are you certain you can convince Lord Barcen to give up his fleet? It won¡¯t come cheap, nor without its humiliations.'' The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Sofia¡¯s stomach twisted. She wasn¡¯t certain¡ªfar from it. Negotiation wasn¡¯t something she¡¯d been trained for, especially with stakes this high. If Lord Barcen¡¯s fleet was her key to success, what would happen if her crown wasn¡¯t enough to sway him? She had no second option. The thought was a cold dagger pressing against her confidence. ''What do you suggest?'' she asked, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. Serben¡¯s lips tightened, his gaze hardening. ''We fight,'' he said, his voice like a hammer striking iron. ''You take the royal army to the border. Show King Rickard that Eastamere will not surrender a single inch of its soil. Show him¡ªand your soldiers¡ªthat Queen Sofia Paloma is worth fighting for.'' The simplicity of his answer left her breathless. Fight? That was what kings did in times of war, what her father did. He didn¡¯t plead; he didn¡¯t negotiate. He led. But me? The thought of marching to the border with an army at her back, men ready to lay down their lives for her, filled her body with dread. ''But King Rickard has defeated far fiercer enemies than me,'' she said, her voice faltering. ''I would be asking men to die for me¡ªfor a cause we might not win.'' Serben¡¯s expression didn¡¯t soften. If anything, it sharpened, his words coming with brutal frankness. ''As you should,'' he said. ''You¡¯re their queen. They should be honoured to die for you.'' The statement hit her like a slap. Honoured to die for me? The image of her soldiers flashed through her mind¡ªyoung men in dented armour, fathers leaving crying children behind, boys no older than Carles, who had yet to taste the fullness of life. The idea of their blood staining the battlefield in her name made her stomach churn violently. Would they truly find honour in such a sacrifice? Or will that honour be something I¡¯ll tell myself when I send them to their deaths? She clenched her fists. If she faltered now, the kingdom would falter with her. Yet doubt gnawed at her. ''The odds are stacked against us, Serben,'' she said quietly. ''If I make the wrong choice, the consequences could be catastrophic. I can¡¯t¡ª'' She caught herself before saying I can¡¯t do this alone, but the words hung unspoken in her mind, filling the silence like a plea. Serben¡¯s gaze softened, just slightly. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. ''You¡¯re right to be afraid, Sofia,'' he said. ''A leader who isn¡¯t afraid in the face of such odds is either a fool or a tyrant. But fear doesn¡¯t have to paralyse you. It can be a weapon. Let it guide you, sharpen your decisions, and drive you forward. If you lead with conviction, the men will follow, even into the jaws of death.'' Sofia took a steadying breath, forcing herself to meet his piercing gaze. ''Very well,'' she said at last, the words leaving her lips like a solemn vow. ''I¡¯ll do it. I¡¯ll join the army at the border. But I¡¯ll need as much support as I can get.'' Serben bowed deeply, his movements deliberate and respectful. ''And you shall have it, Your Majesty,'' he said. ''The army will be ready to march at your command.'' ''Good.'' If Sofia let Carles go now, the wheels of her plan would be set irreversibly in motion. There would be no second chances, no opportunity to undo the consequences if she was wrong. Her stomach twisted as the weight of the decision bore down on her shoulders, heavy as the crown itself. She forced her trembling fingers to still. The stakes were impossibly high¡ªKing Rickard¡¯s reputation as a ruthless warlord the stuff of legends, and every moment they delayed gave him an advantage she could not afford to concede. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the heavy wooden door open; the hinges groaning like mourners at a funeral. The dim council chamber was still as a tomb, save for the shallow, uneven breaths of Carles, tied to the chair in the centre of the room. The boy¡¯s wide, tear-filled eyes darted toward her as she entered, his trembling body shrinking into itself as if he could disappear into the chair. Lord Gallo stood a few feet away, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the boy. His lips were pressed into a hard, disapproving line, his hands clasped behind his back, though the tension in his posture betrayed his readiness to act at a moment¡¯s notice. Sofia¡¯s gaze flicked between them, her heart pounding as she forced herself to exude the calm authority she didn¡¯t quite feel. Behind her, she exchanged one final glance with Lord Serben. His expression was steady, his sharp green eyes meeting hers with unwavering confidence. He gave her a single nod¡ªsmall, but firm, a silent message: You are the queen. There was no turning back now. Sofia stopped just short of Carles, close enough to see the fresh tracks of tears streaking his dirt-smudged cheeks, close enough to hear his shallow, hitching breaths. The boy¡¯s lips quivered, his throat convulsing as though he wanted to speak but couldn¡¯t find the words. Her voice, when it came, was soft but sharp as a dagger. ''Look at me, Carles.'' The boy flinched, hesitating before lifting his gaze to meet hers. His watery brown eyes were filled with equal parts fear and desperation, his pleas laid bare in his eyes. Sofia leaned in, speaking low enough that only he could hear. ''Please,'' the boy wept, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. Tears streaked his dirt-smudged cheeks, falling freely onto his torn tunic. ''Please don¡¯t kill me.'' Sofia stared down at Carles, her chest tightening at the sight of him¡ªa boy so young, so consumed by terror that he could hardly hold himself upright in the chair. But she could not falter. Not now. The Queen¡¯s mask of composure was all she had left to keep her from drowning in the chaos swirling around her. Her jaw tightened as she drew a steadying breath, forcing herself to remember the plan. ''If you were a man,'' Sofia began, ''I¡¯d have you executed without a second thought. But you¡¯re not. You¡¯re just a boy¡ªyoung, foolish, and too easily swayed by the promises of men who see you as nothing more than a tool.'' Carles lifted his head, his tear-filled eyes widening with a spark of hope. It made her sick to see, to know she was about to send him back into the lion¡¯s den, but she kept her composure. She had no choice. ''I do not take pleasure in seeing children¡¯s heads mounted on the gates of my city,'' she continued, her tone sharp and deliberate. ''So instead, I will spare you. You will return to your masters in Galia and deliver a message for me.'' Sofia took a moment to let her shadow fall over Carles like a shroud. He flinched as she dropped her voice down to a deadly whisper. ''Tell them this: I will not forget what they did to my father. I will not forget what they did to my brother. And I will never forget what they have done to me.'' Her words seethed with quiet rage, each syllable cutting like a blade. ''Tell them I will meet them at the border with twenty thousand men at my back, and I will see if their dog of a king, Rickard Rue, has the teeth to match me. Do you understand?'' Carles nodded frantically, his head bobbing like a puppet on loose strings. ''Y-Yes, Your Majesty. I¡¯ll tell them. I¡¯ll tell them everything, I swear.'' The sound of boots echoed in the chamber, heavy and deliberate. Lord Gallo¡¯s shadow grew long across the stone floor as he stepped forward. ''My Queen, this is an outrage!'' he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. ''This boy is a traitor! A traitor! He deserves a traitor¡¯s death!'' ''Lord Gallo,'' Sofia said, abruptly turning to face him, ''You will accompany myself and Lord Serben to the border. Your experience and input will be vital in the days to come.'' She allowed a small, deliberate pause, her gaze boring into him. ''I trust you will not disappoint me.'' Gallo opened his mouth, his face flushed with indignation, but Sofia had already turned away, dismissing him without a second glance. ''Serben,'' she said, her voice lighter now, but no less commanding, ''find Sir Aurelio and instruct him to escort Carles to the city gates. From there, the boy is on his own.'' Serben¡¯s eyes glinted with approval, the faintest hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. He bowed his head. ''As you say, Your Majesty.'' Carles sobbed softly, his shoulders shaking as the reality of his situation must have sank in. Sofia didn¡¯t spare him another glance. Her heart was a battlefield, torn between the guilt clawing at her chest and the fierce determination to see her kingdom survive. This decision would haunt her¡ªCarles¡¯ fate, the lives that would be lost in the war ahead¡ªbut she buried those thoughts deep. There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now. As Serben moved to carry out her orders and Gallo muttered curses under his breath, Sofia stood tall, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon beyond the chamber¡¯s stained-glass windows. The light streaming through painted her face in hues of red and gold, like a queen built for peace being melted down and forged into something new, into an engine of war. ''May the Gods guide my hand,'' she murmured under her breath, her voice a prayer and a curse all at once. Then, with one final glance toward Carles, she turned and strode from the room, the echoes of her footsteps carrying her toward the storm to come. Chapter XIII- The Knight With A Hawks Eyes The serving girl stood frozen near the door to Jacques¡¯ bedroom, her wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she trembled before him. Her hands twisted the hem of her apron, knuckles white. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the golden sheen of the morning light filtering through heavy drapes. Jacques paced the length of his bedroom, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. Each deliberate step echoed in the almost silent chamber, broken by the girl¡¯s shivering gasps. Her small figure seemed to shrink further into itself with every turn he made. Jacques stopped abruptly. ''What was your name again?'' He tried to make his voice sound calm, almost gentle, but it must have carried an edge as the girl flinched, as if he¡¯d struck her. ''D-D-Dyana, Your Grace,'' she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Jacques tilted his head slightly, allowing the name to hang between them for a moment before he spoke again. ''And you¡¯re sure that you saw Sir Bryce Howard take my sword from my chambers, Dyana?'' Jacques studied the serving girl carefully, noting every tremor in her slight hands, every flicker of her frightened eyes. She¡¯s absolutely terrified of me. The thought struck him like a dull blow to the face, and he turned away, his pacing resuming. He couldn¡¯t blame her. She hadn¡¯t come of her own volition. Two of his knights had escorted her here¡ªSir Osgar Sterling, The Golden Knight, and Sir Robert Bickerton, The Iron Knight, whose grips were as unyielding as stone. They had flanked her like sentinels as they brought her into his chambers, their dark, armoured presence ensuring she could not slip away. Jacques had tried to offer an apology, a quiet attempt to soothe her nerves, but the girl had barely met his gaze. She had looked at him the way she might have looked at a snarling dog¡ªready to rip her to pieces. Would she be so afraid if it were Mirielle¡¯s pretty face questioning her and not my ugly one? The bitter thought gnawed at him, and his jaw tightened. Mirielle had been blessed with a beauty that made many a courtier swoon, a face that put even Sofia to shame. He, on the other hand... Jacques knew all too well the stories whispered in the halls: that he was a devil, born wrong, traded for his mother, the purest of souls. Perhaps Dyana had come to believe those stories as well. Sir Orchis had been the one to inform Jacques that the girl had information for him. A thread, The Hawk Knight had called it, something to pull at until the truth unravelled. But this thread was frayed, fragile, and Jacques had the uneasy feeling that one wrong pull could snap it entirely. ''Dyana.'' Jacques¡¯ voice softened, but his words were slow, each syllable cutting through the tension in the room. ''Tell me everything you saw. Spare no detail.'' Dyana¡¯s wide, tear-brimmed eyes darted frantically around the room, seeking any safe haven from Jacques¡¯ gaze. Her thin shoulders shook, and the tears that dripped onto the floor formed tiny, dark stains on the cold stone beneath her. ''Y-Yes, Your Grace,'' she stammered, her voice faltering as she forced herself to speak. ''I saw Sir Bryce enter your chambers late at night. He took the sword and left quickly.'' Her words hung in the room like a storm cloud ready to burst, and a knot tightened in Jacques¡¯ gut. Dyana¡¯s trembling crippled her, her body folding in on itself as though she expected the floor to swallow her whole. The sound of her choked sobs echoed faintly off the walls, cutting through Jacques like a sweeping scythe. And then it struck him¡ªa sudden, sobering realisation. It isn¡¯t me she¡¯s terrified of. His pacing stopped abruptly, and he softened his stance, letting his rigid composure ease. He crouched slightly, lowering himself just enough to meet her eye level, keeping his face calm as Mirielle¡¯s smug grin flashed through his mind. ''I promise you,'' he whispered, his voice as soothing as he could make it, ''you will not suffer for your bravery.'' The girl¡¯s watery gaze flicked to his, hesitantly at first, as though testing the truth of his words. Jacques held still, refusing to break eye contact, willing her to see that he was no threat. He stayed rooted in place, his breath steady, waiting. To his relief, the terror in Dyana¡¯s gaze shifted¡ªjust a fraction. The trembling slowed, her breathing evened. She looked at him fully now, tears still shining on her cheeks, but her posture began to straighten. When she spoke, her words carried a tremor but also a surprising amount of strength, as if she¡¯d drawn courage from his reassurance. ''I knew it to be Sir Bryce,'' she said quietly, ''because he smelled of peaches, Your Grace.'' Jacques smiled, taking some humour in the detail. He remembered how the fool¡ªa knight, pompous and stoic¡ªtainted himself with that stench, leaving the smell wherever he walked. But Dyana wasn¡¯t done. ''I¡­ I was caught seeing Sir Bryce take your sword,'' she continued, her words quickening as though she¡¯d bottled them up for too long, ''and I was threatened. At knife-point. He said if I ever spoke of it, if I even breathed a word, I would never see my family again.'' Her voice cracked at the mention of her family, and Jacques¡¯ jaw tightened. He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to keep his composure. Beneath the rage towards Mirielle beginning to smoulder within him, he recognised the girl¡¯s bravery¡ªhow much strength it must have taken for her to confess, knowing what was at stake. Threatened at knife point. Jacques tried to keep the smile from his face as he imagined who could have done such a thing. I¡¯ve got you, Mirielle. ''Who was it that threatened you?'' Jacques asked, his voice steady, though his chest tightened with anticipation. He already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from her lips. Dyana¡¯s confidence faltered, her breaths crawling out in jagged, uneven gasps, each one breaking apart into a quiet sob. Her hands trembled as they clutched her dress, her knuckles white. Tears carved paths down her dirt-streaked cheeks, and her whole frame seemed to collapse in on itself as though the weight of the world had finally crushed her. ''Please¡­'' she whispered, the words barely audible, choked by her grief and terror. ''Your Grace¡­ I beg of you¡­'' Jacques¡¯ heart ached at the sight of her, the raw helplessness, the pleading in her eyes. But he could not relent. The fire of resolve burned within him. Her fear was a dagger pointed at her throat, and if he didn¡¯t act now, the blade would fall. He took a slow step closer, his voice lowering to a gentleness that felt at odds with the urgency pounding in his chest. ''I will never let anything happen to you,'' he said, each word poised, a promise forged in steel. ''You¡¯ve already met The Iron Knight, Sir Robert Bickerton, haven¡¯t you?'' Dyana gave the faintest of nods, her chin trembling as she fought to keep from breaking completely. ''Good. He will escort you home. From there, he will take you and your family somewhere safe, somewhere the Queen Regent¡ªor whatever she likes to call herself¡ªcan¡¯t reach you.'' Her eyes rose slowly, hesitantly, meeting his. They were pools of terror and doubt, and Jacques felt the weight of her unspoken questions: Is he deceiving me? Can he really protect me? Can he keep his word? The door creaked open behind them, and a massive shadow spilled across the room. Dyana flinched, her body stiffening as though expecting an attack. Jacques turned to see Sir Robert Bickerton enter, his hulking frame nearly scraping the door. His black armour caught the light, giving him the appearance of an onyx sentinel, a fortress of flesh and steel. Despite his formidable presence, his face wore a kind, almost fatherly smile, as though using it to shield himself against the knightly burdens he carried. Dyana twisted around to face him, her fear magnified now in the presence of another dark figure. Her shoulders trembled, the sound of her shuddering breaths filling the silence. ''So,'' Jacques said, adding the first hint of a chill into his voice, ''who was it who threatened you?'' Dyana froze, her lips parting wordlessly. Her eyes darted toward Sir Robert, then back to Jacques, searching for something¡ªreassurance, maybe. Absolution? Courage? Finally, her bottom lip quivered, and her voice came out as a fragile whisper, barely carrying across the room. ''Sir¡­ Sir Mandon Jubilee.'' Excitement coursed through Jacques¡¯ veins like a firestorm, warring with the grim weight of his resolve. ''Sir Robert,'' he said, ''you have your orders. Take Lady Dyana and her family to safety while I deal with the Jubilees.'' The Iron Knight dipped his head in a formal bow, his massive frame rigid with focus. ''Aye, Your Grace.'' For a moment, the room stilled, a heavy silence settling over them like the calm before a storm. Jacques stood as tall as he could, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on Dyana. Sir Robert mirrored his stance, but his expression softened ever so slightly as he looked at the frightened girl. Dyana, however, remained frozen. Her slender frame quaked with hesitation, her feet rooted to the ground as though the air itself had turned to stone. Slowly, she turned back toward Jacques, her wide, tear-brimmed eyes locking onto his. ''Your Grace¡­'' she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible. The fear in her gaze was a knife twisting in Jacques¡¯ chest. There was trust there, fragile as glass, but also a desperate plea. Don¡¯t send me away. Don¡¯t abandon me. Jacques softened his posture, his tone slipping into one of quiet reassurance. ''I gave you a promise, didn¡¯t I?'' he said, taking a step forward. ''Sir Robert will keep you safe now. You must trust him. Please.'' Dyana¡¯s lips parted as if to argue, but she stopped herself, her shoulders sagging in defeat. With a reluctant nod, she finally turned away, her movements slow and hesitant, like a deer venturing into an open clearing. Jacques watched as she crept toward the bedroom door, every step weighted with uncertainty. The door clicked softly as it closed behind her, and Jacques exhaled, allowing himself a brief moment of relief. His lips curled into a small, satisfied smile, though the expression was tinged with exhaustion. Finally, he had something solid, something tangible to expose Mirielle¡¯s guilt. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, and it was all thanks to The Hawk Knight. His thoughts darkened as the name echoed in his mind. Sir Orchis Vortigon, with his sharp wit and sharper blades, had always been his father¡¯s tool of necessity. Jacques disliked the man¡ªloathed him, even¡ªbut he could not deny the value of his work. The Hawk Knight had a way of uncovering truths buried beneath layers of lies, and today, that skill had borne fruit. Jacques clenched his fists behind his back, the fleeting satisfaction hardening into cold resolve. Mirielle. The name tasted bitter, as though her very existence had poisoned the air around him. Her machinations had wormed their way into every corner of his father¡¯s court, every crack of King Rickard¡¯s iron-clad rule. She had already stolen too much¡ªloyalty, trust, lives. He would not let her take anything more. A sudden knock on the door broke his thoughts. ''Your Grace¡­'' Sir Orchis¡¯ voice carried through the thick wooden door, clipped yet tinged with amusement. Jacques let out a heavy sigh, the weight of a thousand sleepless nights pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. Could he not have one moment of peace? Just one fleeting moment to breathe, to think, to feel something other than the relentless press of duty and vengeance? Peace. The word felt foreign now, a phantom from another life. His mind, unbidden, drifted to a memory he had no business holding onto. The golden dove of the Palomas flashed before him, its wings catching the sunlight like fire. Sofia¡¯s laughter followed, rich and uninhibited, a sound that had made the world seem a tad brighter once. He saw her as she was that night¡ªher cheeks flushed from stolen wine, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her brown eyes dancing with mischief as they traded tales below the deck of a creaking ship. It had been so easy to believe in something better then, even with danger lurking just beyond the horizon. Jacques shook his head sharply, as though banishing the thought physically would erase the ache it left in his chest. Foolish. Sofia was a luxury he could not afford. Not now. Not ever again. Any chance of peace had died with his brother. Jacques opened his door, only to be met by Sir Orchis¡¯ light brown eyes. The knight smiled at him. ''Good morning, Your Grace.'' ''Good morning,'' Jacques said through gritted teeth. ''How did it go with our little informant?'' ''Mirielle definitely had my brother killed,'' Jacques answered bluntly. For a moment, the air seemed to still, the gravity of Jacques¡¯ words hanging between them. Then Sir Orchis chuckled¡ªa low, theatrical sound that grated on Jacques¡¯ nerves like nails on stone. ''Very good indeed,'' Sir Orchis said, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm, as if they were discussing the weather rather than the confirmation of matricide. His eyes glinted with satisfaction, though whether it was from the revelation or the prospect of further chaos, Jacques couldn¡¯t tell. Perhaps both. ''Well,'' Sir Orchis continued, breaking the moment with a dramatic sigh, ''I do apologise for interrupting your triumph, Your Grace. But I came to remind you of your meeting with the wine merchant.'' Jacques blinked, his jaw slackening for a split second before the realisation hit him like a wet fish. ''Fuck me!'' he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. ''I¡¯d forgotten about that.'' ''I¡¯d gathered you did,'' Sir Orchis replied, his tone teetering on the edge of smugness. ''I¡¯ll escort you, but we¡¯ll need to be quick about it. Would you like Sir Osgar to join us?'' Jacques hesitated, his mind flickering to the man in question. Sir Osgar, The Golden Knight¡ªhis reputation as valued as his title. As a boy of ten, Sir Osgar had been managing his father¡¯s sprawling estates with a deftness that put seasoned stewards to shame. By twenty, he was a knight of King Rickard¡¯s royal guard, and the sole handler of the crown¡¯s coffers, unearthing lost revenues and turning debts into surplus. His name carried a weight among the nobles, whispered in awe and sometimes resentment: a financial savant, sharp as his blade in matters of coin. Jacques clenched his jaw. Sir Osgar¡¯s brilliance was undeniable, but it also served as a reminder¡ªa reminder of what Jacques wasn¡¯t. The kingdom wasn¡¯t looking to him for brilliance; they were looking for a lifeline, a rock amid the storm. And yet, doubt lingered in the corners of his mind, whispering the same question that had haunted him since the day his brother fell: Can you be what they need now? He forced the thought aside. He had to be. There was no other choice. ''No,'' Jacques said at last, his voice firm. ''Let¡¯s leave Sir Osgar to his coins. I¡¯ll handle this myself.'' Sir Orchis tilted his head, studying him for a beat longer than Jacques liked, as though weighing the truth of his words. ''As you say,'' he replied with a nod, his tone unreadable. The Hawk Knight turned for the door, his steps unnervingly silent, as if the shadows themselves carried him. Jacques watched him go, his hands clasped behind his back to mask the tension building there. When Sir Orchis reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. Jacques expected a parting remark¡ªsome sly jab or half-hidden warning¡ªbut Sir Orchis said nothing. Instead, he pulled the door closed behind him with a quiet finality. The click of the latch echoed through the room, louder than it should have been, ringing in the charged silence that followed. Jacques exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging for a moment before he straightened again, drawing himself up. The weight of the mantle he now bore pressed heavily on him, an invisible but unrelenting burden. He didn¡¯t have the luxury of failure¡ªor weakness. Every decision, every deal, every interaction was another stone in the fragile wall he was building to hold back the tide of chaos. Jacques stripped off his clothes in silence, as though peeling away the weight of his grief. He poured himself a bath, letting cool water rush into his tub, the sound filling the room like a soothing current. Leaning over the edge, he watched as the water rippled and climbed, its surface shimmering in the soft morning light. Steam wasn¡¯t needed today; the crispness of the air demanded something sharper. The first touch of the icy water made his muscles seize, a gasp catching in his throat. The cold bit into his skin, chasing away the lingering haze of exhaustion. He hesitated for a moment before easing himself in, the chill washing over him like a sudden shock. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts until his body began to adjust. Slowly, the tension that had knotted his shoulders, his back, his chest, began to unwind. The cold didn¡¯t just numb; it cleansed, drawing out the poison of doubt and frustration. The sun¡¯s golden rays crept through the window, dappling the surface of the water with streaks of warm light. The contrast was almost jarring¡ªwarmth above, chill below. He picked up one of the purple soaps, its scent of lavender thick and heady. Rubbing it across his skin, he watched the lather form, white and fleeting, before dissolving into the water. The fragrance filled the room, mingling with the sunlight in a strange, fragile harmony that felt almost out of place. Too elegant for such a man as me, Jacques thought bitterly, scrubbing harder. Once he had finished, he stood, droplets cascading down his body. He dried himself briskly, wrapped a towel around his waist and crossed to the wardrobe. As he opened the door, his eyes fell immediately on the familiar brown leather of Rick¡¯s old jacket. It hung there like a ghost, untouched, its folds stiff with disuse. Jacques reached out, his fingers brushing the worn fabric, and a wave of memory crashed over him. He saw Rick lying in the dark, his body slick with blood, his eyes staring into nothing. Jacques¡¯ breath hitched, the weight of it pressing against his ribs, sharp and unyielding. He shoved the jacket aside, his hand trembling. It swung on its hanger, its presence refusing to be ignored, but Jacques forced his focus elsewhere. A black leather jacket caught his eye¡ªa stark contrast to Rick¡¯s, its polished surface devoid of sentimentality. It was practical, strong, impenetrable. He pulled it on over a deep red shirt and black trousers, the leather creaking softly as it settled around him. The fit was snug, the jacket heavy but reassuring, as though it were armour. As he fastened the top button, he glanced at himself in the mirror. The black-on-red ensemble gave him the unmistakable look of the royal guard, a detail that brought a faint chuckle to his lips. At least I¡¯ll blend in with the rest of them, he thought. But the humour faded quickly, replaced by the familiar weight of his new station. His gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where a canvas rested on an easel. Aubery¡¯s unfinished portrait. The brushstrokes were bold yet incomplete, their beauty frozen in time. It was as though the painting, like so much else in his life, had been abandoned midway, suspended in the space between what could have been and what was. Will I ever get to complete it? The thought struck him with the force of a hammer, regret and determination twisting together in his chest. He turned away, shaking his head, unwilling to linger too long on things he could no longer change. This was his first week as regent king and ruler of the capital. Every move he made, every word he uttered, would be scrutinised by the ever-watchful eyes of lords, knights, and commoners alike. Jacques felt the weight of it, an unrelenting pressure coiled around his chest, tightening with each passing moment. He had to prove himself worthy¡ªnot just of the title, but of the legacy his father and brother had left behind. Failure wasn¡¯t an option; it would be a declaration of weakness, a chink in the armour his father had spent thirty-five years building. And today, the wine merchant was the first obstacle in his race to stabilise a city teetering on the brink of chaos. This man wasn¡¯t just any merchant. Jacques had meticulously prepared for this meeting, pouring over Sir Orchis¡¯ reports late into the night by candlelight. Mister Hanneburg was a name spoken with equal parts respect and wariness in the halls of commerce. Hailing from Reda, a bustling city a few days¡¯ ride east of the capital, he was said to be a titan of trade¡ªa man who had built his empire not with swords, but with silver and shrewd negotiation. Sir Osgar had examined Hanneburg¡¯s numbers with his typical precision, confirming that the wineries of Reda were unparalleled in their success. They weren¡¯t merely profitable; they dominated the kingdom¡¯s trade routes with rivers of fine vintages flowing into the pockets of nobles and merchants alike. But it wasn¡¯t just wealth that made Hanneburg dangerous¡ªit was power. As head of the Galian Merchant¡¯s Guild, he controlled a web of influence that stretched far beyond the vineyards. His decisions rippled through markets, shaping the fortunes of countless lives. Now, that man was here, in Jacques¡¯ city, sitting somewhere within the capital¡¯s stone walls, awaiting an audience with its new regent. Jacques¡¯ aim wasn¡¯t just to negotiate a fair tax rate for the merchant to establish his business here¡ªthough that was critical. No, this was about more than mere numbers. Any agreement he brokered had to serve the people, to bolster the city during these turbulent times. The coffers weren¡¯t just his father¡¯s; they were the lifeblood of the capital, strained to their limits by the demands of war. Every coin collected would have to go back toward rebuilding trust, resources, and stability. And yet, negotiating with a man like Hanneburg wouldn¡¯t be simple. The merchant was reputedly as unyielding as an iron gate, a man who saw every handshake as a battlefield and every coin as a soldier in his army. Hanneburg won¡¯t bow easily, Jacques thought, not to a ruler like me. The thought of the challenge sent a surge of determination through him, mingled with the ever-present whisper of doubt. Can I manage this? Can I look a man like Hanneburg in the eye and prove that I¡¯m more than a placeholder for my father? Jacques straightened his jacket, his fingers brushing over the worn leather. He didn¡¯t need to be his father, nor his brother. He needed to be himself. Every decision he made would carry his own mark. Jacques opened his cupboard to reveal the sword his father had given him before departing the capital. The sight of it stirred a mixture of emotions in his chest: pride, duty, and a fear he would never admit aloud. He reached out, his fingers brushing the intricately etched hilt. The Rue family crest¡ªa snarling sheepdog¡ªengraved just below the pommel, a stark reminder of the bloodline he now carried alone. His hand hesitated for a moment before grasping the weapon. The cold weight of the sword filled his palm, grounding him, but it felt heavier than it had any right to. Tying the belt around his waist, Jacques straightened, squaring his shoulders as he faced the mirror. The man looking back at him was young, younger than he felt. His white hair framed a face marked by sleepless nights and the burden of decisions beyond his years. His eyes, once bright with mischief, now carried a shadow of uncertainty he couldn¡¯t quite shake. But there was something else there too¡ªsomething fierce, like his father. Jacques tilted his chin upward, forcing himself to see not just the man, but the legacy he was expected to uphold. The sheepdog didn¡¯t bend, didn¡¯t falter. His father, King Rickard, was the most feared man in the land¡ªboth by his enemies and by those who served him. His brother, Rick, had been a warrior in both spirit and steel, a leader who inspired loyalty and wonder in equal measure. And now, there was Jacques. He clenched his jaw, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. He knew what the nobles whispered when they thought he wasn¡¯t listening. The doubts they shared in dark corners of the court, the sideways glances that spoke louder than words. They thought him untested, unworthy¡ªa devil playing king in an angel¡¯s world. They couldn¡¯t change who he was. He was Jacques Rue. Son of King Rickard. That meant something. His chest rose as he took a slow, deliberate breath. ''I am the King.'' Once Jacques reached the throne room, the heavy double doors loomed before him, framed by a shadowy figure. The Hawk Knight stood tall, his darkness stretching long across the cold stone floor like a demon. The polished steel of his armour caught the dim torchlight, flickering with a restless energy that matched the war between confidence and unease stirring in Jacques¡¯ chest. ''Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis said, bowing his head. Jacques offered a thin smile, masking the storm inside. ''Very good, Sir Orchis,'' he replied, his tone carrying a deliberate lightness. ''Let¡¯s not keep our tax-evading wine merchant waiting any longer.'' Sir Orchis gave a curt nod, stepping aside as the doors opened. They groaned as they swung outward, the sound reverberating through the corridor like a warning bell. The air outside hit Jacques like a slap¡ªfresh and crisp, carrying the tang of the city¡¯s chaos. Overhead, the sky was a bright, almost unnervingly cheerful blue, in stark contrast to the thick, mucky brown smoke curling toward the heavens from countless chimneys and forges. It clung to the air, a grim reminder of the city¡¯s growing hunger for fuel, labour, and survival. The streets bustled with life, an ever-moving tide of bodies and voices. Merchants called out their wares, their cries mingling with the clang of hammers from the blacksmiths¡¯ forges and the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels on cobblestones. Yellow bundles of fragrant herbs hung from awnings, swaying gently in the breeze, while piles of red spices glowed like embers against dull wood. Jacques¡¯ gaze swept over the people behind the stalls. Most of the merchants were gaunt, their faces pinched from long hours and scarce meals. Only those selling food seemed to escape this fate, their fuller figures a testament to their trade. I¡¯d never trust a skinny cook anyhow. The smallest of smiles touched his lips. ''Fresh fruit, Your Grace, fresh fruit!'' A small boy¡¯s voice cut through the din. Jacques turned to see the lad, his clothes worn and patched, but his eyes alight with the zeal of a young vendor. In his hands, he held up peculiar white fruits, their pale skins glistening faintly in the sunlight. The boy¡¯s accent was foreign, his voice carrying the lilting cadence of somewhere far from home. Jacques gave the boy a brief nod of acknowledgement, and the boy froze in complete shock. Another smile touched Jacques¡¯ lips. The deeper they moved into the marketplace, the louder the clamour became. The noise of an immense crowd drowned out the sharper sounds, the roar swelling like a restless tide. Jacques instinctively straightened his posture, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword as a precaution. Ahead, an elevated platform loomed above the throng, its edges draped in tattered crimson banners that fluttered weakly in the breeze. A bald man stood atop it, his robes a deep, blood-red that marked him as someone of significance¡ªor someone who wished to appear as such. His arms were raised, commanding the focus of the crowd below. ''Where are we to go now, my brothers and sisters?'' the bald man cried, his voice slicing through the cacophony of the market like a blade. His words carried the raw edge of desperation, yet they rang with a practised cadence that stirred the restless crowd. Thin arms lifted skyward as if beseeching the heavens themselves. The audience groaned and cheered, their voices a chaotic mix of agreement and anger. Some waved their hands in fervent approval; others clutched their cloaks tighter, muttering curses under their breath. ''The old king has abandoned us, leaving us with nothing!'' the man continued, his tone sharpening into a rallying cry. ''We have children starving, young girls selling themselves for a roof over their heads! How can this be our future? Can we even see a future?'' A wave of shouts surged in response, and Jacques felt the air around him grow thick with tension, as if the collective fury of the crowd had become a palpable force. ''Those of you who lived through the days of King Jacob Ayasem know those days were prosperous¡ªthe best years Galia has ever seen! But now, we face turmoil and desperation, which can only be a recipe for our destruction!''Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. The crowd roared louder; the sound reverberating off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. The bald man¡¯s confidence swelled with their fervour, his strides becoming more purposeful as he paced the platform. His fists shook as though he could channel the rage of the people through sheer will. ''And what¡¯s worse,'' he continued, his voice dropping into a venomous hiss that still carried across the square, ''our king is but a puppet¡ªhis strings pulled by a master puppeteer, a demon stealing the face of another!'' Jacques arched an eyebrow, the man¡¯s words burrowing into his mind despite himself. The image was uncomfortably vivid: King Rickard, proud and unyielding, reduced to a lifeless figure, yanked along by invisible strings. ''You have to admit,'' Jacques muttered, his voice tinged with sardonic amusement, ''he creates quite a visceral image.'' Sir Orchis, standing close enough that Jacques could feel the knight¡¯s steady presence, leaned in and whispered, ''He¡¯s talking about you, you know.'' Jacques turned sharply to his escort, his frown deepening. ''What? Master Puppeteer?'' Sir Orchis nodded, his expression betraying a flicker of unease, and more than a flicker of amusement. ''They think you orchestrated your brother¡¯s murder and used your silver tongue to convince your father to make you regent king.'' Jacques¡¯ jaw tightened, a flare of indignation rising in his chest. ''That¡¯s nonsense!'' he hissed under his breath, though the denial felt weak against the roar of the crowd and the weight of the accusation. If the people of this city can fabricate that sort of story, Jacques thought grimly, what else have they concocted in their endless whispers? The crowd seemed to swell and sway, their anger growing with every word the speaker hurled from the platform. Jacques felt a chill creep down his spine, despite the sunlit warmth of the marketplace. It wasn¡¯t just the man¡¯s rhetoric that unsettled him; it was the way the crowd responded, as though every word fed a fire already smouldering in their hearts. ''If it¡¯s worth anything, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis said, his tone softening as his bony fingers clasped Jacques¡¯ shoulder, ''you don¡¯t need to convince me.'' Jacques turned his gaze back to the platform, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn¡¯t respond, but the words did little to ease the gnawing doubt burrowing deeper into his thoughts. ''Now, come on,'' Sir Orchis added, his hand lingering on Jacques¡¯ shoulder for a moment longer before dropping away. ''We¡¯ve got a wine supplier to meet.'' As Sir Orchis moved to pass the edge of the crowd, Jacques cast one last glance at the bald man, whose voice still rang out above the noise like a preacher delivering the final sermon of a condemned world. Jacques tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He might be the regent king in title, but here, in the city¡¯s heart, he was just another player in a dangerous game. A sudden chill crawled over his skin like the touch of icy fingers. He brushed it off at first, but the sensation lingered, crawling up his spine and settling at the nape of his neck. The fine hairs there stood to attention, a primal alarm he couldn¡¯t silence. Then it came¡ªthe voice. Low and insidious, whispering from the corners of his mind. There are enemies everywhere. You must beware. The words coiled around his thoughts like a serpent, tightening their grip. Jacques froze mid-step, his pulse quickening, as if his body already knew what his mind refused to admit. His head spun, the street tilting unnaturally as a wave of dizziness washed over him. His limbs felt brittle, like they might shatter under the weight of unseen pressure. Fragile as glass, his father¡¯s voice in his head echoed, and just as easily broken. Jacques¡¯ eyes darted nervously along the bustling street, every face suddenly a potential threat. The vibrant market, so full of life and colour moments ago, now seemed suffocating, oppressive. Every laugh felt like mockery, every glance a veiled accusation. His chest tightened with each shallow breath, as though the very air had thickened to the consistency of tar. He forced himself to look upward, seeking solace in the cloudless expanse of sky. Its serene blue stretched endlessly above, an indifferent witness to the chaos below. For a fleeting moment, Jacques¡¯ thoughts slipped away from the crowded streets, back to the quiet of his chambers. He could almost feel the cool touch of his paintbrush between his fingers, the soft bristles gliding across canvas as Aubery¡¯s features took shape beneath his hand. He could picture the gentle play of sunlight through the window, casting golden light over the unfinished portrait. There, he could lose himself in her face, in the way her ocean-blue eyes seemed to hold secrets he would never fully understand. He longed for that calm, for the tranquillity of creation¡ªfor the escape it offered. Surrounded by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people, he had never felt more alone. ''Your Grace!'' The voice, low and rumbling, cut through the fog of Jacques¡¯ thoughts like thunder, yanking him back into the chaos of the street. Jacques turned sharply, his eyes darting over the busy marketplace. Something wasn¡¯t right. The crowd was too dense, the air too charged. ''Get away from him!'' The words roared through the marketplace, freezing Jacques in place. A chill spread through his chest, thick and numbing, clouding his thoughts as he finally spotted the source. A tall figure in a light brown cloak was striding toward him, the hem of the fabric snapping with each determined step. Fiery maple eyes burned beneath the shadow of a hood, their intensity cutting through the crowd like a blade. Rugged scars stretched across pale skin, a map of duels won and battles lost. ''Sir Owen?'' Jacques stammered, his voice betraying his confusion at the sight of him. ''What are¡ª'' Before Jacques could finish, The Northern Knight surged past him with the force of a storm, his eyes glaring into the distance. Jacques could only watch as Owen closed the distance between himself and Sir Orchis, who was standing only a few paces away. Owen¡¯s hand shot out, grabbing Sir Orchis by the throat and lifting him almost effortlessly. ''Thought you could get rid of me, did you?'' Sir Owen growled, his northern accent low and guttural, vibrating with raw, unbridled hatred. Jacques staggered back, his heart slamming against his ribs. Sir Orchis¡¯ usually impassive face contorted, his hands clawing desperately at the iron grip around his neck. His breath came in short, wheezing gasps, each one weaker than the last. For the first time, Jacques saw something in Sir Orchis¡¯ eyes that unnerved him¡ªa crack in The Hawk Knight¡¯s cool facade. It wasn¡¯t defiance or calculated cunning that stared back at him, but something cold and primal: fear. ''L-let¡­ me¡­'' Sir Orchis choked out, his words barely audible as his face darkened, veins bulging against his pale skin. His once-controlled demeanour dissolved into panicked thrashing, his hands grasping for purchase on Owen¡¯s arm. But Owen¡¯s grip didn¡¯t falter. His eyes blazed with a hatred so fierce it seemed to consume him entirely. His teeth bared in a snarl, a ram bearing down on a predator that had dared to choose the wrong prey. Jacques¡¯ mind raced. This wasn¡¯t just a clash of tempers¡ªit was a spark in a room full of powder. Whatever this was, whatever Owen believed Sir Orchis had done, it could not play out here, not in the open, not before the eyes of the people. ''Sir Owen, let your brother-in-arms go,'' Jacques commanded, his voice dropping to project the quiet authority of a ruler. He kept every word measured, deliberate, imbued with a regal gravity that could brook no argument. Owen¡¯s fiery eyes flicked to Jacques, his jaw slackening as the command pierced through his rage. His grip on Sir Orchis¡¯ throat loosened, but only slightly, enough for The Hawk Knight to gasp and sputter, each breath ragged and desperate. ''Your Grace¡ª'' Owen began, his tone caught between defiance and knightly respect. ''Not here, Owen,'' Jacques snapped, steel edging his voice. ''This isn¡¯t the place. There are too many eyes and there are too many ears. We¡¯ll talk, but not here.'' Owen¡¯s gaze darted to the growing crowd. The realisation must have hit him like a slap¡ªevery face turning their way, every pair of eyes wide with shock and curiosity. Reluctantly, his hand dropped, releasing Sir Orchis entirely. The Hawk Knight staggered, clutching at his bruised neck, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. ''I¡­'' Sir Orchis wheezed, ''I have an establishment¡­ not far from here. It¡¯s private. We can talk there.'' ''No!'' Owen¡¯s voice boomed, rough and sharp as he stepped protectively in front of Jacques, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. ''His Grace won¡¯t be going to any of your ¡®establishments.¡¯'' The disdain in his voice was palpable, each word dripping with suspicion. Jacques¡¯ eyes narrowed, his curiosity stoked by the interaction. Something truly wasn¡¯t right. He thought back to the reports Sir Theon had shared about The Northern Knight¡¯s disappearance. Where had Sir Owen Flagg been all this time? Why was he so convinced that Sir Orchis was behind it? And how¡ªif at all¡ªdid this tangled mess tie back to Mirielle, to King Geraldo¡¯s assassination, to Rick¡¯s untimely death? His mind churned with possibilities, each more sinister than the last. Jacques clenched his fists at his sides, his resolve hardening. He was done with shadows and half-truths. The time for answers was now. ''No,'' Jacques said firmly. Both knights turned to him, their expressions a mix of shock, apprehension and opportunity. ''I want to see these ¡®establishments¡¯ you speak of, Sir Orchis, for myself. Take me there. Now.'' As the market stalls faded, the city¡¯s once vibrant energy gave way to an unnerving stillness. The cheerful cries of merchants and the scent of roasting meat had vanished, replaced by a silence that clung to the narrow streets. The cobblestones, worn smooth by countless feet, seemed unnaturally quiet beneath Jacques'' boots. Each step echoed faintly, as if even the stones themselves were reluctant to break the hush. The empty streets stretched on endlessly, their shadows long and foreboding. Every window above seemed shuttered, every door firmly closed. Jacques'' gaze flicked from side to side, scanning for movement, his unease growing with each passing moment. He couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that he was being watched. His mind churned, the question gnawing at him: What sort of establishment could Sir Orchis possibly mean? Sir Orchis had served the crown for years, yet this was the first Jacques had ever heard of such a place. The thought turned over in his mind, bringing with it a wave of suspicion that made his pulse quicken. The Hawk Knight has secrets of his own, it would seem, Jacques thought, a chill creeping through him as they ventured further down the desolate street. The buildings loomed overhead, their darkened facades almost conspiratorial in their silence. He pictured their destination¡ªa crumbling tower on the city¡¯s edge? A shadowy alcove in the harbour? Or perhaps a nondescript house, tucked into some forgotten corner, hiding its true purpose behind an ordinary face? Each possibility seemed more ominous than the last. Beside him, Owen¡¯s heavy footfalls broke the quiet like distant thunder. Jacques cast a glance toward The Northman and noted the fire still smouldering in his eyes, his posture tense and predatory. ''I understand you knew my brother, Lyndon, Sir Orchis,'' he said, his voice calm but laced with something darker. A dangerous smile crept onto his face, one that didn¡¯t reach his eyes. Sir Orchis slowed slightly, as though weighing his response. He finally turned his head toward Owen, meeting his challenge with a grin. ''All too well, Lord Flagg,'' Sir Orchis replied smoothly, gesturing with one gloved hand toward his scarred cheek. The jagged line ran from his temple to just shy of his mouth, its length stark against his pale skin. ''I still carry a token of his esteem. Your brother was a¡­ formidable opponent.'' The words dripped with mockery, his smile curling further as he added, ''I was so sorry to hear of his passing. Such a shame¡­ especially under your watch.'' Owen¡¯s smirk evaporated, replaced by a stormy glower. His hand fell instinctively to the white ram pommel of his sword, the leather of his gloves squealing as his fingers clenched tightly. Jacques stiffened, sensing the volatility building between the two knights. ''Enough,'' he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip. ''We have more pressing matters than revisiting old wounds.'' Owen¡¯s lips parted as if to argue, but he stopped himself, his jaw tightening instead. His glare lingered on Sir Orchis for a long moment before he grudgingly straightened, though his hand never left his sword. ''Of course, Your Grace,'' Owen said, his words measured but brimming with barely restrained fury. Sir Orchis merely chuckled under his breath, turning his attention back to the road ahead. The scar on his cheek seemed to glisten in the dim light, a mocking reminder of duels fought¡ªand wounds that still festered. Jacques could feel it pressing against his back, the tension, heavy and stifling, like the threat of a storm about to break. Whatever lay at the end of this journey, he could only hope it was worth the price of dragging these two hungry wolves into the same cage. As they ventured further from the market streets, the oppressive silence was broken by the steady clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. The rhythmic sound should have been comforting, but it wasn¡¯t alone. Another noise crept into Jacques'' awareness, low and guttural, rising and falling like the tide. The unmistakable, raw moans of brothel business. Jacques felt his stomach twist, the vulgarity of it striking like a slap in the face. The street they turned onto seemed to retreat into darkness, a stark contrast to the open brightness of the market. Shadows clung to the walls, broken only by dim lantern light spilling from cracks in shutters. The deeper they ventured, the louder the sounds became¡ªharsh cries of pleasure and muffled voices that echoed hauntingly off the grimy stonework. The air grew heavy with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and stale alcohol, mingling with the rot of the gutters. At the end of the street loomed a building that could only be described as grotesque. Its exterior was the sickly brown of dried filth, its surface mottled and streaked as though years of grime had soaked into the walls. Five jagged punctures marred its face: four empty sockets where windows should have been, and a crooked doorway that sagged under its own weight. The wood was splintered and greasy with use, its surface stained with things Jacques didn¡¯t care to identify. The closer they drew, the more the sounds stabbed at Jacques¡¯ nerves. He could make out individual cries now¡ªsome high and breathless, others guttural and pained. His ears burned, and his instincts screamed for him to turn back. But his feet carried him forward, each step heavier than the last. Jacques stole a glance at Owen, walking just behind him. The Northman¡¯s face was a mask of barely restrained fury, his jaw clenched so tightly that Jacques swore he could hear the grind of his teeth. Owen¡¯s fiery maple eyes burned with disgust, darting toward the door with a look that promised retribution. ''Welcome to my humble establishment,'' Sir Orchis said, his voice dripping with mockery. He gestured grandly toward the door, his hand sweeping low in a flourish. ''A sanctuary for the weary. A temple for the hungry.'' He chuckled, his tone bright with artificial cheer, as though he hadn¡¯t just led them into a den of sin. Jacques¡¯ lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze flicked toward the door. The sounds of the building washed over him in an unrelenting tide. He could hear the shuffle of footsteps inside, the rhythmic creak of floorboards, the occasional slap of skin against skin. The air was suffocating, thick with the weight of secrets and desperation. ''You expect His Grace to enter that?'' Owen said, his voice sharp, laced with incredulity. Sir Orchis¡¯ grin only widened. ''It¡¯s where business thrives, Sir Owen,'' he said, leaning in slightly. ''And where truths often come to light. Shall we?'' Jacques hesitated, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as his eyes narrowed at Sir Orchis. Owen shifted beside him, his glare boring into The Hawk Knight like a blade. ''Lyndon was too kind to you,'' Owen muttered under his breath. He looked Jacques directly in the eye, his gaze full of fierce unease. ''It¡¯s up to you, Your Grace.'' Jacques nodded, steeling himself. He stepped toward the door. With every inch closer, the noise grew louder, the stench fouler, and his sense of unease heavier. The grotesque facade of the building seemed to leer at him, daring him to cross its threshold. Whatever answers lay within, Jacques had the sinking feeling they would come at a cost. The dark halls of the brothel stretched out like a labyrinth, narrow and suffocating under the dim glow of flickering lanterns. Shadows danced on the stained walls, their shifting shapes almost alive, mocking him with grotesque silhouettes. The air was thick, chokingly so, with the mingling stench of sweat, alcohol, and the unmistakable, acrid tang of dried semen. Jacques fought the urge to gag as the oppressive scent assaulted him, clinging to his nostrils like an unshakeable curse. His jaw tightened, forcing himself to breathe shallowly through his mouth. Closed doors lined the corridor, each a portal to unseen depravity. From behind them came muffled noises¡ªwhispered promises, guttural groans, the rhythmic slap of flesh¡ªthat seeped into the hall like an unwelcome mist. Jacques'' shoulders stiffened with each step, the cacophony crawling under his skin. He couldn''t tell if the floorboards groaned beneath his feet or if the faint creaks were the weight of bodies shifting behind the walls. The spiral staircase at the end of the hall loomed like the twisted spine of some monstrous beast, its curling steps disappearing into a shadowy abyss above. It seemed less like a route upward and more like a descent into some pit of unspoken horrors. Yet Jacques pressed on, his boots making soft, deliberate thuds against the warped wood. Every noise amplified, a reminder that he was deep within the belly of something vile, far from the regal halls of the palace. Behind him, the awkward stomping of Sir Owen¡¯s boots contrasted sharply with the muted steps of the others. Owen¡¯s heavy breathing was an audible struggle, his discomfort in this place nearly as palpable as Jacques'' own. He had been a fortress of stoicism outside, but here his tension radiated like heat from a forge. The Northman¡¯s hand still rested heavily on the pommel of his sword, his fingers curled tight. Sir Orchis, however, glided through the scene as if he were born to it. With an almost jaunty pace, he darted past them, taking the lead and ascending the staircase with a practised ease that made Jacques¡¯ stomach turn. ''Just another day for you, isn¡¯t it?'' Jacques muttered under his breath, watching The Hawk Knight flutter to his perch above. Reaching the top floor, Jacques was met with an unsettling stillness. The noise from below didn¡¯t vanish but seemed to dull, retreating into the background as if the air here had absorbed years of depravity and now exhaled it as a hushed, haunting presence. The hall was no less grimy, but the scent was thicker, carrying an oppressive musk of smoke and perfume. The closed doors here seemed heavier, more deliberate, as if they guarded secrets too dangerous to let loose. Jacques found himself almost accustomed to the noise by now, though it still grated on his nerves, a relentless reminder of where he was. His eyes lingered on the dark wood of the walls, tracing the deep grooves and scratches etched into them like scars on a battlefield. Sir Orchis pushed open the heavy wooden door to the only open room in the building, its creak splitting the oppressive silence. Jacques hesitated for a moment on the threshold, the thick, perfumed air rushing out to meet him like a physical barrier. Sir Owen¡¯s imposing form loomed just behind him, his shadow stretching across the narrow corridor and merging with Jacques¡¯ own. With a steeling breath, Jacques stepped inside. The contrast was startling. Where the rest of the establishment had been a decrepit warren of vice, this room stood as a testament to opulence and control. A plush red carpet covered the floor, its rich hue almost glowing under the flickering light of an ornate chandelier that hung above. The air carried a faint trace of lavender, a sharp departure from the sordid scents that had dominated the lower floors. Jacques¡¯ eyes were immediately drawn to the large bay window on the far side of the room, its crystal-clear panes offering a breathtaking view of the harbour. The silver-blue waves danced beneath the morning sun, their serenity a stark juxtaposition to the tense atmosphere in the room. Beyond the docks, the city sprawled out in layers of stone and shadow, every rooftop and spire gilded by the golden light. To his right, a modest rounded table sat, its polished surface gleaming. An inkpot and quill rested atop it, as well as a sheaf of blank parchment. A simple wooden chair, its backrest carved with delicate swirls, completed the setup. Beyond that, a hearth with blackened logs and ashes stood cold and empty, its grate twisted slightly as if it had seen frequent use. Jacques noted the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air, almost hidden beneath the lavender. But the true centrepieces of the room were the two cushioned benches positioned near the middle, adorned with velvet throws. Sitting on them were two young women, their presence both alluring and unnerving. They turned their attention to Sir Orchis the moment he entered, their glistening smiles brightening their faces like practised masks. Their attire¡ªor lack thereof¡ªleft little to the imagination. Fine silk robes clung loosely to their figures, one in a deep shade of violet and the other in a soft salmon pink. The fabric shimmered with every subtle shift of their bodies, catching the light and teasing what it concealed. Gold clamps secured their ponytails, the metallic shine stressing the pale, lustrous beauty of their blonde hair. Their eyes sparkled with a knowing charm, though Jacques couldn¡¯t help but notice the faint hollowness beneath their performative expressions. ''My lord,'' one of them purred, her delicate fingers brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from her face. ''Have you come to entertain us again?'' Jacques¡¯ stomach churned at her tone, at the unspoken implication behind the words. He noticed how her eyes glimmered, not with genuine warmth, but with a hollow mimicry of charm. He fought to keep his expression neutral, though the tension in his chest grew. ''Not today, ladies,'' Sir Orchis replied, his voice light, almost dismissive. ''I have urgent business. I¡¯ll entertain you both later.'' The women exchanged a glance before rising from their cushioned seats with an elegance that seemed almost rehearsed. Their silken robes whispered softly as they moved, and Jacques couldn¡¯t help but notice their smiles¡ªdelicate, inviting, but deeply unsettling. They turned those smiles toward him, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something that stopped him cold: not just their practised allure, but the ghost of something genuine¡ªfear, exhaustion, resignation. The sight stirred memories Jacques would have rather left buried. He remembered the way girls used to look at Rick, the charm that had drawn people to him like moths to a flame. He remembered how Aubery had once looked at him; her smile brimming with warmth and possibility. Now, that memory ached, sharp and raw, leaving him hollow. ''Unless,'' Sir Orchis interjected, his voice cutting through Jacques¡¯ thoughts. The women froze mid-step, turning back toward The Hawk Knight like marionettes awaiting their strings to be pulled. ''Sir Owen,'' Sir Orchis said with an exaggerated flourish, ''would you like to partake in these fine ladies while His Grace and I discuss matters of state?'' The room fell deathly silent, the air charged with tension. Jacques turned sharply to Owen, whose entire frame seemed to bristle like a taut bowstring. ''Piss off,'' Owen growled, his voice low and dangerous, like distant thunder promising a storm. Sir Orchis smirked, unfazed by the venom in The Northman¡¯s tone. With a slight nod of his head, he dismissed the girls. They left without a word, their movements as graceful as their entrance. ''How old are they, anyway?'' Owen asked, his voice sharp and unrelenting. ''Seventeen?'' Sir Orchis leaned casually against the back of one of the benches, his expression infuriatingly nonchalant. ''Fifteen and sixteen, I believe,'' he said, as though commenting on a horse. A palpable disgust spread across Owen¡¯s face, his lips curling into a snarl. ''There¡¯s no honour in selling girls like livestock.'' Jacques¡¯ stomach twisted at the words, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. The raw truth of Owen¡¯s statement hung heavy in the air, but Sir Orchis only shrugged, his smirk never faltering. ''True enough,'' Sir Orchis said, as though conceding a minor point in a harmless debate. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping into a sly, almost conspiratorial tone. ''But tell me, good sir, how deep are your pockets compared to mine?'' The challenge in his words was unmistakable, a taunt as sharp as any blade. Owen¡¯s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword, his gloves tightening as he gripped it tightly. For a moment, Jacques thought he might draw the blade and take Sir Orchis¡¯ head right there. ''You¡¯re a disgrace,'' Owen spat, his voice seething with barely contained fury. Sir Orchis winked. ''Noted.'' Heat prickled across Jacques¡¯ skin as his patience thinned to a thread. The tension in the room was unbearable, each word exchanged a spark threatening to ignite a volatile fire. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, forcing himself to maintain composure despite the urge to scream. ''Now,'' he said, his voice steady but laced with warning, ''I want to hear the truth. All of it.'' Sir Orchis smirked. With a theatrical flourish, The Hawk Knight retrieved a jug of wine from a cabinet and placed it on the round table. The sound of its weight meeting the wood echoed in the otherwise silent room. He swept the ink and papers aside with a casual flick of his wrist; the gesture brimming with disdain. ''First,'' Sir Orchis said smoothly, uncorking the jug, ''you need to have a glass of wine, Your Grace.'' Jacques didn¡¯t respond, his jaw tightening as Sir Orchis poured the deep red liquid into a glass. The wine fell in a steady cascade, its rich, crimson colour glinting in the firelight like fresh blood. The room¡¯s heavy atmosphere seemed to thicken further as the aroma of spiced berries filled the air. Sir Orchis slid the glass toward Jacques, his movements calculated. Jacques hesitated, his hand hovering over the glass. Across the room, Jacques noticed Owen¡¯s eyes narrowing as he watched their exchange, his fists clenched at his sides. Sir Orchis looked at Owen with a knowing glint in his eye, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint, infuriating smile. ''Is there someone in the royal palace you trust entirely, Your Grace?'' Sir Orchis asked suddenly. The words dripped with venom, each syllable a needle probing Jacques¡¯ already frazzled nerves. Jacques glanced at Owen, his unease mirrored in The Northman¡¯s hardened expression. The question lingered in the air, heavy with implication. For years, Jacques had tried to believe in the unwavering loyalty of the royal guard, in the steadfastness of the knights who surrounded his father¡¯s throne. But now, doubt gnawed at him, a shadow creeping into every corner of his prospects. ''I¡¯m not so sure now,'' Jacques admitted finally, his voice low and laden with unease. The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth, far worse than the wine he refused to touch. Sir Orchis chuckled, a low, predatory sound that sent a shiver down Jacques¡¯ spine. ''You should¡¯ve said no,'' he said, leaning forward, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. ''The entire royal palace is full of demons, Your Grace. The only thing that kept them in check was your father. Now that he¡¯s gone...'' Jacques¡¯ glare pierced through Sir Orchis, frustration and suspicion boiling like molten iron in his gut. ''I know that already,'' he said sharply, his voice low. ''What I want to know is what¡¯s happening between you and Sir Owen.'' Sir Owen shifted, his arms folding tightly across his broad chest. His jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. ''Sir Orchis says the royal palace is full of demons,'' he said, his voice a growl. ''He¡¯s the biggest one of them all. On the night of the feast, Your Grace, Sir Orchis and I saw Princess Mirielle handing a sword to some Eastamerean knight.'' Jacques froze, the image of Sofia thrusting her blade toward him flooding his mind with startling clarity. The glint of the steel, the thick, fiery grief in her eyes¡ªit all came rushing back, making his stomach twist. His breathing quickened as he struggled to stay present, to process the words spilling from Owen¡¯s mouth. ''He told me,'' Owen continued, his voice hardening, ''that if I reported what I saw to the king, I¡¯d have Sir Theon¡¯s place as captain of the royal guard handed to me on a silver platter.'' Jacques rounded on Sir Orchis. ''What is he talking about?'' ''And yet you took the opportunity, didn¡¯t you, Sir Owen?'' Sir Orchis said smoothly, a smug smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. ''I wonder why. Perhaps because you were eager to do your sworn duty as a knight? Or is it the more likely answer that you¡¯re not as honourable as you pretend to be?'' Owen¡¯s hand shot to the hilt of his sword, his face contorting with fury. Jacques raised a hand, silencing The Northman before he could speak or act. ''Stand down, Owen,'' he commanded, his voice cutting through the rising tension. He turned to Sir Orchis, his eyes narrowing. ''What else do you know, Sir Orchis?'' Sir Orchis leaned forward, the smirk fading into a grim expression. ''Sir Eduardo Jeffro acted on Mirielle¡¯s orders, Your Grace,'' he said, his voice dark and steady. ''He was one of her pawns, as are many others¡ªmore than you¡¯d like to believe. Sir Mandon, Sir Bryce, Sir Edrick, knights within your inner circle. But her closest ally?'' He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. ''Lord Serben Diae.'' Jacques felt the air leave his lungs. His body went cold, as though someone had poured ice water down his back. ''Serben Diae?'' he echoed. The name reverberated in his mind like the tolling of a death knell. Sir Orchis nodded solemnly. ''The Shadow-on-your-shoulder,'' Jacques muttered under his breath, his tone as heavy as the words themselves. His thoughts raced, the pieces of a terrible puzzle falling into place with chilling clarity. Mirielle, always so composed, so cunning¡ªher alliance with Serben Diae could not be a coincidence. Together, they had the power and influence to infiltrate every corner of the continent. The whispers in the court, the tension between Galia and Eastamere, the deaths of King Geraldo and Rick¡ªit was all connected. ''Bryce Howard stole that sword from your chambers and got it to Lord Serben,'' Sir Orchis said, his voice measured but sharp, ''who handed it off to Eduardo Jeffro to assassinate the Eastamerean king. Then Princess Sofia finds out it¡¯s yours and orders your arrest. Your brother hears about it and¡ª'' ''Through your spies, no doubt,'' Owen cut in, his tone bristling with contempt. He took a deliberate step forward, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the table. Sir Orchis met Owen¡¯s accusation with a withering glare, his mouth curling into a faint sneer before his features softened, adopting an air of mock contrition. ''Yes,'' he admitted. ''I suppose you could say I failed him in my knightly vows. Perhaps I failed in your precious sense of honour too, Sir Owen.'' He straightened, fixing his sharp gaze on Jacques. ''But I swear to you, Your Grace, I will do everything I can to protect you. I am on your side.'' Jacques¡¯ anger writhed, his chest tightening with the weight of it. He clenched his fists under the table, feeling his nails bite into his palms. On my side? The phrase felt hollow, a veil covering The Hawk Knight¡¯s obvious self-interest. Images of Rick¡¯s lifeless body flashed in his mind¡ªthe blood, the steel, the unbearable distance. He had sat beside Rick¡¯s empty bed, praying, why not me? A pang of guilt twisted his gut. And now he was here, playing a game where the stakes afforded him no mistakes. ''You¡¯re saying that¡¯s why I should trust you?'' Jacques asked, his voice cold, the faintest trace of a bitter smile curling his lips. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. ''Because you¡¯re on my side?'' The question hung heavy in the air, each word laced with quiet disdain. For a moment, Jacques thought he saw a flicker of discomfort in Sir Orchis¡¯ eyes, but it was gone before he could be certain. Sir Orchis leaned forward, his previously casual demeanour replaced by something darker, more calculating. His hands rested on the table, but his body radiated tension, like a coiled viper ready to strike. ''You would much prefer me as an ally than an enemy, let me tell you,'' he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that crawled under Jacques¡¯ skin. ''Otherwise you will soon end up like your brother¡ªdead in some pit in Eastamere.'' Owen erupted forward with such a force that he nearly toppled the entire table over. His fists slammed onto the surface, the sharp crack of impact reverberating through the room. The veins in his neck bulged as his gloves stretched, gripping the edge of the polished wood as though he might rip it apart. ''How dare you wear that armour and threaten the prince!'' Owen bellowed, his voice rough with fury, the air in the room thickening with his presence. ''Have you a shred of honour?'' Sir Orchis, unfazed, leaned back in his chair, his expression as calm as still water. He raised his hands in mock innocence, a sly grin curling at his lips. ''I just know my talents, Sir Owen,'' he said, his tone light and unbothered, as though addressing a temperamental child. ''I am here to help, but I cannot¡ªwill not¡ªaid those who refuse to help themselves.'' He turned his piercing gaze to Jacques, the smirk on his face settling into something colder, sharper. ''I am sorry, Your Grace, if you feel that I have deceived you. But if we are going to do this¡ªif you are going to survive this game¡ªyou must trust me entirely. I need your full cooperation. Do we have an accord?'' The room fell into a suffocating silence, the only sound the faint echoes of the brothel. Jacques leaned back, the weight of Sir Orchis¡¯ proposition pressing on him like the jagged stones of a crumbling wall. The shadows danced across the ceiling, their shapes shifting like the tumult of his thoughts. For a fleeting moment, he yearned for comfort¡ªfor Rick¡¯s broad grin that had once filled him with courage, for the melody of Aubery¡¯s laughter, for the warmth in Sofia¡¯s curious gaze. Yet all of those were distant now, echoes of a life he could no longer reach. Here, he faced only the cold, predatory scrutiny of Sir Orchis Vortigon. Sir Orchis¡¯ fingers, long and skeletal, rested on the edge of the desk. His nails tapped softly against the wood, a rhythm that felt deliberate calculated¡ªeach tap leading to annihilation. A reminder: time was running out. At that moment, Jacques stood at a crossroads. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to lash out, to yell, to demand justice for Rick, for King Geraldo, for Sir Theon, and every other victim of this relentless game of politics and power. But his instincts whispered a different truth: power was not claimed by raw emotion alone. It required precision, a sharp mind honed by fire. The world thought him a pawn, a fragile man destined to be bent and broken by stronger wills. He would prove them wrong. I am the King. Jacques straightened in his chair, his shoulders squaring with a newfound resolve. A flicker of a smile¡ªa defiant, daring grin¡ªplayed on his lips as he met Sir Orchis¡¯ hawk-like gaze head-on. ''I appreciate your information, Sir Orchis,'' he began, his voice steady, each word meticulously chosen. ''But I will not be taking up your offer.'' Sir Orchis'' face fell, disbelief morphing into simmering frustration as the mask of his confidence cracked. ''Why not?'' he demanded, his voice almost a growl. Jacques¡¯ eyes narrowed as a mocking smile tugged at his lips. ''Well, you said it yourself,'' he replied, his tone laced with an edge of sarcasm. ''I should not trust you. So I won¡¯t. I will deal with the Jubilees myself.'' He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a stone in the suffocating silence. ''Good day, Sir Orchis.'' Before the knight could muster a retort, Jacques rose to his feet. The room seemed to shrink under the force of his departure. Sir Owen, his shadow, fell in step behind him, his heavy boots thudding against the polished wood floor. But as they made their way toward the staircase, the cacophony of Sir Orchis¡¯ wretched domain bled through the thin walls. The moans of forced ecstasy, the syrupy giggles, the occasional desperate, hollow laughter¡ªall of it grated against Jacques¡¯ senses, making his stomach churn. Each sound was a glaring testament to the corruption festering within these walls, and Jacques felt a cold anger coil tighter in his chest. This wasn¡¯t just a moral failing; it was an affront to the very principles of the royal guard¡¯s vows. Jacques¡¯ feet stilled on the top step, and he turned sharply, facing the seething knight once more. Sir Orchis sat stiffly, his angular face shadowed by the dim light of the room, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. ''One more thing,'' Jacques said, his voice dropping into a tone that was not entirely his own. It carried the weight of his father¡¯s authority, a cold, commanding resonance that left little argument. ''I will see this establishment closed, its doors barred, and every coin earned within its walls given to the poor. Is that understood?'' The air in the room seemed to thin as Sir Orchis remained silent, his jaw tightening visibly. His bony fingers flexed at his sides, his nails scraping faintly against the plate of his armour as though itching to lash out. The Hawk Knight didn¡¯t speak. His glare, venomous and unyielding, was his only response. Jacques met his silence with a smirk¡ªa defiant, victorious grin that sent a ripple of satisfaction through his chest. The temptation to press further¡ªto twist the knife, to tell Sir Orchis exactly where he could shove his self-serving ¡®talents¡¯¡ªburned within him. But Jacques knew better. He had already made his point, and they were finished here. ''Come, Owen,'' Jacques said, his tone calm, final. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and descended the stairs, the creak of the worn wood punctuating each step. Owen followed closely, casting a dark, imposing shadow across the stairs leading downwards. ''You did well, Your Grace,'' The Northman said, his tone measured but carrying the faintest patronising edge, as if he were speaking to a child learning how to read. A sharp flare of indignation shot through Jacques¡¯ chest. He stopped mid-step, his hand gripping the banister with white-knuckled force. Slowly, he turned, his glare boring into Owen like a dagger poised for the kill. The Northern Knight froze under Jacques¡¯ gaze, the bravado in his demeanour faltering. ''Just because I don¡¯t trust Sir Orchis,'' Jacques began, his voice low but laced with simmering fury, ''does not mean I trust you.'' The words hung in the stale air between them, as sharp and precise as a sword¡¯s edge. Jacques took a step closer, watching as a flicker of uncertainty crossed Owen¡¯s normally unflappable expression. The faintest tremor in the knight¡¯s jaw betrayed the fear Jacques had struck¡ªa reminder of who held the regency and who wielded the power. ''After I am done with Mister Hanneburg,'' Jacques continued, his tone like cold iron, ''you and I are going to The Boot and Slipper Inn. And there, Sir Owen, you are going to tell me everything.'' Owen¡¯s lips parted as though to protest, but no words came. The bravado drained from his face like wine spilling from a cracked goblet. His towering presence seemed to shrink, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. His eyes darted to the floor before returning to Jacques¡¯, and with the reluctant obedience of a chastened hound, he nodded. ''Yes, Your Grace.'' Satisfied, Jacques spun on his heel and resumed his descent. His heart hammered against his ribs, the rage and determination swirling together in a potent storm of emotion. He needed clarity, answers, and, above all, control. The web of lies and betrayals tightened around him, and the thought of Owen¡ªor anyone¡ªkeeping more secrets made his blood boil. ''Why are we going to an inn, Your Grace?'' Owen asked, his voice uncertain, almost hesitant, like a child asking a question he already feared the answer to. Jacques let out a long, heavy sigh, the weight of the day pressing harder against him. He glanced over his shoulder, fixing Owen with a wry, weary smile. ''Because I need a drink.'' Chapter XIV- The Regent King The cobblestones beneath Jacques¡¯ boots grew slick with patches of moss, each step sending faint echoes across the street. The shift from the suffocating stench of Sir Orchis¡¯ brothel to the crisp, brine-tinged city air felt like emerging from a tomb. Jacques inhaled deeply, his lungs filling with the cleaner, cooler air, though the lingering memories of that depraved place still clung to him like a shadow. Sir Owen walked a pace behind him, silent but watchful, his heavy boots thudding against the cobbles with a steadiness that contrasted with Jacques¡¯ stormy thoughts. The wine merchants awaited them, but Jacques could hardly focus on Mister Hanneburg and the task at hand. The Hawk Knight¡¯s deceit gnawed at him, a festering thorn buried deep in his chest. Every word Sir Orchis had spoken replayed in Jacques¡¯ mind, each one weighted with poison. A kingdom full of demons, he told me, Jacques thought, and I am the only one who can hold them at bay. Jacques clenched his fists at his sides. The sheer audacity of the man¡ªmanipulating his grief, mocking his authority, playing games with secrets¡ªwas more than he could bear. He would not be anyone¡¯s fool. Not Sir Orchis¡¯. Not Mirielle¡¯s. Not anyone''s. He was regent king now, whether they accepted it or not. The thought fuelled a fire within him, a defiance that burned hotter with every step away from that den of corruption. Owen¡¯s presence behind him was a constant reminder of the answers he still lacked. After the wine merchants, Jacques thought grimly, then the inn. Then we¡¯ll see if The Northern Knight¡¯s loyalty is as firm as he claims. He would press Owen for every detail, every secret that had been kept from him, every truth buried beneath lies. The Hawk Knight¡¯s words had planted doubts that now took root, spreading like vines through his thoughts. He glanced back at Owen, who had maintained his stoic silence. The Northern Knight¡¯s face was as hard as ever, his eyes fixed forward, his jaw set like granite. But Jacques thought he caught something else there¡ªa crack in the armour. Fatigue, perhaps. Or guilt. Jacques turned his gaze forward again, his pace quickening to get to Mister Hanneburg. The cobblestone streets stretched ahead, winding through the town like veins in stone. Jacques adjusted his jacket against the chill sea breeze as he glanced toward the horizon, where rays of sunshine broke through the clouds, casting shadows. The air carried the mingled scents of brine, damp wood, and the faint, metallic tang of far-off forge fires. For once, the usual cacophony of life¡ªchildren shouting, carts rumbling over stones, and the endless gulls¡ªdidn¡¯t set his teeth on edge. He felt steady. Resilient, even. But that fleeting peace won¡¯t last, Jacques thought miserably, giving Owen another glance over his shoulder. At first, Jacques barely registered the sound¡ªjust a faint, irregular cracking, too soft and distant to warrant his attention. He dismissed it, filing it away as the harmless noise of the port: a seabird cracking a clam, a loose shutter banging in the wind, perhaps the faint echo of waves slapping against the hulls of anchored ships. But as they pressed farther along the road, the noise grew. It grew louder. Sharper. Rhythmic. Unignorable. Jacques slowed, his brows knitting together as unease began to trickle back into his veins. He cocked his head, straining to listen over the ambient hum of the street. The sound was unmistakable now¡ªharsh, deliberate, a whip-like crack that carried a brutal finality. His pulse quickened, a cold fear creeping up his spine. He cast a glance at Owen, whose expression betrayed no emotion at first¡ªjust the same stony resolve as always. But then, as the sound rose again, clearer and closer, Owen¡¯s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing like twin slits of molten steel. Relief flared deep in Jacques¡¯ soul, fleeting and hollow. So I didn¡¯t imagine it, he thought, At least I¡¯m not losing my mind. A scream¡ªa child¡¯s scream¡ªsplit the air, shrill and raw, bursting from the lungs of someone far too young to endure the pain behind it. Jacques froze, the sound slamming into him like a blow. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and a terrible chill flooded his chest. It was the kind of scream that pierced straight through a man, bypassing thought and reason and clawing at something primal inside. It was desperate, unrelenting, unfiltered by fear of who might hear. The scream came again, this time warbling, fraying at the edges as though the voice behind it was faltering. Then came the sounds of struggle: shallow, laboured gasps punctuated by the dull, sickening thud of flesh striking flesh. The rhythm of the blows was slow but methodical, each one landing with a brutal finality. Jacques¡¯ mind conjured images he didn¡¯t want to see¡ªimages too vivid to dismiss. A small figure sprawled on rough ground, struggling weakly against a towering shadow. A hand raised high, then brought down with a force that stole breath and hope alike. His stomach churned as those imagined scenes clashed with the serene, indifferent backdrop of the street around him. He turned to Owen. The knight¡¯s expression had darkened, his features hard and cold as granite. His hand was already resting on the hilt of his sword, the leather creaking faintly under his grip. Jacques swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his heart hammering against his ribs. No words were exchanged; there was no need. The unspoken agreement passed between them as clearly as if it had been shouted. This was real. This was happening. They were close enough to intervene. Owen started forward, his strides purposeful, his armour clinking softly with each step. Jacques hesitated for the briefest of moments, his body caught between the instinct to flee and the impulse to follow. Then, steeling himself against the rising storm in his gut, he tightened his grip on his own blade and hurried after Owen. The screams echoed louder now, carving a path through the grey haze of the street and pulling them both inexorably toward the unknown. Turning into a narrow alleyway, Jacques¡¯ stomach twisted as the scene came into focus. Two figures stood stark against the dim light filtering through the narrow gap above: one tall and broad-shouldered, the other smaller, crumpled over herself like a wilted flower. The taller figure moved with brutal rhythm, his arm rising and falling in deliberate arcs, each strike landing with a sickening crack that seemed to echo louder than it should in the confined space. The smaller figure¡ªa girl, no older than ten¡ªjerked with each blow, her body convulsing as if trying to fold in on itself. Her sobs came in broken, gasping bursts, her face hidden beneath a tangled curtain of matted blonde hair. Jacques¡¯ breath caught in his throat, bile rising as the sight burned itself into his mind. The air in the alley reeked of damp stone and something acrid, something metallic, something wrong. It made his skin crawl. The light caught the man¡¯s armour, revealing plates of tarnished black steel. The once-proud symbol of the royal guard was barely discernible beneath stains of grime and corrosion. Jacques¡¯ chest tightened as recognition struck. Sir Mandon Jubilee. Theon Balogun¡¯s replacement as captain of the royal guard. Sir Mandon turned slightly, the dim glow catching his face. It was flushed and glistening with sweat, his brow furrowed in grim determination, his mouth twisted into something that was neither a smile nor a frown but a grotesque hybrid of both. His hand came down again with a resounding thud, striking the girl¡¯s backside. She let out a piercing scream, her voice raw and hoarse. Her tiny frame trembled violently, her arms clutching her knees as though they could somehow shield her from the next blow. A whimper escaped her lips¡ªa sound so small, so broken, that Jacques felt his heart crack beneath the weight of it. ''What is the meaning of this?'' Jacques shouted, his voice crashing through the tense silence like a thunderclap. Sir Mandon froze mid-strike, his arm suspended in the air as though the words had turned him to stone. His head turned slowly toward Jacques, his expression flickering between irritation and surprise. For a moment, his hand remained poised in the air, the plate of his gauntlet creaking faintly as his fingers tightened into a fist. ''Your Grace,'' Sir Mandon finally said, his tone flat but edged with a faint wariness. He lowered his arm slowly, though his grip on the girl¡¯s tattered dress remained firm. His eyes, dark and unfeeling, narrowed as they swept over Jacques and then shifted to the larger figure of Sir Owen Flagg, who had stepped up silently behind Jacques, his hand resting on the ram pommel of his sword. Jacques took a step forward, his blood boiling. ''What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?'' he hissed, his voice low and venomous. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms. The sight of the girl¡ªher fragile body crumpled at Sir Mandon¡¯s feet, her sobs stifled by sheer exhaustion¡ªignited a fury that burned hotter with each passing second. Sir Mandon squinted at Owen, his face a mask of twisted emotions¡ªa mixture of shock, anger, and something that might have been fear. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came out, the silence growing heavier with each passing second. Jacques stood his ground, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, each beat hammering against his ribs like a war drum. His eyes darted between the trembling girl and Sir Mandon¡¯s looming figure, his mind racing. What¡¯s got him so spooked? Jacques thought, his gaze flickering to Owen. The Northern Knight stood motionless, his hulking frame casting a long shadow over the narrow alley, his steely eyes boring into Sir Mandon like the edge of a drawn blade. The tension between the two men was thickening, crackling in the air like a storm on the verge of breaking. A dark frown spread across Sir Mandon¡¯s face as he clawed back his composure. His lips pressed into a thin line before curling into a sneer. ''The kind who sticks to the letter of the law, Your Grace,'' he said, his voice dripping with false reverence. He motioned to the girl with a sharp nod, as though she were nothing more than a piece of filth on the ground. ''She¡¯s being punished.'' ''For what crime?'' Jacques demanded, his voice sharp, reverberating off the alley¡¯s stone walls. His words sliced through the heavy air, and even Sir Mandon flinched slightly under their weight. The Coast Knight¡¯s expression hardened further, his shoulders squaring defensively. ''I caught her¡­ stealing an apple.'' The words hung in the air, a grotesque justification that twisted Jacques¡¯ stomach. A tense silence fell, broken only by the girl¡¯s quiet, hiccupping sobs. Jacques turned to Owen, his mouth hanging open, searching for some confirmation that he¡¯d heard correctly. The knight¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but there was a subtle tightening around his jaw, a faint glimmer of disgust in his eyes that mirrored Jacques¡¯ own fury. Even for a heartless bastard like Sir Mandon Jubilee, this was beyond the pale. A starving child beaten nearly senseless¡ªfor an apple. Jacques couldn¡¯t decide what was more infuriating: the act itself or the sickening smugness radiating from this fool of a knight, as though he truly believed he was dispensing justice. ''And you thought that was a fair excuse to beat her?'' Jacques¡¯ words were slow, each syllable dripping with contempt. He pointed a shaking finger at the girl, whose frail body still trembled under the weight of her pain and terror. ''Look at her! She¡¯s probably starving, you fool! Don¡¯t you know we¡¯re at war?'' The mention of the war seemed to shift something in Sir Mandon, a fleeting flicker of defensiveness crossing his face before he buried it beneath his stony mask. Jacques pressed on, his voice rising, every word ringing with righteous indignation. ''Our people are dying! Starving! Fighting for their lives, and this is how you serve them? By brutalising a child over a piece of fruit?'' Sir Mandon opened his mouth, his hand twitching at his side as though reaching for a response¡ªor perhaps his weapon. Jacques didn¡¯t give him the chance. He stepped closer, his glare scorching. ''I¡¯ll say this much for you, Coast Knight. You¡¯ve never been more than your sister¡¯s lackey, carrying out her every cruel whim without a second thought. But this?'' He gestured at the girl, the sheer injustice of it choking him for a moment. ''This is low. Even for you.'' Sir Mandon stiffened, his jaw working as if grinding his teeth. The girl whimpered, curling tighter into herself, her shoulders shaking. Jacques¡¯ fury deepened, his chest tightening with an overwhelming need to right the wrong in front of him. ''Let her go,'' he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. ''Now. Before I have you dragged to the cells and locked away like the fucking coward that you are.'' Owen took a step forward then, his imposing figure looming larger, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. Sir Mandon hesitated, his eyes darting between Jacques and Owen. For the first time, Jacques saw uncertainty in the man¡¯s eyes¡ªa crack in his arrogant fa?ade. It was a small victory, but not enough. Sir Mandon¡¯s grip on the girl faltered before he finally let her go with a begrudging grunt. She collapsed to the ground, curling into herself with a muffled cry. Jacques¡¯ anger didn¡¯t wane, but for now, his focus shifted. ''It¡¯s all right, you¡¯re not in trouble,'' Jacques told the girl, his voice low and soothing as he crouched before her. He extended a hand, palm open, careful not to make any sudden movements. Her wide, tear-streaked eyes darted between his hand and his face, suspicion and fear warring in her expression. The moments stretched painfully long before she finally reached out, her small fingers trembling as they brushed against his. Jacques gently closed his hand around hers and helped her to her feet. ''Th-Thank you¡­ thank you, Your Grace,'' she whispered, her voice high-pitched and thin, like a cracked reed in the wind. Her hands still shook, her body quivering as though the fear clung to her like a second skin. Jacques offered her a soft, reassuring smile, a stark contrast to the storm of fury still boiling beneath his calm exterior. He placed a hand over hers, trying to still her trembling. The girl flinched at the touch, her eyes snapping to his in wide-eyed shock. For a moment, she simply stared, as though the concept of kindness was utterly foreign to her. Jacques¡¯ chest tightened at the realisation¡ªhow many others like her have endured this cruelty under my father¡¯s rule, unnoticed and unchallenged? ''Owen,'' Jacques said, his voice steady but layered with quiet urgency. He turned slightly toward the knight, though his gaze remained on the girl. ''Go to the wine merchants. I¡¯ll meet you there.'' But Owen didn¡¯t move. Jacques finally turned, his brows knitting together as he caught sight of the Northman. Owen wasn¡¯t looking at him. His eyes were locked on Sir Mandon, sharp and unrelenting, the kind of frozen gaze that could peel away a man¡¯s skin layer by layer. Jacques followed his gaze, his stomach twisting. Sir Mandon was standing rigid, his mouth slightly agape, his expression flickering between discomfort and alarm. ''Seems very convenient, seeing you here, Sir Mandon,'' Owen said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a chill through the alley. Sir Mandon¡¯s mouth worked silently for a moment before he managed to stammer, ''I¡­ I¡­'' Owen took a slow step forward, his boots grinding against the cobblestones. ''You knew we¡¯d come here to get to the wine merchants, didn¡¯t you?'' he growled, his tone dropping lower, the accusation heavy in the air. Jacques felt his heart lurch in his chest, a creeping dread settling in. If Mandon was here¡­ ''Sir Mandon, where is your sister?'' The question seemed to suck all the air from the alley. Sir Mandon¡¯s eyes widened, and for the briefest of moments, something like terror flashed across his face. He glanced around desperately, like a cornered animal searching for an escape. ''I don¡¯t know, Your Grace,'' he stammered, his voice trembling. Jacques strode forward, closing the distance between them in a few swift steps. He levelled a piercing glare at the Jubilee boy, his suspicion solidifying into certainty. This is no coincidence. ''You¡¯re stalling us, aren¡¯t you?'' Jacques said, his voice low and sharp, every word crackling with fury. His jaw tightened, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. ''Sir Mandon, where is your sister?'' Sir Mandon¡¯s composure shattered like glass. His eyes flared with panic, his breathing quick and shallow. Jacques saw the exact moment the knight made his decision¡ªa split second before he bolted. The sheer speed of Sir Mandon¡¯s retreat took Jacques¡¯ breath away. One moment, The Coast Knight was a looming figure of arrogance and panic; the next, he was a blur streaking down the narrow street, his crimson cloak billowing like a bloody banner. Jacques barely had time to register the movement before Sir Mandon was already shrinking into the distance, a speck darting between the darkened shadows of the city. Jacques¡¯ breath hitched, his body tensing with the instinct to give chase. But he hesitated, his gaze snapping back to Owen. The Northman stood like a sentinel beside the girl, his towering form casting a protective shadow over her. The girl clung to his side, her small frame trembling as she peered up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, clutching her bruised arms to her chest. ''Sir Owen, see that the girl finds safety!'' Jacques barked. Owen¡¯s head whipped toward him, his fiery maple eyes narrowing in protest. ''Your Grace¡ª'' ''Just do it!'' Jacques cut him off, His tone leaving no room for argument. He met Owen¡¯s gaze for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of trust and expectation passing between them. Jacques didn¡¯t wait for a response. He turned and broke into a sprint; the urgency driving him forward. The cobblestones beneath his feet blurred into a seamless pattern, the uneven ground jarring his steps as his boots hammered against the street. Jacques¡¯ chest burned, each breath dragging through his throat like hot coals. His lungs screamed for air, but he ignored them, pushing forward with a single-minded focus that drowned out everything else. Every muscle in his legs felt as if it were tearing with each step, tendons straining as though his body were on the verge of collapse. But stopping wasn¡¯t an option. He was too close. If Mirielle had reached Mister Hanneburg before him, the consequences could ripple far beyond this single meeting. She was regent too, a rival, and alliances meant everything in their precarious dance for power. Jacques could picture her already, her graceful composure radiating confidence as she leaned toward the merchant, her every word a ballad of charm. Hanneburg wouldn¡¯t stand a chance. His heart thundered in his ears, the rhythm merging with his frantic thoughts. How could I let this happen? He cursed himself silently, his jaw tightening as guilt clawed at his chest. He should have anticipated this¡ªknown she¡¯d move swiftly and with precision. Now, every moment mattered. Market stalls flew past like fleeting impressions on a painter¡¯s canvas, the vibrant yellows and reds of spices smearing together with the deep browns of worn wood. Shouts and cries from merchants became a meaningless cacophony, muffled beneath the roaring in his ears. Faces turned as he ran, eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of their Regent King sprinting like a man possessed. ''Move!'' Jacques barked, the sharp command breaking from his lips as he shoved past a fruit vendor who had strayed too far into the street. A cascade of small, round berries spilled from the man¡¯s crate, bouncing across the cobblestones like drops of blood. Jacques barely registered the startled yelp behind him, his focus fixed solely ahead. The city¡¯s familiar scents¡ªof fresh bread, horse sweat, and the faint metallic tang of soot¡ªfelt cloying now, oppressive. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw from exertion, the taste of iron lingering on his tongue. Every breath cut through him like a blade, the weight in his chest pressing down harder with each laboured inhale. His legs screamed for rest, but he pushed them harder. The image of Mirielle at Hanneburg¡¯s side flashed through his mind again¡ªher rich brown hair catching the light, her soft laugh disarming the merchant as she laid the groundwork for her next move. Mirielle¡¯s ambitions were like vines, slow to take root but relentless once they did. If she secured Hanneburg, it wouldn¡¯t stop there. A simple wine merchant could become a lever for something much larger¡ªa foothold in their endless struggle for dominance. She can¡¯t win, Jacques thought, the words hard and sharp like the stones beneath his feet. The sheer intensity of the idea propelled him forward, his boots slamming against the cobblestones in a relentless rhythm. Pain radiated from his knees with each step, a throbbing reminder of his body¡¯s limits. Finally, the sign came into view. It swayed gently in the breeze, a splash of crimson against the muted tones of the street. ¡®Hanneburg¡¯s Redan Wine Merchants,¡¯ the white letters proclaimed in an elegant script, standing proudly above the dark red double doors. They loomed before him like a threshold to victory¡ªor failure. Jacques staggered to a halt just short of the doors, his chest heaving as he bent forward, clutching his knees to steady himself. A sharp stitch tore at his side, each breath like a dagger twisting deeper. Sweat clung to him, soaking through his clothes and plastering stray strands of white hair to his forehead. He swiped at his face with a trembling hand, trying to steady his pounding heart and failing. ''Miri,'' he heard Sir Mandon pant, his voice a rasp of alarm as Jacques shoved against the heavy door. The hinges groaned in protest, and daylight sprayed into Mister Hanneburg¡¯s office, cutting through the dim glow of the room. The sweet scent of honey candles wafted into Jacques¡¯ nostrils, their warm fragrance cloying, mixing with the deeper, richer aroma of aged wine that hung thick in the air. It was an inviting smell, meant to disarm¡ªa deliberate effort, no doubt, to foster comfort and ease for the deals struck here. Jacques¡¯ eyes swept the space in an instant. A thin red curtain hung over the window at the back of the cramped office, its fabric frayed at the edges. The faint glow of sunlight filtered through it, casting streaks of muted crimson across the worn wooden floor. Mister Hanneburg sat behind a solid oak desk, his thick fingers curled around the armrests of his chair. Square-lens glasses perched precariously on his nose, reflecting the light in sharp glints that obscured his eyes. Beside him sat an open bottle of wine, the deep red liquid gleaming like blood in the glass decanter. Two wine glasses stood before him, filled almost to the brim. They were pristine, untouched, their contents shimmering faintly with the promise of a toast that Jacques had been too late to interrupt. In front of the desk sat a single red chair, its position calculated to force any visitor into a submissive tilt, eyes inevitably drawn upward to meet Mister Hanneburg¡¯s gaze¡ªa power tactic King Rickard himself had wielded many times. And then his heart sank, plummeting into a cold, hollow ache in his chest. Mister Hanneburg¡¯s hand was outstretched, his thick fingers clasping those of Princess Mirielle Jubilee. Her petite hand rested in his with poised elegance, her posture perfect as ever. Her head tilted slightly as if to offer deference, but Jacques knew better. Her large, captivating brown eyes glimmered with feigned innocence, the edges of her lips curling into a serene smile that hid a predator¡¯s satisfaction. Between them lay a sheet of paper on the desk, the bold scrawl of Mister Hanneburg¡¯s signature glaring back at Jacques like a death knell. The ink glistened, not yet dry, its permanence a cruel testament to Mirielle¡¯s triumph. ''Ah, Your Grace,'' Mister Hanneburg said, his voice warm, tinged with smug amusement. He leaned back in his chair, his thick frame settling comfortably as if savouring the moment. ''Nice of you to join us. Myself and the Queen Regent here were just sealing a deal for me to set up shop here in the capital.'' Jacques¡¯ jaw tightened, the sharp pressure sending a dull ache up to his temples. His teeth ground together with a near-audible scrape, his body stiffening as the weight of the scene pressed down on him. Queen Regent. She¡¯d claimed the title, wielded it effortlessly, and twisted it into her advantage as if the title had always belonged to her. His gaze flicked back to Mirielle, who met his eyes with a calm, unbothered expression. Jacques knew that look. Oh, how he knew it. It was the same calculated veneer she¡¯d worn on her wedding day, when she¡¯d married Rick. ''She has, has she?'' Jacques said, his voice a razor¡¯s edge, each word trembling under the weight of his fury. Mirielle¡¯s laugh was a light, chiming sound, but it grated like nails across stone. Her lips curled into a smile, her expression as effortless as a breeze, and yet it carried the precision of a dagger aimed straight at his pride. ''As I was saying to Mister Hanneburg,'' she began, her tone silk-smooth despite her nasally Coastman¡¯s accent, ''his reputation precedes him as the finest winemaker in Galia.'' She glanced at Mister Hanneburg, her gaze warm and honeyed, like a summer sun shining solely for him. ''So, with that in mind,'' she continued, ''I have negotiated fifteen gold coins a bottle at retail price.'' Jacques¡¯ fists tightened at his sides as her words sank in, but Mirielle wasn¡¯t finished. ''And,'' she added, ''I must warn you, Your Grace, I did negotiate that if Mister Hanneburg¡¯s profits triple, he can take the price up to twenty¡ªtwenty-five if it quadruples. We¡¯ve also agreed to give ten per cent of the profits back to the people. We feel it¡¯s especially important with the war going on.'' Jacques¡¯ breath hitched, his chest tightening like a vice. That was my idea! The thought hit him like a slap, leaving a sting of humiliation in its wake. It was a proposal he¡¯d been mulling over for weeks, a strategy to win the hearts of the common folk while bolstering the crown¡¯s legitimacy. And now, here it was, spilling from Mirielle¡¯s lips as if it had always been hers. Mirielle¡¯s gaze flicked back to him, her brown eyes sparkling with what Jacques could only describe as satisfaction. The faint upward curl of her lips was barely perceptible, but he caught it¡ªa predator¡¯s grin, concealed beneath a veil of civility. She knew exactly what she was doing. ''Always happy to give back to the community,'' Mister Hanneburg chimed in, his voice rich with approval. His broad grin stretched ear to ear, his teeth gleaming almost unnaturally bright in the light. He leaned back in his chair, his thick frame radiating self-satisfaction, and mirrored Mirielle¡¯s insipid grin as though they were partners in some grand, virtuous scheme. ''An excellent deal, I say. I shall inform the Merchant¡¯s Guild of our support for the crown.'' Jacques felt his heart hammering against his ribs, each beat like a war drum, signalling his defeat. The light that glinted off Mister Hanneburg¡¯s teeth seemed to deflect directly onto Mirielle, casting her in an almost angelic glow. How could I let this happen? The thought screamed through Jacques¡¯ mind, drowning out every other noise in the room. His chest tightened further, a coil of rage winding tighter and tighter until it felt as though it might snap. His breaths were shallow, rapid, as though each one struggled to claw its way out of his lungs. I should¡¯ve been here sooner, he berated himself, his fury now turning inward. I should¡¯ve used my brain for once in my life. But instead, here he stood¡ªan intruder in a room that should have been his domain¡ªwatching his rival bask in her triumph. Mirielle¡¯s gaze flicked over him again, casual, dismissive, yet searing. The weight of it bore down on him like a silent taunt: You lost. Again. ''It does make me wonder why you don¡¯t let Her Grace negotiate more often,'' Hanneburg said, his tone light and conversational but undercut with a hint of amusement that felt like salt on an open wound. Jacques felt his eye twitch. Because Her Grace is a murderous hag, that¡¯s why, he thought bitterly. Mirielle¡¯s gaze darted toward him, her expression a study in sweet composure. ''Oh, I¡¯m sure The Regent King has his talents,'' she said, her voice smooth as velvet but dripping with veiled condescension. Her damned smile remained, fixed and unshakeable. ''However, I think a woman¡¯s touch can always help in times of turmoil like these.'' Her words hung in the air, deceptively light. The comment hit Jacques like a hammer to the face, each syllable fanning the flames of his simmering rage. Hanneburg chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh. ''Well said, Your Grace,'' he replied, raising his glass in a mock toast. It¡¯s all coming true. The thought burned in Jacques¡¯ mind like a brand, searing into him with cruel clarity. All of my fears. They weren¡¯t abstract anymore; they weren¡¯t hypothetical scenarios he could stave off with careful planning. They were standing right in front of him, as tangible as the polished desk separating him from his brother¡¯s widow. Mirielle had done it. She had secured the perfect deal, her victory etched in every infuriatingly poised line of her face. And worse¡ªshe had beckoned the Merchant¡¯s Guild to her side, not his. Damn her! Damn her smile, damn her beauty, damn her cunning! How did I let this happen? The question thundered in his mind, a relentless echo of his failures. The door creaked open again. Owen entered, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, his boots thudding against the wooden floor like the tolling of a bell. His sharp eyes landed on Mirielle first, then darted briefly to Jacques, a flicker of unease crossing his scarred face. Jacques¡¯ chest tightened, and a desperate ember of hope ignited deep in his gut. Perhaps I can salvage this. The thought wrapped itself around him like a lifeline, a fragile tether to possibility. His mind whirred, grasping at straw. If I can outmanoeuvre her, if I can offer Hanneburg a deal that not only benefits the crown but makes him wealthier than he ever dreamed, I might still win. Jacques imagined the moment of triumph: Hanneburg shaking his hand, Mirielle¡¯s smirk wiped clean from her face, the court whispering of his success. He would be the one they praised, the one who had brought prosperity to the people. But reality clawed at him like an iron chain, dragging him back to the here and now. The red curtains swayed gently in the faint breeze from the open door, the late-afternoon sunlight catching the gleam of the polished desk and the ruby sheen of the wineglasses. Hanneburg sat there, his posture casual, yet his every move calculated¡ªhis fingers drumming lightly on the wood, his grin as smug as a cat that had cornered a mouse. Jacques¡¯ fists curled at his sides. All I have to do is tell Owen to grab Hanneburg¡¯s smug face and slam it into that desk. The image was vivid, visceral. He could see it as clearly as if it were happening: Owen¡¯s strong hands seizing Hanneburg by the collar, the crash of his face against the mahogany, the splatter of wine staining the papers and pooling on the floor. Jacques¡¯ pulse quickened at the thought, a dark thrill coursing through him. I won¡¯t let him go until he signs a deal of my liking, he thought, his jaw clenching so tightly it ached. Hanneburg¡¯s signature would be smeared with blood and ink, his defiance crushed under Jacques¡¯ will. Mirielle would stand there, horrified, powerless to stop him. No one¡ªno one¡ªwould dare laugh at him then. But the fantasy unravelled as quickly as it had formed. His father¡¯s voice, cold and cutting, whispered in the back of his mind: Fool. Do you want to prove them right? Do you want to confirm every disgraceful rumour, every accusation that you are nothing but a demon, a murderer? Jacques¡¯ breath hitched, and he forced himself to exhale slowly, his chest heaving with the effort of restraint. The muscles in his arms trembled as he unclenched his fists, his nails leaving half-moon crescents in his palms. If he gave in to violence, if he allowed his anger to dictate his actions, it would be the end of him¡ªnot just as Regent, but as a leader worth following. The people already murmured in darkened alleys and shadowed courtyards, their words laced with suspicion: Did you hear? Prince Jacques killed his own brother. No matter how unjust the rumour, no matter how badly he wanted to deny it, it clung to him like smoke. If he attacked Hanneburg now, if he spilled blood in a petty show of dominance, the story would write itself. A king who could not win with words could not allow himself to resort to force. Think, Jacques, he told himself, even as his vision blurred with rage. Think, damn you. His gaze flicked to Owen, who stood at attention, his expression unreadable. Jacques could order him to act, and The Northern Knight would obey¡ªloyal as ever. But Owen¡¯s eyes, cool and piercing, seemed to ask a silent question: Is this how you want to be remembered? Jacques swallowed hard, his throat dry and rough. The truth was undeniable now, glaring at him from across the desk. Mirielle had played the game better this time. She had charmed Hanneburg, secured his loyalty, and woven her web with a precision that left Jacques stumbling. The proof lay there, plain as day: the signed contract on the desk, Hanneburg¡¯s complacent grin, and Mirielle¡¯s infuriatingly calm demeanour. She had won. ''Mister Hanneburg,'' Jacques began, his words measured, ''it seems you have made a most... favourable arrangement with the Queen Regent. I trust it will benefit the people greatly.'' ''Indeed, Your Grace,'' Hanneburg replied, his tone oblivious, or perhaps intentionally so. He lounged in his chair, entirely too comfortable for a man who had just become the unwitting pawn in a game far larger than he understood. Jacques forced a tight-lipped smile. ''Very well,'' he said, though the words scraped like shards of glass against his pride. He cast a final glance at Mirielle, her expression so serene it made his teeth grind. Next time, he vowed silently, next time, I¡¯ll be the one with the upper hand. ''But now,'' Jacques continued, his tone brisk, ''forgive me, good sir, but the Princess and I have an urgent matter to attend to.'' Jacques turned his gaze to Mirielle, his gaze hardening into flint. ''My Lady, if you would join me outside?'' Mirielle rose from her seat with an infuriatingly calm elegance, her movements as smooth as the flow of her green silk dress. She flashed Hanneburg a final, dazzling smile, her voice dripping with sweetened civility. ''I¡¯d like to thank you for your time, good sir,'' she said, ''And please know this is just the beginning of what I hope will be a fruitful partnership.'' Jacques watched her, his skin crawling with every syllable. The way she carried herself, the slight tilt of her chin, the effortless flutter of her lashes as she turned her gaze briefly toward him¡ªit was all calculated. Every movement, every word was a dagger dipped in honey, designed to disarm, to manipulate, to win. Over my dead body, he thought, his rage boiling. Mirielle moved past him, her faint perfume lingering in the air. The scent was floral, light, deceptively innocent, and it clawed at his senses. She didn¡¯t look back as she and her brother, Sir Mandon, made their way to the exit, their steps unhurried, as though they knew Jacques would follow like a dog loyal to its master. Jacques¡¯ fingers twitched at his side, itching to grab Mirielle¡¯s contract and tear it to shreds, to shatter the image of her triumph. But no. Not here. Not now. The two knights, Sir Owen and Sir Mandon, flanked Jacques and Mirielle as they stepped through the heavy wooden doors. Sir Mandon lingered briefly, holding it open with a relaxed arm until they all emerged into the blinding white daylight. The sun gleamed against the limestone facades of the capital¡¯s towering buildings, their pale surfaces reflecting the light like cruel mirrors. Jacques squinted, his eyes burning as they adjusted to the brilliance, but the brightness did little to chase away the shadows of humiliation clinging to him. The weight of failure pressed against his chest like an iron boulder, each shallow breath doing little to relieve the constriction in his lungs. His palms itched, his fingers flexing unconsciously, desperate to grab hold of something¡ªanything¡ªto reclaim the power that had so thoroughly slipped through his grasp. ''I appreciate the assistance, Princess¡ª'' Jacques began, his voice tight, like a string pulled too taut. ''Queen Regent,'' Sir Mandon growled, his voice sharp as a sword¡¯s edge. Jacques froze mid-step, turning his head slowly toward the young knight. The audacity of it hit him like a slap to the face. His eyes locked onto Sir Mandon, trying to imagine what his head would look like at the end of a spike. The knight¡¯s posture was rigid, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, as if daring Jacques to test him. A beat of silence passed, heavy and bubbling. Jacques imagined the smooth cadence of his command¡ª''Owen, cut him down.'' The image unfurled in his mind like a bloody tapestry: the flash of steel, the startled look on Sir Mandon¡¯s face, the slump of his body crumpling to the cobblestones. It would be so easy. Sir Mandon Jubilee was nothing, a pebble beneath Jacques¡¯ boot, and yet he dared test his Regent King with such insolence? But Jacques knew the consequences. Cutting down a knight, especially the captain of his father¡¯s royal guard, in broad daylight would spark a scandal that would consume what little goodwill he still possessed. The whispers already swirling about him¡ªthe conspiracies, the accusations of fratricide¡ªwould flare into an inferno, and the capital would burn with outrage. Just like with Mister Hanneburg. ''Steady now, Mandon,'' Mirielle interjected smoothly. She placed a delicate hand lightly on her brother¡¯s armoured shoulder, her touch as calming as it was calculated. Her brown eyes glimmered with amusement as she turned to Jacques. ''I¡¯d like to hear what the Regent King has to say.'' Jacques squared his shoulders, his expression hardening as he tried to channel the scowl his father had worn so often, a face that had once cowed nobles and warriors alike. ''I would appreciate it,'' he said, his voice clipped and taut, ''if you didn¡¯t intervene in my business.'' Mirielle¡¯s lips twitched, her smile fading into an exaggerated frown. She turned her head slightly, exchanging an innocent, almost pitying look with Sir Mandon. ''I¡¯m begging your pardon, Your Grace,'' she said, her tone feather-light, the perfect balance of contrition and sarcasm. ''I only wanted to help.'' Liar. Jacques clenched his jaw so tightly it felt as if his teeth might crack. The words he wanted to hurl at her stuck in his throat, clawing for release. Instead, he forced himself to speak with measured calm. ''And I value your help,'' he said, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. ''But please¡­ stay out of my way.'' Mirielle¡¯s expression shifted again, her lips curling into a small, smug grin that made his skin crawl. Her brown eyes reflected her delight, as though his frustration were a fine wine she was savouring. ''Please accept my apologies,'' she said sweetly, dipping her head in mock deference. ''From now on, I shall leave the negotiating to you.'' Her gaze flicked over Jacques¡¯ shoulder, landing on Sir Owen. The change in her demeanour was immediate, her features sharpening into something cold and formal, the recognition as distant as it was pointed. ''Sir Owen,'' she said with a faint nod, her voice taking on a regal edge, ''it¡¯s nice to see you back.'' Owen didn¡¯t flinch. His face remained a stoic mask, his posture stiff as a drawn bowstring. He didn¡¯t respond, his maple eyes locked onto hers in silence. Mirielle¡¯s smile deepened, but the chill in it remained. She turned with a sweep of her pretty green dress, beckoning Sir Mandon with a flick of her fingers. The Coast Knight moved to her side without hesitation, his black shadow merging with hers as they walked away. Jacques stood frozen, his gaze following Mirielle¡¯s retreating figure as she sauntered through the bustling street, weaving through merchants and passersby like she was some sort of goddess, receiving reverent bows and gawks from every pair of eyes that fell her way. Even as she disappeared into the throng of the capital, her presence lingered like a bitter aftertaste, heavy and cloying. The heat of Jacques¡¯ anger burned in his chest, rising until it felt like it might burst free. He wanted to shout, to unleash every ounce of rage and frustration churning inside him, but he knew it would be a hollow gesture. No amount of yelling would change the fact that she had bested him. Again. His shoulders slumped, the weight of his father¡¯s legacy pressing down on him like iron chains. Oh, Father, he thought bitterly, what have you dropped me into? He exhaled sharply, turning to Owen, who remained by his side like a silent sentinel. ''That was no mere deal for wine, was it?'' He looked up at Owen, his gaze searching for some kind of reassurance. ''That was a declaration of war.'' Owen¡¯s jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his otherwise impassive face. His eyes, fiery and unyielding, stayed fixed on the street where Mirielle had vanished. His silence was louder than any affirmation he could have given. The distant clamour of the capital filled the air¡ªthe bark of merchants hawking their wares, the rattle of carts over cobblestones, the murmur of voices in the crowd. It all faded into a dull roar as the truth settled over Jacques¡¯ head like a shroud. This wasn¡¯t just a game of politics or a skirmish for influence. This was something far greater, far more dangerous. And Mirielle had just made the first move. By the time Jacques and Owen reached the Boot and Slipper, the city streets had succumbed to the cloak of night. Lanterns flickered in the darkness, their feeble flames barely illuminating the cobblestones slick with spilled ale and filth. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the ground, merging into the corners where beggars and thieves alike lingered unseen. The air was thick with life and vice¡ªa pungent mixture of sweat, beer, and the acrid tang of smoke from makeshift street braziers. Punters spilled from taverns, arms slung over each other¡¯s shoulders, voices raised in drunken song or boisterous argument. Raucous laughter echoed off the stone buildings, punctuated by the clatter of tankards meeting cobblestones and the occasional retching of someone who had overindulged. Jacques wrinkled his nose as a sour wave of bile stench wafted his way, and Owen had to snatch him aside as a staggering man swayed dangerously close to his path. The Boot and Slipper loomed ahead, its crooked wooden sign swinging in the breeze, the faded paint depicting a pair of mismatched shoes beside a frothing mug. Warm light spilled from its narrow windows, the glow cutting through the night like a beacon, drawing revellers like moths to a flame. The din of its interior¡ªa medley of music, laughter, and heated debates¡ªrose above the general noise of the street. Jacques¡¯ gaze flicked over the faces in the crowd, his shoulders tightening with each step. He couldn¡¯t shake the creeping sensation that eyes were tracking his every movement. A group of cloaked figures loitered at a street corner, their murmured conversation stopping abruptly as he and Owen passed. Across the street, a hunched man leaned against a wall, his face obscured by the brim of a tattered hat. For all Jacques knew, he could be one of Mirielle¡¯s spies¡ªor worse, one of The Hawk Knight¡¯s elusive operatives. Am I imagining this? Jacques¡¯ mind whispered, but the unease dug deeper. He tried to dismiss the thought, but the paranoia stuck like a thorn in his flesh. His breathing quickened, his boots striking the cobblestones in rhythmic, nervous beats. Was King Jacob this paranoid when he went mad? He pictured the old king in his final days, before his father had cut him down; a frail figure hunched over his throne, muttering to himself as the court watched in silent dread. Jacques could almost see the wild gleam in the late king¡¯s eyes, the erratic sparks that danced across his trembling hands. The image of him unleashing his lightning powers in a fit of fury played vividly in Jacques¡¯ mind: knights and lords alike struck down for imagined slights, their piles of ash a warning to anyone who dared approach. Jacques shook his head, trying to dislodge the grim image, but his tension only deepened. His fists clenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking as he glanced over his shoulder yet again. The crowd behind them seemed ordinary enough¡ªdrunken men singing off-key, a pretty girl hawking roasted chestnuts to a group of gawking sailors¡ªbut Jacques couldn¡¯t stop his mind from weaving conspiracy. The tavern door opened with a creak as Jacques and Owen entered, the world outside fading behind them as they stepped into the pulsing heart of the Boot and Slipper. The atmosphere within was a whirlwind of sound and movement, the air thick with the scent of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the faint acrid tang of a smouldering hearth. Round tables and straight benches filled the open space, their scarred surfaces bearing the marks of countless nights of revelry. Patrons crowded around them, their voices blending into a cacophony that competed with the bard¡¯s melody¡ªa lively tune that danced above the chaos like a ribbon caught in the wind.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it At one table, a group of burly men slapped each other on the back, roaring with laughter as they recounted a tale one of them was animatedly gesturing through. At another, a pair of cloaked figures leaned close, their hushed conversation lost in the din, but their furtive glances suggesting secrets too delicate for the noise surrounding them. A serving girl wove her way through the crowd with practised agility, her tray laden with mugs of frothy ale and steaming plates of food, her smile fixed despite the occasional grope or jeer from the patrons. The bard, a wiry man with a weathered face and nimble fingers, moved fluidly from table to table, the strings of his guitar vibrating with a gentle insistence that seemed to command attention. Each note resonated through Jacques¡¯ chest, the sound oddly grounding despite the weight pressing down on his shoulders. The singer¡¯s voice, smooth and slightly gravelly, rose above the chatter as he launched into a jaunty ballad, eliciting a few cheers and drunken attempts to join in. But for Jacques, the music and revelry were mere distractions, fleeting and inconsequential. His eyes scanned the room, flitting from face to face, searching for any sign of danger¡ªor worse, recognition. He clenched his jaw as his gaze caught on a hooded figure in the far corner, sitting alone with a tankard in one hand and the other resting idly on the table. The figure¡¯s face was obscured, their posture relaxed, but Jacques didn¡¯t trust the stillness. His gut twisted, a silent alarm sounding in the back of his mind. A broad-shouldered woman with thick arms and a face weathered by years of tavern work wiped down a battered flagon behind the bar. Her sharp eyes scanned the room with the practised vigilance of someone who had seen one too many brawls erupt over spilled drinks or ill-timed jokes. Her gaze landed on Owen¡¯s side, where the sword with a white ram engraved on the pommel hung prominently. Her lips tightened, her grip on the flagon halting mid-swipe. ''Oi!'' she bellowed, her voice slicing through the rowdy din like a cleaver. Conversations died instantly, heads snapping toward her. ''If you ¡®ave an issue with one o¡¯ my punters, good sir,'' she continued, her words thick with the accent of the lower districts, ''name ¡®im and take it outside! I don¡¯t fancy cleanin¡¯ up your mess!'' For a moment, the entire tavern seemed to hold its breath, the charged silence crackling like a lightning storm. ''We¡¯re just here for some grub, my lady,'' Owen replied smoothly, his voice warm and disarming. He flashed a grin that could have melted stone. ''No trouble, I promise. Have you got room for two more?'' The landlady regarded him for a beat longer, her eyes narrowing as if testing the sincerity of his words. Then, with a jerk of her chin toward the back of the room, she relented. ''Booth down there¡¯s free, but you¡¯ve got to order at the bar.'' ''Much obliged,'' Owen said with a nod. The tension snapped like a taut string breaking, the noise of the tavern exploding back to life. Conversations resumed, mugs clinked together, and someone near the fireplace let out a cheer, spilling ale as they shouted the chorus of a bawdy song. Owen stepped forward, weaving his way through the dense crowd with the fluid ease of a soldier used to manoeuvring through chaos. Jacques followed close behind, his jaw clenched as he brushed against the sea of patrons. The air was thick and stifling, the mingled scents of sweat, ale, and roasted meat nearly choking. Every movement around him felt exaggerated, every face a potential threat. Black cloaks swished against him as patrons shifted in their seats or pushed past. Too many of them seemed to linger as he passed, their gazes flickering to him briefly before darting away, their expressions guarded. Which one of them is watching me? Jacques thought, his heart beating faster. Which one will slip away the moment my back is turned? Which one will whisper to Mirielle or Sir Orchis? The fear gnawed at him, each glance or casual murmur in his direction feeding the pit in his stomach. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, even as his fingers twitched at his sides, itching to grab the hilt of his own blade. Finally, they reached the booth. Jacques sank into the plush red leather seat with a small exhale of relief, the cushions softer than he¡¯d expected. The torchlight overhead flickered, casting shadows that danced along the scuffed wooden walls. A small, unlit candle stood in the centre of the round table, its wax dripped and hardened from countless nights of use. The uneven surface of the table bore the marks of years of revelry¡ªknife scratches, stains, and the occasional crude carving. Owen eased himself into the seat across from Jacques, pulling a folded sheet of parchment from the table, its edges curling slightly against the wood. The subtle scrape of paper against the table seemed deafening to Jacques, a sharp contrast to the muffled chaos of the tavern around them. ''I was thinking of having some cheese and bread with a bit of wine,'' Owen said, his tone conversational, almost lighthearted. Jacques stiffened, his fingers curling involuntarily against the worn leather of the booth. Wine. The word alone sent a fresh surge of humiliation coursing through him, dragging his thoughts back to the smug grin on Mirielle¡¯s face and Hanneburg¡¯s oblivious laughter. ''Not wine,'' Jacques said sharply, the words spilling out before he could temper them. He forced a deep breath and tried again, his tone softer this time. ''A good ale for me.'' Owen¡¯s eyes flicked up, his gaze sharpening momentarily as if he were gauging Jacques¡¯ mood. Then, with a small nod, he replied, ''Very well, Your Grace. I think I¡¯ll join you. Two ales it is.'' Owen rose, his heavy boots making muted thuds against the floorboards as he weaved through the crowd toward the bar. Jacques remained behind, sinking deeper into the worn leather seat. He pressed his fingers against his temples, kneading away the tension that refused to ease, and let out a slow, measured sigh. The hum of the tavern buzzed around him, but in his mind, he was elsewhere¡ªback in his father¡¯s council chamber, under the suffocating weight of the old bastard¡¯s glare. The image was painfully vivid. His father¡¯s face, weathered yet stern, loomed large in his mind¡¯s eye, with the family crest¡ªthe proud, vigilant sheepdog¡ªetched on the wall behind him. The hound¡¯s keen eyes and poised stance seemed to stare straight at Jacques, as if silently judging his every move. Guidance and leadership. That¡¯s what the emblem was supposed to represent. Yet Jacques couldn¡¯t help but wonder if he was even fit to lead, or if he was destined to stumble after others like the many sheep the hound was meant to protect. What would the mighty King Rickard say? Jacques thought bitterly. His imagination conjured the harsh words: ''Weak. Incompetent. A stain on my legacy.'' They cut into him like a blade, sharper because they weren¡¯t far from his own fears. The sharp scrape of a chair being pulled out snapped Jacques back to the present. He blinked, startled, to find Owen standing before him with a faint frown etched on his face. His broad shoulders seemed to block out the chaotic tavern behind him, his shadow cast long over the table. ''Orders have been placed,'' Owen said, his voice steady yet low enough to keep their conversation private. ''They¡¯ll be here in a few minutes.'' His sharp eyes scanned Jacques¡¯ face. ''Are you alright? You look like you¡¯ve seen a ghost.'' Jacques met his gaze but said nothing at first, his mind racing with doubts. Can I even trust Owen? The Northern Knight had proven loyal time and again, but Jacques knew better than to let his guard down. Trust was a luxury he couldn¡¯t afford¡ªnot even with someone as steadfast as Owen. What if Mirielle or Sir Orchis could find a way to sway him? Everyone had their price, and Owen was no different. Jacques studied The Northern Knight¡¯s face, searching for any hint of duplicity. The knight¡¯s expression remained steady, his concern genuine¡ªor so it seemed. Am I imagining threats where there are none? Or is my paranoia the only thing keeping me alive? ''Sit down, Owen,'' Jacques said finally, nodding toward the empty seat across from him. His tone was sharp, but not unkind. Owen leaned back as he relaxed into the booth, the leather seat groaning slightly under his weight. The flickering torchlight above their table cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the hard lines of his jaw and the faint scars along his skin. For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes darting toward the bard at the far end of the tavern. The lively melody of the guitar drifted over the clamour of drunken patrons, a stark contrast to the heavy air between them. Jacques took a deep breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders even as it coiled tightly in his chest. The day¡¯s failure gnawed at him like a dog worrying a bone, its implications far-reaching. This wasn¡¯t just a personal humiliation¡ªit was a wound to his authority, a crack he could no longer afford. Every whisper, every sideways glance from his court, would latch onto this stumble like vultures to a carcass. They need to see that I¡¯m strong, not broken, Jacques thought, clenching his jaw. ''I need you to tell me everything, Owen,'' he said, his voice low but resolute, each word laced with the sharp edge of command. ''Don¡¯t leave anything out.'' Owen nodded earnestly, leaning forward slightly. ''What was said in Sir Orchis¡¯ cesspit of a brothel,'' he began, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before locking onto Jacques with an intensity that made the room feel smaller, ''was the truth, Your Grace. The part about the Jubilees, anyway. Sir Orchis and I... we saw her. The princess. We saw her hand the weapon that killed Eastamere¡¯s king, right into the hands of his killer.'' He leaned in closer, as the very shadows might intercept his words. ''I tried to take the sword. I swear, I tried. But before I could¡ªbefore I could even draw my own blade¡ªit was Sir Bryce. He was there, so fast, so damn fast. He subdued me¡ªright there in the corridor, like I was nothing.'' His fists clenched, his knuckles white. The memory must have been still fresh, the pain of betrayal still raw in his chest. ''Sir Bryce?'' Jacques repeated. ''I could smell peaches.'' The faintest hint of that same sickly sweet fragrance seemed to linger in the air, and Jacques involuntarily breathed it in, his stomach turning. ''Next thing I know, I¡¯m waking up in the dark, cold water, miles from shore. My lungs burning, gasping for air. Someone had dumped me in the ocean, Your Grace. Left me to die. Left me to drown.'' Owen¡¯s shoulders sagged under the weight of his words, his breath coming in shallow, erratic gasps. The room felt colder, the silence between them thick and suffocating. Jacques'' mouth went dry as the full weight of Owen¡¯s words sank in. The look in The Northman¡¯s eyes¡ªthe deep, hollow fear that had settled in¡ªwas unmistakable. He wasn¡¯t just telling a story; he was reliving it, all over again. Yet Jacques frowned, his fingers drumming absently against the smooth wood of the table as his chin rested heavily in his palm. It certainly sounded like an unnecessarily complicated way to kill someone, unless, of course, those who wished Owen dead had motives beyond mere efficiency. Perhaps they didn¡¯t want blood spilled in the palace halls. Or perhaps they wanted his death to seem like fate¡ªmerciless and impersonal. ''What did you do?'' Jacques asked at last, his voice quiet but laden with curiosity. The furrow of his brow deepened, his tone carrying a thread of urgency he couldn¡¯t quite conceal. ''I swam,'' he said, his voice low but steady. ''Despite the cold, I swam. My brother and I...'' He paused, a flicker of something¡ªnostalgia, pain, or perhaps a faint spark of pride¡ªlighting his features for the briefest moment. ''We grew up swimming in the frozen rivers near Flagmere. It wasn¡¯t easy, but it wasn¡¯t impossible, either. Not for me.'' His voice faltered, and his shoulders sagged slightly. ''But when I reached the shore...'' His jaw tightened, and the light in his eyes dimmed. ''I was too late.'' The words hung in the air, heavy and final, like the toll of a distant bell. Jacques leaned back in his chair, his fingers curling around the armrests as he absorbed Owen¡¯s story. He felt the weight of it pressing against his chest, the steady thrum of unanswered questions growing louder in his mind. Mirielle¡¯s intentions were beginning to crystallise, and yet Owen¡¯s survival¡ªmiraculous as it seemed¡ªadded a perplexing new layer to the mystery. ''If Mirielle knew you knew of her plan,'' Jacques began carefully, his voice even but probing, ''why didn¡¯t she just kill you when she had the chance? Why leave you to swim to shore and risk surviving?'' His head tilted slightly, the question lingering in the tense air between them. ''I¡¯m not sure,'' Owen admitted, his gaze dropping to the table. His hands fidgeted, fingers tracing the grooves in the wood as though searching for answers hidden there. ''I can¡¯t make sense of it myself. I should be dead, by all accounts. But I¡¯m not.'' His voice darkened, his tone taking on an edge of unease. ''Someone is playing a game here, Your Grace, and I know Sir Orchis has a hand in it. He doesn¡¯t even hide it! It¡¯s like he wants us to know.'' Jacques fixed his gaze on Owen, his sharp eyes scanning every twitch, every flicker of emotion on The Northman¡¯s face. He searched for a crack, some telltale sign of deceit. Instead, what he saw unsettled him even more: sincerity. The kind of sincerity born of confusion and desperation, unclouded by guile. Yet there was also something else¡ªnaivety. A fool¡¯s sincerity, Jacques thought grimly, the kind of belief that could lead a knight like Sir Owen Flagg to his own ruin. And yet, that sincerity struck a chord in him. For the first time in weeks, Jacques felt a faint flicker of kinship¡ªa subtle, unwanted comfort. If Owen was to be believed, then perhaps they were both caught in this web, both unwilling players in a game that neither understood nor controlled. That thought, oddly enough, made Jacques feel a sliver of relief. He wasn¡¯t alone, not entirely. If they were stuck in this together, at least it meant someone else was sharing the weight of it. For a fleeting moment, his solitude felt a little less suffocating. Sir Orchis¡¯ sincerity, however, was a mask¡ªa hollow veneer that bore no resemblance to the honour that clung to Sir Owen like a second skin. Sir Orchis didn¡¯t hide behind lofty ideals or noble promises. No, he thrived in the murk of his own reputation, twisting the truth to serve his every whim. He bathed in shadows, using the light of truth to weave lies, and a thick web of deceit to hide anything resembling honesty. In his world, there was no room for righteousness¡ªonly manipulation and control. Who am I to truly trust? The hawk, the silent observer, or the ram, steady and loyal, yet stubborn and blind? As Jacques pondered the weight of his dilemma, Owen lifted his mug, his movements slow, deliberate, as though he too was caught between conflicting truths. The sound of the tavern around him¡ªthe low hum of conversation, the clink of mugs, the crackling of the fire¡ªfaded into a blur as Jacques¡¯ thoughts thickened with uncertainty. His focus shifted without warning, drawn to the far corner of the room where a figure stirred. At first, he could make out nothing more than a shadow, a shifting shape, but as it grew clearer, a sense of tension tightened in his chest. A man. Broad-shouldered, imposing, his face carved from stone, his movements sharp and deliberate. The light of the flickering torches caught the glint of a bald head, the faint sheen of sweat making it gleam under the warmth of the fire. Jacques¡¯ hand tightened around his own mug, instinctively bracing himself for whatever storm was coming. He could feel the man¡¯s gaze on him, like a heavy weight pressing against his ribs. As the figure drew closer, the crowd seemed to quiet, the very air in the tavern shifting. The man¡¯s footsteps rang louder, each one like the tolling of a bell, echoing in Jacques¡¯ chest. His face was a thundercloud, brow furrowed in grim determination, lips drawn tight into a snarl. The sword at his hip seemed almost too heavy for him, as if it weighed not just in iron, but in the promise of violence. ''Oi,'' the man barked, his voice rough as gravel, ''Are you Prince Jacques?'' Jacques didn¡¯t flinch¡ªat least, not outwardly¡ªbut a flicker of unease prickled down his spine. The man¡¯s tone was like the crack of a whip, sharp and demanding, and Jacques¡¯ gaze hardened at the sound of it. Owen, however, reacted instantly. The change in his posture was immediate¡ªstiffening like a man preparing for a fight. ''Careful, sir,'' Owen snapped. His eyes locked with the stranger''s, a protective edge to his words. ''This is the Regent King.'' The man didn¡¯t blink. He didn¡¯t hesitate. His lips twisted into a bitter smile, the kind of smile that promised no joy, no victory, only cold intent. ''Then I have the right man,'' he sneered, drawing his sword with a swift motion that seemed to steal the air from the room. The blade gleamed menacingly, catching the torchlight in its cold, unforgiving shine. The atmosphere in the tavern thickened. The chatter stopped, as if the very walls had stopped breathing. Every eye turned to the man, who now stood at the centre of the room, the weight of his presence choking the space. The silence that followed was deafening. Even the fire seemed to quiet its crackling, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The man was looking right at Jacques, like a beast sizing up its prey. ''You will listen to me.'' A shadow passed over Jacques¡¯ eyes, an inexplicable chill creeping down his spine. Before he could process it, Owen was on his feet, his movements a blur of instinct and precision. The knight¡¯s sword flashed from its sheath, the steel catching the dim light of the tavern¡¯s flickering torches. His blade was held steady, its edge aimed directly at the man¡¯s chest, the very tip hovering inches from his ribs. The threat was immediate, undeniable¡ªone wrong move, and the stranger would find himself gasping for air, his life spilling out onto the floor. Murmurs of idle chatter died away, replaced by the low, uncertain whispers of patrons unsure whether they were watching the beginning of a brawl or a slaughter. Chairs scraped hurriedly against the wooden floor, as some tried to inch back, to put distance between themselves and the impending conflict, while others simply sat frozen, eyes wide, lips parted in stunned silence. Owen¡¯s voice rang out, low and cold. ''You lay a hand on His Grace, and you lose the hand,'' he growled, his words edged with the kind of menace that only someone who had seen too many men fall could carry. His gaze was fixed on the man before him, unwavering, as if daring the stranger to test him. Jacques blinked, momentarily taken aback by the ferocity in Owen¡¯s tone. He wasn¡¯t sure whether to be impressed or unsettled. The knight¡¯s brashness was unmistakable, yet there was no question in Jacques'' mind that Owen wasn¡¯t bluffing. There was something dangerous in his stance, something lethal in the way he held that sword. A man accustomed to violence, who had perhaps been too long in service to care much about the cost. His mind flickered back to the stories he¡¯d heard, the rumours that swirled among the common folk like dust in a windstorm. The black knights of the royal guard¡ªthe king¡¯s dogs, they called them, loyal to the throne but feared as much as they were revered. He had never seen a king¡¯s dog up close, not like this. They were a breed apart, men who served with unswerving devotion but who were as brutal as the war dogs they were named after. They were loyal, yes, but violent when cornered. And right now, Owen stood between the tavern and this man, a barrier of steel and cold resolve. ''Put the sword down, Owen. He just wants to talk,'' Jacques instructed calmly, his voice steady but with an edge of authority that brooked no argument. He rose from the booth, each movement measured, deliberate, as if he was carefully weighing every step. His gaze never wavered from the stranger, studying the man¡¯s posture, the way he gripped his sword, the sheer size and weight of the blade. At least, I hope that¡¯s all he wants. Inside, a sharp unease pricked at Jacques'' mind. He couldn¡¯t afford this confrontation to escalate into bloodshed¡ªnot with the fragile alliances already hanging by a thread in the capital, not with every whisper and glance thrown his way laden with suspicion and distrust. The balance of power was as delicate as glass, and Jacques knew all too well that one misstep, one outburst, could shatter it. He had learned the hard way that the slightest ripple could send tremors through everything. This had to end without blood on the floor, no matter how tempting it might be to let Owen¡¯s blade do the talking. ''Your Grace,'' Owen protested, his voice tinged with disbelief. ''The man¡¯s just¡ª'' ''That¡¯s an order, Sir Owen!'' Jacques interjected sharply, his voice slicing through the knight''s words with the force of a command. He locked eyes with Owen, his gaze sharp and unwavering, before shifting it to the stranger once more. ''Let¡¯s hear what the man has to say.'' The words hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken tension. Jacques could feel the heat of the moment pressing down on him, the silence of the tavern suddenly suffocating. His eyes remained fixed on Owen, searching for any flicker of hesitation, any sign that the knight might defy him. Owen had been loyal, true¡ªbut loyalty didn¡¯t always guarantee obedience when emotions ran high. For a brief moment, Jacques wondered if he had pushed too hard, if the sharpness in his voice had been too much. Would Rick have spoken to him like that? His brother¡¯s voice echoed in his memory, always calm, always understanding, guiding with gentleness rather than command. Jacques¡¯ stomach twisted slightly at the thought. I have to be decisive¡ªbut is this the right way? Can I afford to show weakness now, even in my own mind? He kept his gaze hard and steady, willing himself not to show doubt, not to show any crack in his resolve. Finally, Owen¡¯s face softened¡ªthough it was reluctant, it was real. His eyes flicked between Jacques and the stranger, the silent conversation between them more telling than any words could be. Jacques could almost hear the tension in Owen¡¯s breath as he weighed the choice, as if wrestling with the decision to follow his orders or to challenge them. After a long moment, Owen gave a reluctant nod. With a heavy sigh, he sheathed his sword with a movement that seemed almost painful, as if the weight of his own weapon had become too much to bear. He sank back into his seat, his posture stiff but defeated. The air in the tavern seemed to loosen, as if the collective breath of the patrons had been held too long and was finally released. ''Explain your issue with me, good sir,'' Jacques said, his tone measured as he held the blacksmith¡¯s gaze. The man¡¯s face was flushed a deep red, and Jacques didn¡¯t miss the twitch of his free hand, clenched and trembling by his side. His knuckles whitened against the hilt of his sword, the grip tightening with each word Jacques spoke, as though barely holding back an urge to lash out. ''My issue with you, Your Grace,'' the man spat, his voice raw, ''is that some vandals destroyed my blacksmith¡¯s shop. That¡¯s my livelihood, gone!'' His words cracked like a hammer on steel, trembling with an anger threatened to spill over into violence. Owen scoffed from his seat. ''And you thought attacking His Grace was going to bring that back?'' Jacques turned his head sharply. ''Owen, be quiet.'' The knight¡¯s mouth pressed into a hard line, but he obeyed, his shoulders stiff as he leaned back in his chair. Jacques felt the weight of the moment settle heavier on his chest, the silence in the tavern now thick enough to choke on. The blacksmith¡¯s face darkened from red to crimson, the veins in his neck bulging like cords ready to snap. His breath came in ragged bursts, his anger like a furnace roaring just beneath the surface. Every eye in this tavern is watching me, judging me, Jacques thought. He could feel their stares pressing into him from every corner of the room, their murmurs slithering through the air like venomous serpents. They were waiting, hanging on his every word, every movement, eager to see if their new Regent King could hold himself together¡ªor if he would crumble like so many believed he would. He forced himself to stay calm, even as the sword hovered too close for comfort, its point a gleaming threat in the dim light. ''How was it destroyed?'' Jacques asked. The blacksmith¡¯s nostrils flared, his fury momentarily faltering as pain overtook his features. ''The fuckers burnt it down,'' he said, his voice breaking, the words dragging themselves out of his throat. ''The whole bloody lot. Gone. My tools, my forge, my work for the season, everything!'' He paused, swallowing hard, but it didn¡¯t stop the tears that gathered in his eyes. ''My kids...'' His voice cracked, the words cutting deeper than any blade. ''My kids won¡¯t eat for weeks now!'' The room seemed to hold its breath, the man¡¯s raw desperation carving a silence so heavy it felt like it would crush Jacques where he stood. A pang of guilt pierced his chest, twisting with every syllable. Children suffering because of me, he thought. His mind painted a vivid, painful image: small, soot-streaked faces, their cheeks hollow, their tiny bodies curled together in some cold, dank corner of a burned-out ruin. One child clutching the other, their tears streaking the dirt on their faces as they whispered fears no child should ever have to voice. Jacques swallowed hard. ''You have my condolences.'' The blacksmith¡¯s gaze snapped to him, his eyes blazing with fury. ''I don¡¯t need your condolences!'' he roared, his voice echoing off the wooden walls. The sword trembled in his grip as he stepped forward, the raw emotion in his face unrelenting. ''I need compensation!'' Jacques¡¯ body tensed, his muscles coiling as the point of the man¡¯s sword caught the flickering torchlight. The glint of steel was sharp and cruel, a physical reminder of just how precarious his position was¡ªnot just here, in this room, but in the kingdom at large. The tavern was a cauldron of unease, every pair of eyes fixed squarely on their Regent King. They were watching, waiting, weighing his every word and move as though it could tip the balance of their judgement. He could feel the pressure of their expectations, their distrust, heavy as an iron mantle around his shoulders. The murmurs started as soft whispers, like the rustling of dead leaves, before swelling into a quiet storm of conspiratorial tones. Jacques¡¯ ears caught fragments¡ªunspoken accusations, scornful remarks¡ªthough the words were drowned by the blood pounding in his head. Every clink of a glass, every shuffle of a footstep, grated against his composure, each sound dragging him closer to the precipice of shouting them all into silence and fleeing this den of venomous scrutiny. He could almost feel the warmth of his chambers calling him back, the stillness of his paintings offering solace from the suffocating expectations of kingship. They think you orchestrated your brother¡¯s murder, Sir Orchis¡¯ voice hissed, cold and mocking. And used your silver tongue to convince your father to name you Regent King. They don¡¯t trust you, Jacques. They never will. The thought twisted inside his gut, but he forced it down. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the faint tremor in his fingers barely restrained. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. He couldn¡¯t afford to falter now, not when his every breath was under scrutiny, not when his rule was already teetering on the edge of credibility. His mind turned to Mirielle, her sly smile and sharp eyes cutting through his thoughts like the edge of a dagger. She had worked her way into favour with Mister Hanneburg and the Merchant¡¯s Guild, binding them to her schemes with promises Jacques could only guess at. Her cunning had secured her powerful allies, and now Jacques stood at the crossroads of his own battle. This wasn¡¯t about one man¡¯s burned-down shop or even the sword pointed at his chest. It was about perception. About proving, not just to the common man, but to the entire kingdom, that Jacques Rue was a ruler who cared. A ruler who could be trusted. ''House Rue has always had the people¡¯s best interest at heart,'' Jacques announced, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. His words echoed in the tense silence of the tavern, where every patron seemed to lean closer, their curiosity or scepticism painted on their faces. He forced himself to stand tall, meeting their eyes one by one, as though daring them to doubt him. ''My father, King Rickard, defeated a tyrant so that you would all live in a realm where you wouldn¡¯t fear being turned to ash for so much as speaking a bad word about the king.'' He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, letting the weight of his words settle. The air was heavy, still charged with the remnants of the blacksmith¡¯s anger, but now mingling with an almost tangible anticipation. Jacques'' next words would determine if the people in this room saw him as their king¡ªor just another noble hiding behind promises. ''Too long have the wealthy spat down on those they deem lesser,'' Jacques continued, his voice rising with conviction. ''Too long have men like you borne the brunt of their greed and disregard. Today, I pledge to change that.'' His eyes locked onto the blacksmith¡¯s, the raw emotion in the man¡¯s face like an open wound. ''I will pay double what this good man has lost.'' A murmur rippled through the tavern, a wave of disbelief and curiosity. Jacques allowed himself the faintest of smiles, the kind he hoped conveyed both warmth and strength. ''That will be enough for you to rebuild your life and your business,'' he said, his tone softening. ''You have my word.'' The blacksmith blinked, his frown deepening as his eyes darted around the room, perhaps searching for a trick, some hidden snare in Jacques¡¯ words. His sword lowered ever so slightly, the deadly tension of his stance beginning to waver. ''What?'' he asked, his voice hoarse, as though he didn¡¯t trust his ears. ''You heard me,'' Jacques said, stepping closer, his tone calm but firm. ''However much you lost, I¡¯ll double it.'' The silence that followed was deafening. The blacksmith¡¯s sword arm dropped fully to his side, the blade no longer a threat, but a forgotten weight in his hand. His lips parted, but no words came at first. His face, so red with fury moments ago, now seemed to crumble under the weight of a different emotion entirely. He stared at Jacques with wide eyes, his disbelief giving way to something softer, something fragile. ''What is this?'' he asked finally, his voice shaking. ''Some trick?'' Jacques shook his head. ''It is no trick, good sir. You have my solemn oath.'' The man¡¯s breath hitched, and his shoulders sagged as though the fury holding him upright had melted away. His calloused hand loosened its grip on the sword, and for a moment, Jacques thought the man might collapse entirely. ''Thank you, Your Grace,'' the blacksmith said, his voice breaking. ''I don¡¯t... I don¡¯t know what to say.'' ''You don¡¯t need to say anything,'' Jacques replied, his own voice carrying a gentleness that surprised even him. He placed a hand lightly on the man¡¯s shoulder, the gesture steady and reassuring. ''Now get yourself a drink. It¡¯s on me.'' The blacksmith¡¯s face broke into a smile so radiant it seemed to soften the hard lines carved by years of toil and hardship. A single tear traced a shimmering path down his weathered cheek, its journey a testament to the rawness of his gratitude. Jacques felt a warmth bloom in his chest, an unfamiliar but welcome sensation that spread outward like the rays of the sun breaking through storm clouds. He imagined the blacksmith¡¯s children, their faces lighting up as they saw their father return not in despair but with hope in his eyes. The thought steadied Jacques, anchoring him amidst the whirlwind of emotions in the room. ''And that goes for everyone here!'' Jacques proclaimed, his voice ringing with newfound vigour, rising above the din of the tavern. Confidence surged through his veins, ignited by the spark of connection he now felt with these people. He turned, his gaze landing on the landlady as she scrubbed another flagon behind the bar. ''My good woman! A pint of ale for everyone here today!'' For a moment, the tavern stood in stunned silence, as though the weight of his words needed time to settle. Then, like a storm breaking, a resounding cheer erupted, shaking the walls with its fervour. The punters leapt to their feet, their mugs raised high in celebration, a chorus of voices shouting their joy. The once-tense room transformed into a cacophony of jubilant camaraderie, the shadow of unease and distrust swept away like it had never existed. ''To the King!'' a drunken man bellowed, sloshing his ale onto the floor as he staggered to his feet. Others took his cry up, their voices weaving together in a raucous toast. ''To the King!'' Jacques couldn¡¯t suppress the grin that tugged at his lips. The sound of the bard striking up a bawdy tune on his lute filled the room, the lively melody urging patrons to clap and sing along. Even the most sceptical faces now softened, their guarded expressions giving way to mirth. A few men approached Jacques, clapping him on the back with a familiarity that startled him at first but soon warmed him. They thanked him for the ales as if he were an old friend treating them to a round rather than their Regent King extending a gesture of goodwill. The casual camaraderie was disarming, even humbling. This wasn¡¯t the reverent awe of courtiers bowing stiffly in a throne room; this was raw, genuine gratitude from people who saw him not as an untouchable figurehead but as an equal who understood their struggles. Still, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered of the challenges to come. Sir Osgar Sterling would be livid, his hand clutching at the treasury ledgers as he worked to align Jacques¡¯ promises with the kingdom¡¯s budget. Jacques could already picture the man¡¯s scowl deepening as he muttered about fiscal irresponsibility. It would take finesse¡ªno, cunning¡ªto navigate that conversation. Yet as Jacques looked around at the sea of jubilant faces, the grins and cheers of men and women who had moments ago regarded him with suspicion, he knew this display was worth every silver coin it would cost. These weren¡¯t just subjects anymore; they were his people, and in this moment, Jacques felt they were one step closer to belonging to him as he belonged to them. Let Mirielle keep her bloody Merchant¡¯s Guild and their silken whispers. Jacques Rue didn¡¯t need gilded allies who played games behind closed doors. The pulse of the common man¡ªtheir cheers, their trust, their belief¡ªwas worth more than all the wealth in the realm. A barmaid breezed past Jacques, her apron dusted with flour and ale stains, balancing a wooden board laden with bread, cheese, and a frothy mug. She moved with practised ease; her steps swift yet careful, like a bird navigating a crowded sky. She set the meal down on the table with a polite dip of her head. ''Your food and drink, Your Grace,'' she said, her voice tinged with both respect and the hurried efficiency of someone too busy to linger. Jacques reached for a hunk of cheese, its edges crumbly and golden, and bit into it. The sharp, mature flavour blossomed on his tongue, earthy and rich, grounding him in the present moment. He chewed slowly, savouring the taste as he leaned back into his chair, letting out a small, almost inaudible sigh. It was a fleeting luxury, this semblance of peace, and he allowed himself to bask in it for just a moment longer. ''Thank you,'' he said to the barmaid, his tone warm but restrained. She nodded briskly, already moving to attend to another table. Jacques glanced at the table, at the bread and ale before him, then around the room. The lively hum of the tavern¡¯s patrons filled his ears¡ªlaughter, shouts, the rhythmic tapping of a bard¡¯s lute. It was a cacophony, but somehow, it was soothing. He felt a flicker of hope, the sense that perhaps, in these small moments, he might find solace from the unrelenting weight of the crown. But as his gaze wandered, the flicker dimmed, his thoughts veering into darker territory. His eyes lingered on the crowd, on the faces turned away in celebration, and he wondered how long this fragile harmony could last. Jacques had learned as well as anyone that peace was as fleeting as the first bite of good cheese¡ªrich but gone too soon, leaving behind the hunger for more. Mirielle¡¯s face rose unbidden in his imagination, the curve of her lips a veil for the daggers she concealed in her words. She was always there, lurking like a shadow at the edge of his plans, watching, waiting, scheming. Jacques could almost hear her voice, coarse and calculating, reminding him that every step he took toward his people was another step closer to the edge of her blade. Relaxing like this¡ªleaning back in a tavern booth, the weight on his shoulders momentarily eased¡ªfelt like a dangerous indulgence. A weakness. He knew it wouldn¡¯t last. The crown demanded vigilance, an unceasing awareness of the knives glinting in the darkness, and with Mirielle around, he doubted he would ever truly exhale without fear of what waited in the shadows. As Jacques chewed, another figure materialised from the chaos of the bustling tavern. His thin frame shivered visibly, his lanky arms clutching a threadbare cloak to his chest as though it might protect him from the chill seeping into his bones. His massive eyes darted nervously around the room, glistening with an almost feverish sheen, before finally settling on Jacques. ''Dennis?'' Jacques said, recognising the king¡¯s steward as he weaved through the crowd. Dennis bobbed his head in acknowledgement, his breath fogging slightly as though the cold night still clung to him. ''Y-your Grace,'' he stammered, bowing with the graceless urgency of a man who wished to be anywhere else. Jacques arched an eyebrow. ''Come to join us for a drink?'' he asked, gesturing to the mug of ale at the centre of the table. His voice carried a touch of humour, though the unease crawling up his spine betrayed the lightheartedness of the offer. Dennis shook his head vehemently, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. ''I¡¯m afraid not,'' he said, his words trembling as much as his hands. ''I¡¯ve come to deliver a message¡­ f-from Sir Orchis Vortigon.'' The mention of the name snapped the thin thread of camaraderie at the table. Jacques straightened in his seat, his shoulders stiffening, while Owen¡¯s hand instinctively drifted toward the hilt of his sword. The weight of reality descended heavily, crushing the fragile sense of respite Jacques had just begun to savour. ''Go on,'' Jacques said, his tone deliberately steady, though his mind was already racing. Trouble, no doubt. Sir Orchis never delivered good news¡ªit wasn¡¯t in his nature. Dennis hesitated, his lips trembling as he glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting a shadow to lunge at him from the crowd. Finally, he leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ''He wants you to meet him in the throne room, Your Grace. By the entrance to the royal cells.'' Jacques frowned, the words sinking into him like stones into deep water. The royal cells? That dark, damp labyrinth of forgotten criminals and whispered secrets? The Hawk Knight always had a taste for theatrics, but this request reeked of something more sinister. ''Why?'' Jacques asked, suspicion sharpening his tone. Dennis shook his head, wringing his hands like a man desperate to scrub away invisible filth. ''He didn¡¯t say, Your Grace,'' he stuttered. ''Only that it was urgent. He¡­ he said he¡¯s found something.'' Jacques frowned, wondering what sort of twisted game Sir Orchis was trying to play with him this time: a trap? Another lie spun so deftly in half-truths that untangling it will only snare me further? Jacques glanced back at Dennis, whose pale, nervous face betrayed nothing useful. ''What exactly did he say?'' Jacques demanded, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the tavern. Dennis flinched, his hands wringing the edges of his cloak. ''He didn¡¯t say much, Your Grace. Only that you must come urgently. He¡­ he seemed quite serious.'' Jacques let out a slow breath through his nose, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table. His gaze turned toward the flagon of ale before him, but its dark, inviting surface no longer promised relief. The camaraderie of the tavern¡ªthe blacksmith¡¯s heartfelt gratitude, the patrons¡¯ cheering toasts¡ªhad evaporated like mist under the cold, unforgiving sun of responsibility. Even the bard¡¯s lilting tune seemed to falter, its merry notes unable to reach him. He pushed the flagon away, the taste of satisfaction curdling into bitterness on his tongue. The Hawk Knight was a storm cloud that could not be ignored, and ignoring him now might unleash a tempest Jacques couldn¡¯t contain. ''Damn the man,'' Jacques muttered under his breath. He turned to Owen. ''Finish your ale, Owen. It seems we must tend to a hawk who refuses to accept that his wings have been clipped.'' Owen raised an eyebrow but nodded, lifting his mug with one hand while his other rested instinctively on the pommel of his sword. ''Aye, Your Grace,'' he said, draining the flagon in one determined swig. He slammed it down on the table, his maple eyes scanning the room as if already preparing for whatever ambush awaited them. ''Ready when you are.'' Silence greeted Jacques and Owen as they stepped inside the throne room, the kind that clung to skin and seeped into one¡¯s very bones. Torches lined the walls, sputtering weakly, their dim flames casting jagged shadows that writhed like living things on the cold stone. Each step Jacques took echoed faintly, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the chamber, until he and Owen stood at the edge of the black gloom radiating from the doorway to the royal cells. Sir Orchis Vortigon stood motionless in the corner, a dark figure outlined by the faintest sliver of torchlight. His gleaming armour was dulled by shadow, but his presence radiated menace. His posture was casual, almost dismissive, yet his every movement carried the tension of a predator waiting to pounce. When Jacques¡¯ eyes met his, the knight¡¯s expression twisted into a grin that sent a chill down his spine. This was not the anger-fuelled scowl Sir Orchis had once worn; this was the smile of a man who¡¯d delivered the checkmate. ''Thank you for coming at such short notice, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis said, bowing his head in mock reverence. Jacques¡¯ stomach tightened, but he refused to let his unease show. ''What is it you want to show me, Sir Orchis?'' His voice was even, but he could feel the weight of Owen¡¯s silent readiness beside him. Sir Orchis¡¯ grin widened. He gestured toward the black maw of the doorway, the darkness within seeming to pulse. ''Go in and see for yourself,'' he purred, his voice dripping with sinister glee. Jacques and Owen exchanged an uneasy glance, the tension between them taut as a bowstring. Jacques felt the weight of unspoken words in Owen''s eyes, a mix of warning and loyalty that left him both reassured and unsettled. To show fear now would be to show weakness, Jacques reminded himself. Yet every step toward the shadowed entrance felt like stepping closer to a trap. His pulse throbbed in his ears, and his throat felt dry despite the ale he¡¯d nursed earlier. Only a short while ago, Sir Orchis had been an ally¡ªsharp-tongued and brash, but dependable when it mattered. Now, Jacques wasn¡¯t sure what he was. A friend? An opponent? Something worse? The Hawk Knight¡¯s enigmatic grin, visible even in the flickering torchlight, held no warmth, only sharp, predatory. He¡¯s enjoying this far too much. Jacques¡¯ jaw tightened as he stared him down, forcing the fear snaking its way up his spine into submission. I will not be afraid of him. Despite his resolve, doubt curled in his chest like a smoking ember. Why does it feel like he¡¯s the one holding the board and all the pieces, pulling my strings like the master puppeteer people accuse me of being? As Jacques took a step toward the doorway, Owen¡¯s hand shot out, clamping down firmly on his arm. ''Your Grace,'' The Northman said, his voice low but urgent. ''Let me go with you.'' Jacques paused, the weight of Owen¡¯s concern pressing heavily against his pride. He followed Owen¡¯s gaze to Sir Orchis, whose expression remained maddeningly unchanged. The Hawk Knight slowly shook his head, his grin widening just enough to reveal his teeth. Sir Orchis¡¯ meaning was clear: This is for you alone. The cold knot in Jacques¡¯ stomach twisted tighter, his unease bordering on nausea. It wasn¡¯t just the smirk or the ominous invitation; it was the unsettling certainty that Sir Orchis wanted him to feel off-balance, to question every move. That he relished the new regent king¡¯s discomfort. Jacques turned back to Owen, meeting The Northern Knight¡¯s desperate gaze. The lines of concern etched into Owen¡¯s scarred face were deeper now, his protective instincts clearly warring with his duty to obey. Jacques placed a steadying hand on Owen¡¯s shoulder. His voice was quiet but firm, an anchor in the rising storm. ''If I do not return in the next hour, you have my permission to kill him.'' Owen glanced at Sir Orchis, his face hardening into the grim mask of a soldier. He nodded tightly, his fingers curling around the pommel of his sword as if it were the only thing tethering him to restraint. ''The final cell on the left,'' Sir Orchis said. Those words echoed in Jacques¡¯ ears, sharp and cryptic, as he stepped into the abyss. Jacques¡¯ heart thudded against his ribs, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to grow louder with each passing second. The icy dread creeping into his chest wasn¡¯t unfamiliar; he¡¯d felt it before, in the aftermath of King Geraldo¡¯s assassination, during the tense exchange he¡¯d endured with Sofia. But this was different. This felt more primal, more immediate, as though he were walking willingly into a monster¡¯s lair, his own instincts screaming at him to turn back. In all his years living in the palace, he¡¯d never ventured into the royal cells. He¡¯d read about them, of course¡ªThe Shadows Beneath the Crown, one book had called them. They were described as a place the sunlight couldn¡¯t reach, where the air hung heavy with the stench of despair and rot. A place where men lost their minds long before they lost their lives. Tales, Jacques had always thought, written to keep children from mischief and criminals from defiance. But now, standing at the edge of that dark spiral staircase, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder: Are they just tales? Or is this truly the palace¡¯s buried heart of torment? Carefully, Jacques stretched his leg forward, his toes searching for the first step in the overwhelming blackness. When his foot landed flat, he exhaled a shaky sigh of relief. ''At least it isn¡¯t a straight drop,'' he muttered under his breath. The sound felt hollow, fragile, as if the darkness might shatter it completely. His pulse quickened as he descended, each step amplifying the eerie silence around him. The stone staircase was slick beneath his boots, the faint moisture of the walls glistening in the dim torchlight filtering from above. The air grew colder with every turn of the spiral, biting through his clothes and settling into his bones. Each footfall echoed back at him in distorted whispers, as though the walls themselves were alive, murmuring secrets of the condemned. The stench struck Jacques as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the air thick and foul with the rank odour of sweat, rot, and excrement. He gagged, pressing his sleeve to his nose, but it did little to shield him from the assault on his senses. His throat tightened, every breath a struggle as the cursed tang seemed to cling to his lungs. He coughed, the sound ricocheting off the damp stone walls, swallowed almost immediately by the silence that blanketed the place. The eerriness was a force of its own, unnerving in its completeness, broken only by the faint crunch of dust and grit beneath his boots. Even that seemed too loud, as if the royal cells themselves disapproved of any sound not born of suffering. Flickering torches lined the walls, their light feeble and inconsistent, casting grotesque shadows that danced and twisted like spectres. Rats darted along the edges of the corridor, their beady eyes glinting in the dim light before they disappeared into cracks and crevices. Jacques clenched his jaw and forced his legs to keep moving, though each step felt heavier than the last, as if the air itself conspired to weigh him down. Finally, Jacques reached the end of the hallway, his steps faltering as he stopped. His breath puffed in uneven bursts, misting in the cold air. To his left, as Sir Orchis had instructed, was the cell. Instructed. That word soured in his mind, lingering like bile on his tongue. He was the Regent King¡ªhe should never be ¡®instructed,¡¯ especially not by someone like Sir Orchis Vortigon. The thought caught in his throat, tangled with frustration and something dangerously close to fear. Why does it feel like my position doesn¡¯t matter to anyone? Jacques peered through the iron bars, his breath catching as his gaze fell upon the prisoner. Inside sat a boy, no older than fourteen, cross-legged against the cold stone wall. His posture was unnaturally still, as if carved from ice, and his pale face was a mask of defiance. Eyes like shards of frozen steel stared forward, cold and unyielding, daring the world to look away first. His golden hair caught the faint torchlight that flickered across the damp dungeon walls, each strand gleaming incongruously against the grime smeared across his cheeks. Jacques could imagine how, under gentler circumstances, this boy might have been seen as a beacon of youthful charm, a heartthrob amongst the girls his age. But here, in the suffocating gloom of the prison, he looked like a relic, cruelly abandoned. A pang of sorrow twisted in Jacques¡¯ chest, sharp and insistent. What could a boy like this¡ªa child¡ªhave done to end up here, condemned to rot among the worst of the kingdom''s forgotten souls? His fingers tightened on the iron bars, the cool metal grounding him as he sought words to pierce the stillness. The boy¡¯s gaze snapped toward him suddenly, his voice sharp and accusing. ''You¡¯re the Regent King, aren¡¯t you?'' Jacques started slightly, his throat tightening. The boy¡¯s tone held none of the deference he was used to; there was no plea, no respect¡ªonly scorn. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Swallowing against the dryness in his mouth, he nodded. ''Indeed, I am. And you are?'' The boy¡¯s lip curled faintly, a fleeting gesture that might have been a smirk if not for the raw bitterness behind it. ''What does my name matter to you?'' he replied, his voice echoing faintly against the damp stone. ''You¡¯ll forget it the moment you walk away.'' Jacques hesitated, the weight of the boy¡¯s words hanging heavy between them. He could walk away, it was true. He should walk away¡ªthis wasn¡¯t his fight, and he had enough troubles of his own. But something in the boy¡¯s icy stare, the emptiness that shouldn¡¯t belong in the eyes of someone so young, anchored him to the spot. ''I don¡¯t think so,'' Jacques said at last, his voice soft but firm as he crouched by the bars. ''Vortigon sent me down here to speak with you, and I intend to know why. The man seems to enjoy his riddles. So, let¡¯s start. What¡¯s your name?'' The boy shifted, the faint clink of his chains breaking the silence. His movements were slow, as if even the smallest effort was a rebellion against the weight of the dungeon. At last, he spoke. ''Rickard. At least, that¡¯s what my mother named me.'' Jacques¡¯ heart clenched, the sorrow from before sharpening into something deeper, more visceral. ''Where¡¯s your mother now?'' he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer. ''Dead.'' The word dropped like a stone into the dark void between them, the boy¡¯s tone as flat and unfeeling as the cell that confined him. There was no hesitation, no tremor in his voice¡ªjust a stark, brutal truth. ''And you¡¯ve lived on your own ever since? What about your father?'' Rickard shook his head slowly, his gaze falling to his bare, dirt-crusted feet. For a long moment, he didn¡¯t answer, his thin shoulders trembling faintly as if under the weight of memories too heavy to bear. Jacques waited, the boy¡¯s silence speaking louder than words. It wasn¡¯t just grief in the boy¡¯s posture; it was resignation, the quiet acceptance of someone who¡¯d learned far too early that the world offered no refuge. Jacques¡¯ questions hung in the air, unanswered, but his heart bled for the boy¡ªand for all the others like him scattered throughout the capital. He¡¯d seen too many faces like Rickard¡¯s, haunted and hollow, remnants of lives broken by hardship and neglect. Too many. Far too many. Clearing his throat, Jacques shifted his approach. ''So how did you end up here?'' he asked, his tone lightening slightly, though his stomach clenched at the thought of what answer might come. ''What happened?'' Rickard hesitated, his thin fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tattered trousers. His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling in erratic jerks. ''I¡­'' he started, his voice cracking as his eyes filled with unshed tears. He bit his lip, shaking his head as though trying to banish the memory. ''I killed a man.'' Jacques¡¯ breath caught, but he said nothing, watching as Rickard¡¯s fragile composure crumbled. ''I was only having some fun,'' the boy continued, his voice breaking into a frantic rush. ''You know, making his carriage break. I thought it¡¯d be a laugh¡ªjust a prank. But then they started beating this boy for something I did. A little boy. He couldn¡¯t have been any older than me.¡¯ Rickard¡¯s words came tumbling out now, heavy with desperation. ''I couldn¡¯t just stand there. So I stepped in to help. But then¡ª'' He choked, his hands trembling as they balled into fists. ''Before I knew it, I¡¯d¡­ I¡¯d killed him.'' He looked up then, his tear-streaked face twisted in a mixture of anguish and terror, his voice cracking with raw emotion. ''And now I¡¯m in here.'' He gripped his tattered tunic with trembling hands, his knuckles white. ''I was only trying to help, Your Grace. You have to believe me! I didn¡¯t mean to¡ª'' His voice faltered, swallowed by a sob, and he buried his face in his hands. The sound of his sobbing filled the cell, sharp and unrelenting, echoing off the stone walls. Each cry was a sword, stabbing through Jacques¡¯ defences, striking chords of pain and guilt he hadn¡¯t realised he carried. He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his own emotions in check, but Rickard¡¯s grief was a force all its own, raw and unyielding. He wanted to say something¡ªanything¡ªbut the words refused to come. He shifted closer to the bars, his hand lifting instinctively, reaching out to bridge the chasm between them. But as his fingers hovered just inches from the bars, he hesitated. What could I offer? Empty promises? Hollow reassurances? Jacques drew his hand back slightly, the weight of his own failures pressing down on him like the damp air of the dungeon. He¡¯d failed people before¡ªfailed to protect them, to shield them from the injustices that consumed them all. Now here he was, staring into the eyes of one more soul he might not be able to save. ''I believe you,'' Jacques said gently, his voice softening as he met the boy¡¯s tear-filled eyes. ''You should¡¯ve walked away, Rickard. No one would have blamed you for that. So why didn¡¯t you?'' Rickard sniffed, his sobs slowing, though his breathing remained uneven. He looked away, his fingers twitching as they traced the edges of the iron cuffs around his wrists. ''It¡¯s silly,'' he murmured, his voice barely audible. Jacques frowned, leaning forward. ''What is it?'' he pressed, his tone laced with both curiosity and concern. He could sense that whatever the boy was about to say carried the weight of his deepest convictions. The boy hesitated, his face contorting in a mixture of shame and hope. ''I¡­ I¡¯ve always wanted to become a knight of the royal guard,'' he admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if afraid they might be snatched back by the gloom of the cell. ''Like Sir Theon Balogun.'' Jacques blinked. ''Sir Theon?'' Rickard nodded quickly, a spark of light flickering in his eyes for the first time. ''Yeah. When I was younger, he helped my orphanage. He kept us afloat when no one else cared. He made me believe¡­ believe that even someone like me could make a difference. That I could help people if¡ªif I could just be in a position of power, like Sir Theon was.'' The raw sincerity in Rickard¡¯s voice tugged at Jacques, cutting through the bitterness and despair that had filled their conversation until now. ''You look up to him?'' Jacques asked, though he already knew the answer. The boy cracked a faint smile, his tears momentarily forgotten. It wasn¡¯t much, but it transformed his face, revealing the child he still was beneath the grime and sorrow. ''I got to see him fight once,'' he said. ''At the king¡¯s peace tournament. He was unstoppable¡ªlike something out of a legend. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it.'' Jacques found himself smiling faintly, despite the heavy air in the cell. ''The peace tournament?'' Gods, that feels like a lifetime ago now. Rickard nodded, his small hands gripping his clothes. ''I wasn¡¯t supposed to be there¡ªI snuck out of the orphanage to watch. I filtered through hundreds of people just to get a glimpse of him in the arena.'' He laughed softly, though there was a note of sadness in it. ''The guards kicked me out. They beat me. But it was worth it. Just seeing him fight was worth it.'' Jacques¡¯ mind spiralled back to memories he¡¯d tried to bury¡ªthe days he would watch Rick train in the palace courtyard, the boy¡¯s determined scowl mirrored by the sharp clanging of steel against steel. Jacques could almost feel the sun on his face again, hear Rick¡¯s laughter as he called out another challenge to the old knight who had mentored him. Rickard swept a strand of his golden hair from his face, and Jacques¡¯ breath hitched. The motion was so familiar it was painful, a precise echo of how Rick would push back his own locks before launching into an attack. It wasn¡¯t just the gesture¡ªthe golden hue, the tilt of the boy¡¯s jawline, even the way he carried himself, all bore an uncanny resemblance. Jacques gritted his teeth, his hands tightening around those cold iron bars. I¡¯m seeing him everywhere. Rick¡­ He¡¯s gone. He¡¯s dead, you fool! Stop torturing yourself! But as much as he tried to dismiss the thought, his heart thundered in his chest. He forced his gaze back to the boy, studying him with an intensity that bordered on desperation. The golden hair, the sharp cheekbones, the proud tilt of his chin¡ªit was as if a phantom from his past had materialised before him, flesh and blood and brimming with defiance. A sudden, gnawing dread coiled in Jacques¡¯ stomach, twisting tighter with every passing second. This isn¡¯t possible. It can¡¯t be. ''Your mother¡­ what was her name?'' Jacques asked, his voice trembling slightly before he steadied it. The question came out too sudden, too sharp, but he couldn¡¯t stop himself. Rickard¡¯s gaze darkened with suspicion. ''Aubery,'' he said slowly, the name rolling off his tongue like a challenge. ''Why?'' Aubery. The name hit Jacques like a dagger to the chest. He staggered back a step, his jaw slack. He¡¯s Aubery¡¯s son. He¡¯s¡­ His mind raced through fragmented memories¡ªthe laughter they¡¯d shared, the secrets whispered in the quiet of moonlit nights, the ache of losing her. And now, this boy. Jacques¡¯ voice hardened as a storm of emotions churned within him. ''Look at me, boy,'' he demanded, harsher than he¡¯d intended. His hand pressed against the bars as if to close the distance, to drag the truth into the light. ''I said look at me!'' Rickard flinched but obeyed, lifting his head and locking eyes with Jacques. The moment their gazes met, Jacques¡¯ heart seized. There was no mistaking it¡ªthose eyes, piercing and vibrant as the open ocean, were hers. The same eyes that had once enchanted him, that had gazed at him with love and longing. Now, they stared back at him from the face of this boy, filled with defiance and confusion. But it wasn¡¯t just the eyes. The features, so familiar yet distinct, tore at him. This wasn¡¯t Aubery¡¯s face. It was the face of the past, reformed and reshaped, come back to haunt him in a way he¡¯d never imagined. His gut churned, a tumult of disbelief, fury, and something deeper: hope. Jacques sprinted down the dimly lit corridor, his heart pounding in his chest, his boots striking the stone floor with a frantic rhythm. The stairs loomed ahead, and he charged upward, his burning lungs screaming in protest as he pushed himself harder. Each step felt steeper than the last, the image of the boy¡¯s golden hair and piercing ocean-blue eyes flashing relentlessly in his mind. It was as if the spectre of Rick had returned to haunt him, and the weight of it threatened to drag him under. The faint light of the throne room grew closer, flickering like a distant beacon. Jacques stumbled, catching himself on the rail before lunging forward and bursting through the heavy doors. He staggered to a stop, his body heaving as he clawed at the air, leaning against his knees to catch his breath. His vision blurred from exertion, but even through the haze, he could feel eyes on him. ''Find anything?'' Owen¡¯s voice cut through the tense air, calm but curious. Jacques straightened slowly, his chest heaving, and his gaze locked onto Sir Orchis. The Hawk Knight leaned casually against the far wall, arms crossed, a smug grin etched onto his face. The sight of it sent Jacques¡¯ blood boiling. Sir Orchis¡¯ expression wasn¡¯t just confident¡ªit was victorious, as though he had already delivered the killing blow and was merely savouring the moment. Denying it would be futile. ''You,'' Jacques growled, his voice a trembling mix of fury and disbelief. He took a step forward, pointing an accusatory finger at The Hawk Knight. ''You know who that boy is, don¡¯t you?'' Sir Orchis¡¯ grin widened. ''Do I?'' he replied, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. ''Why?'' Owen said, his brows furrowed as he turned toward Jacques, ''Who is he?'' Jacques didn¡¯t answer immediately, his gaze remaining fixed on Sir Orchis¡¯ infuriatingly smug face. The truth clawed its way out of his throat like a wild animal, each word heavy and laden with anger and despair. ''My¡­ my brother¡¯s bastard son.'' The declaration hit the room like an earthquake. Owen¡¯s eyes widened in shock, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. His expression hardened as his gaze flicked between Jacques and Sir Orchis, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. The walls seemed to close in, the air growing heavy as if the very castle itself had turned against Jacques. His chest tightened painfully, his breathing shallow as the weight of the revelation pressed down on him. Every second felt like an eternity, the silence deafening save for the pounding of his heart. Sir Orchis broke the stillness with a low chuckle, his amusement filling the void. ''Now, Your Grace,'' he said, his grin widening into something razor-sharp. ''I believe you were saying something about clipping my wings?'' Chapter XV- The Doves Call ''Another step, Your Highness.'' The words rang in Luis¡¯ ears like a taunt, though they were meant as encouragement. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, each inhalation sharp and jagged like shattered glass. Pain lanced through his leg with every attempt to move, radiating up his spine and pooling as a hot, throbbing ache at the base of his skull. His knuckles turned white around the polished cane, his only anchor as he fought to steady himself. It had been a gift from his sister¡ªa symbol of hope, she¡¯d called it¡ªbut in moments like this, it felt more like a chain, binding him to his failure. Sweat trickled down his temples, dripping into his eyes and stinging, blurring his already narrowed vision. His muscles screamed in protest, a chorus of agony that drowned out Doctor Renando¡¯s firm but gentle urgings. The walls of his bedroom seemed to close in on him, the once-familiar space now a prison where every step was a battle against his own body. ''I¡¯ve taken enough steps, damn it!'' Luis growled, his voice hoarse and raw. His frustration erupted in the words, but the anger wasn¡¯t meant for her¡ªit was for himself. He hated the weakness in his voice, the way it cracked under the weight of his pain. He hated the way his legs trembled like a newborn foal''s, unable to bear even the smallest fraction of his once-proud strength. Doctor Renando didn¡¯t flinch at his outburst. ''You will not heal properly if you give up, Your Highness,'' she said, her tone steady, a thread of iron running through it. ''Now take another step. Please.'' Luis squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out her determined gaze, the cluttered room, the humiliating image of himself hunched over and defeated. His breaths came faster, shallower, a panic growing like a disease. For a moment, he felt like he might collapse entirely, crushed beneath those painful memories¡ªthe clash of steel, the roar of voices, and the searing agony that had left him broken. Doctor Renando¡¯s voice cut through the storm in his mind again: ''One step, Your Highness. Just one.'' Luis forced himself to open his eyes. With a grimace, he puffed out his cheeks, channeling his frustration into the motion. He willed his leg to move, to obey, even as it protested with every fibre of its damaged muscle. Slowly, agonisingly, he shifted his weight forward. The cane wobbled under his grip, its polished wood slippery with sweat. A guttural grunt escaped his lips as his foot dragged an inch, then another. The pain was unbearable¡ªsharp, burning, and relentless¡ªbut worse was the indignity of almost falling. His legs buckled, threatening to give way entirely, and his vision blurred from the sheer effort of staying upright. Doctor Renando was there in an instant. Her hands found his arms, steady and firm, holding him upright as his balance faltered. ''Easy, Your Highness,'' she said softly, her voice laced with a kind of patience he wasn¡¯t sure he deserved. Luis gritted his teeth, fighting the wave of dizziness that rolled over him. For a moment, he let her bear his weight, his body stiff and unyielding, as though surrendering even this much felt like admitting defeat. ''I will not heal,'' he rasped, his voice barely audible. He didn¡¯t look at her, couldn¡¯t bear to see the pity or determination that might gleam in her eyes. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, where a shadow wavered in the faint light of the morning. ''Not really.'' The words were a bitter truth spoken aloud. They tasted of ash on his tongue, of defeat and despair that no amount of stoicism could mask. His legs might grow stronger, his body might regain some semblance of mobility, but he knew in his heart that the man he had been¡ªthe warrior, the prince, the captain of the royal guard¡ªwas gone. Doctor Renando opened her mouth to speak, but the creak of the door interrupted her, the sound carefully tearing through the room. Luis clenched his jaw as Sofia stepped inside, her black hair catching the golden streaks of the early-morning light spilling through the window. She wore their mother¡¯s old dress¡ªa pristine white with a delicate pink ribbon cinched around her waist¡ªa choice that felt deliberate, almost manipulative, as if to remind him of better days. The mere sight of her standing before him, the mixture of familiarity and distance; a ghost of their past wrapped in the present¡¯s clothing. Behind her loomed Lord Serben Diae, his tall frame darkened by the light, his shadow stretching across the room until it brushed Sofia¡¯s. There was something in his posture¡ªa hesitation, a wariness¡ªthat only served to make Luis¡¯ skin crawl. ''How is he doing?'' Queen Sofia asked, her voice carrying that perfect balance of concern and authority she had been practising. She moved with an elegance that made Luis feel like a tattered rag in her presence. Luis forced himself to look away. ''He is here, you know,'' he muttered bitterly. Sofia¡¯s expression tightened. ''Please, Luis, don¡¯t be like that.'' Her voice, calm and measured, only added fuel to the fire burning in his chest. He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto her with unspoken rage. ''How do you want me to be, Your Majesty?'' His tone dripped with mockery, each word a barb aimed at the pristine armour of her composure, to make it crack at very least. The pain in his leg surged as if summoned by his anger, and he staggered against the walking cane. The sharp ache twisted his features into a grimace, and before he could stop himself, a raw, guttural scream tore from his throat. ''Damn it!'' He slammed his fist against the wall, the impact sending a jarring reverberation up his arm. Dust floated down from the point of impact, the room seeming to hold its breath in the aftermath. Sofia stopped mid-step, her lips parting as if to say something, but the words never came. For a moment, she simply looked at him, her eyes flickering with something that could have been sympathy¡ªor pity. Luis wasn¡¯t sure which he despised more. ''Doctor,'' Sofia said suddenly, turning to Doctor Renando. Her voice was firm now, the Queen emerging in full force. ''Could you give my brother and me some privacy, please? You as well, Serben.'' Doctor Renando hesitated, glancing between the two siblings before giving a stiff bow. ''Of course, Your Majesty,'' she said, retreating with an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. The door creaked as it closed behind her, leaving only Serben. The Lord of Diame lingered, his presence a quiet defiance. He glanced at Luis, his brow furrowed with concern. Luis stared back, unflinching, daring him to say something¡ªanything. ''Serben,'' Sofia said again, her tone sharper this time as she turned to him. ''You heard what I said.'' This time, her words must have struck home. Serben¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line, but he bowed deeply nonetheless. ''As you wish, Your Majesty,'' he murmured. He cast one last glance at Luis, something unspoken hanging in his gaze, before stepping toward the door. The soft click of it shutting was louder than it should have been, echoing in the strained silence. Sofia placed her hands on her hips, her posture radiating both authority and exasperation. ''Sit down, Luis. You look like you¡¯re about to fall over.'' Luis shot her a glare but said nothing. His pride protested, yet his body screamed for relief. Gritting his teeth, he limped toward the bed, every step a brutal reminder of the injury that had rendered him a shadow of himself. The throbbing pain in his leg pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, each step feeling like a blade driven deeper into his flesh. When he finally sank onto the mattress, a sigh of relief escaped his lips. His muscles, taut and trembling, loosened as the weight lifted from his legs. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to savour the reprieve, even as the pain lingered, a dull and insistent flicker. The room was steeped in an almost suffocating blend of scents¡ªDoctor Renando¡¯s medicinal herbs, their earthy aroma thick in the air, mingling with the sour tang of sweat and the faint mustiness of old wood. It was a smell Luis had grown used to in his confinement, a constant reminder of his weakened state. When he finally opened his eyes, Sofia was seated across from him. She perched on the edge of the chair with her back straight, her movements deliberate and composed. Her hands rested lightly on her knees, but her fingers betrayed her, fidgeting ever so slightly with the fabric of her dress. Her gaze locked onto his, her large brown eyes studying him with a mix of scrutiny and concern. Those eyes¡ªalways so full of purpose¡ªfelt heavy now, weighted with something he couldn¡¯t quite place. Pity? Frustration? Guilt? He hated that he couldn¡¯t tell. ''Please don¡¯t look at me like that, Sofia,¡¯ Luis muttered, his voice hoarse and brittle, barely rising above the stillness of the room. Sofia¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. If anything, her eyes softened, a flicker of sadness passing through them like a shadow. ''Like what?'' she asked. ''Like I¡¯m broken.'' The bitterness in his voice cut through the quiet, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress like a madman. He wanted to lash out, to scream, to pick up his sword and slash his sadness down to hell where it belonged. But the pain in his leg anchored him, tethering his anger to his own helplessness. ''I''m sorry,'' Sofia said, her voice softer now, almost trembling. ''I never meant to hurt you.'' Luis nodded faintly, his throat tightening like a noose. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, swallowing back the lump forming there. ''I know,'' he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. ''I¡¯m sorry too.'' Sofia exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly, though her gaze remained steady. ''I need to make sure we are in this together,'' she continued, leaning forward. Her hands rested on her knees, her knuckles pale against the fabric of her dress. ''We¡¯re fighting a war against Galia now. We can¡¯t afford to fight a war amongst ourselves as well. I need your help. Can you do that for me?'' Her words hung in the air, weighty and inescapable, like a stone dropped into a still pond. Luis sighed, his leg twitching in protest as the phantom of its pain surged anew. He looked away, his eyes fixing on the grooves in the wooden floorboards, each one a chasm pulling him deeper into despair. ''You¡¯re right,'' he said, his voice hollow, as though he were speaking the words to himself as much as to her. ''I¡¯m broken.'' ''You¡¯re not broken, Luis,'' Sofia said firmly, her voice tinged with both conviction and desperation. ''We need you. I need you.'' Luis shook his head slowly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of invisible chains. His throat burned, and stinging tears began to well behind his eyes, threatening to spill. ''They all know it,'' he rasped. ''You said it yourself. What good am I now, hobbling around like this, like I¡¯m...'' He clenched his fists tightly, the nails digging into his palms, using the pain to anchor himself. His jaw tightened as he fought to maintain the fa?ade he had clung to for so long¡ªa knightly composure, the stoicism of a man sworn to protect. He might no longer be a knight in name, but the instincts of one still coursed through his blood, refusing to yield. Sofia¡¯s voice cracked, betraying the Queen. ''Luis, look at me.'' His head turned reluctantly, his stony expression meeting her pleading eyes. Her deep brown eyes, brimming with emotion, searched his face with an urgency that unsettled him. They weren¡¯t just the eyes of a queen¡ªthey were the eyes of his sister, desperate to bridge the chasm between them. ''We are the blood of the dove,'' Sofia said, each word deliberate, as though she were driving them into him like stakes to hold him upright. ''I need your help. Please.'' Luis stared into his sister¡¯s eyes, the weight of her plea pressing against his chest like a stone. The depth of her gaze, so unwavering yet filled with an ache she rarely allowed herself to show, pulled him into a whirlpool of memories. He could almost hear the echoes of their laughter as children, Sofia darting through the gardens with her friends, her hair wild in the sunlight, while he trailed behind, wooden sword in hand. Even then, all he wanted was to act the knight, to protect and serve. It had been his dream for as long as he could remember¡ªa dream now reduced to ash. Those carefree days felt impossibly far away, obscured by the haze of grief and the relentless throb of his injury. Memories of their parents¡¯ warm smiles, the unbroken confidence of youth, and a body that had never failed him seemed like fantasies from another life. Can I afford to hold this hatred in my heart? he thought, the question pressing at the edges of his mind. His anger, his bitterness¡ªit had sustained him, but at what cost? Perhaps it was time to let it go, to stop nursing the wound like a twisted lifeline. Perhaps I need to bide my time, he reasoned. Perhaps I need to work through the pain, do something other than wallow in my own self-pity. What other choice is there? He nodded solemnly, his decision as heavy as it was fragile. Sofia mirrored his nod, though her expression shifted in an instant. The tenderness in her eyes hardened, the softness retreating like a tide. In its place emerged the unyielding resolve of a queen¡ªa woman who bore the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. ''Tomorrow morning, we ride for the border,'' she said, her voice clipped and authoritative. Luis blinked, his frown deepening. ''What?'' ''You heard me,'' Sofia said, her tone brooking no argument. ''I want you to join me on a trip west. We¡¯re going to end this war, Luis, before it can do any more damage.'' Her words hit him like icy water. ''You want me to go with you?'' Luis asked, disbelief threading through his voice. ''Yes,'' Sofia said without hesitation. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers tightening on the armrest of her chair. ''I need you by my side. Please, Luis.'' Her plea hung in the air between them, a fragile bridge spanning the chasm of resentment and regret. The pain in his leg flared again, a sharp, pulsing reminder of his limitations, but he pushed it aside. It would not break him. Not now. He stared at his sister, weighing her words, her determination, and the faint tremor in her voice. Despite everything, despite the bitterness that still lingered at the edges of his heart, she was his sister. His queen. Luis exhaled slowly, his body still, his leg throbbing as if testing his resolve. At last, he nodded, his voice low but steady. ''Alright. I¡¯m with you¡­ Your Majesty.'' A faint smile ghosted across Sofia¡¯s lips¡ªgone in an instant, replaced by the unyielding mask of command. Luis couldn¡¯t tell if it had been meant for him or for herself. Sofia and her brother spent weeks confined to the confines of a rickety wooden carriage, watching one lush green field dissolve into another. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels over uneven terrain became a grim lullaby, masking the distant roar of the war they were heading into. Normally, they would have ridden on horseback¡ªan unspoken symbol of royal dignity¡ªbut Doctor Renando had insisted on the carriage, her tone insistent with warning about the risk to Luis¡¯ injury. The cold was merciless. It seeped through the thin wooden panels like a predator, biting at their skin and numbing their fingers. Each gust of wind rattled the windows, and the carriage creaked with every rut in the road. Sofia clutched a woollen blanket tighter around her shoulders, her teeth chattering despite her best efforts to still them. Across from her, Luis sat rigid, his face pale, every jolt in the road etching a new flicker of pain across his features. His knuckles were white where they gripped his cane, and he hadn¡¯t spoken in hours. ''We should have stopped at that inn last night,'' Sofia said softly, breaking the oppressive silence. She didn¡¯t expect an answer, and Luis didn¡¯t give her one. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the window, as though sheer will could distance him from the agony burning in his leg. Sofia sighed, glancing out of her own window to distract herself from the knot of worry twisting in her chest. The Crab¡¯s Gorge sprawled beneath them, a jagged wound carved into the mountainside, its edges sharp and unforgiving. The mist that blanketed it seemed alive, shifting and curling like the tendrils of some ancient beast awakening from slumber. The Gorge¡¯s depths were invisible, swallowed by the eerie white fog, which gave it the illusion of being bottomless. The stories about the Crab¡¯s Gorge rose unbidden in her mind. A mark of violence, they said¡ªa dragon¡¯s wings gouging the earth in its death throes, felled by elven magic over a thousand years ago. As a child, those tales had enchanted her, painting the Gorge as a place of wonder and history. Now, the sight of it filled her with unease. The silence here felt unnatural, too heavy, as though the Gorge itself were holding its breath. If it weren¡¯t for the fighting, Sofia would¡¯ve bet on the Crab¡¯s Gorge being one of the first places Fernando and Esme would visit on their journey. The journey we were supposed to go on together. ''There it is, Luis,'' Sofia breathed, her voice barely rising above the steady clatter of the carriage wheels. She pressed her hand against the frost-laced window, her breath fogging the glass as she leaned closer. Luis stirred, his face pale and drawn with pain. ''What?'' he asked, his voice strained, hoarse from hours of silence. ''The Crab¡¯s Gorge,'' she said. ¡®The one¡ª'' She stopped herself, the sentence fracturing before it could escape. The one Father always promised to show us. The words sat like stones in her throat, too heavy to say aloud. Instead, her mind betrayed her with an image of the Gorge transformed¡ªnot into a natural wonder, but into a gaping grave. She saw her father¡¯s coffin suspended over its edge, ropes creaking as Jacques stood over it, lowering it into the abyss, wearing his devilishly charming smile. The pit swallowed Father whole, as final and cruel as his blade had been the day it pierced her father¡¯s chest. Sofia¡¯s breath hitched. She clenched her fists, forcing the memory away, but it left its mark like a bruise. Luis¡¯ gaze darkened, his dull eyes catching the subtle tremble in her voice. He didn¡¯t need her to finish the sentence to understand. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement jarred his injured leg. ''Sorry,'' she said quickly, the word tumbling out before she could stop it. It felt small, pitiful. Useless. Luis gave her a tired look, his lips pressed into a thin line. ''You¡¯re the queen now, Sofia,'' he said after a long pause. His voice was steadier than hers, though there was a roughness to it, as if each word carried its own weight. ''You don¡¯t have to be sorry about anything.'' And yet she was. Lord Serben and the royal guard flanked the carriage like silent sentinels, their armour catching faint glimmers of light as it clinked with each deliberate stride of their horses. The rhythmic sound of hoofbeats mingled with the creaking of the carriage wheels, creating an uneasy symphony that underscored the tension in the air. Ahead of them, the road vanished into a wall of dense white fog, each swirl and eddy obscuring what lay beyond. The ancient stronghold of Anthera was their destination, a crumbling fortress nestled deep in the mountains. Sofia¡¯s fingers tightened on the edge of her seat as she stared into the murky expanse, her mind conjuring images of the old stronghold emerging like a black phantom from the mist. ¡®Will we even see it before we arrive?¡¯ she muttered under her breath. Anthera was more than a meeting point; it was a symbol of defiance. Built centuries ago by her ancestor, Gloveiro Paloma, the fortress had once been the stalwart guardian of Eastamere¡¯s western border, an unyielding wall against Galian incursions. According to the stories her father used to tell, King Gloveiro had designed it to blend seamlessly into the cliffs, as though the mountains themselves had willed it into existence. Now it was little more than a ruin, abandoned since the last war, its purpose eroded by years of uneasy peace. But peace was a memory, and Anthera had been resurrected as the kingdom¡¯s first¡ªand perhaps strongest¡ªline of defence against the wrath of King Rickard. Sofia glanced at Lord Serben, his face as unreadable as ever beneath the shadow of his helm. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers curled tightly around the pommel. The golden knights beside him sat rigid in their saddles, their eyes scanning the fog with the intensity of men who expected death to emerge from it at any moment. Sofia shifted in her seat, uneasy. Lord Gallo was supposed to meet them with the Eastamerean forces, but the fog made it impossible to gauge how far they were from their destination, or whether Gallo¡¯s men had arrived safely. The thought of entering Anthera only to find it empty and vulnerable sent a cold shiver down her spine. No doubt it would¡¯ve put a humorous smile to Jacques¡¯ face, to see her humiliated like some dimwitted child. Anthera¡¯s position was strategic, its placement blocking the most direct route through the border mountain range. Any army attempting to bypass it would be forced into the treacherous depths of the mountains, wasting time and resources as they navigated the rugged terrain. But that wasn¡¯t the part of the story that lingered in Sofia¡¯s mind. The legend of Gloveiro Paloma whispered through her thoughts like a ghostly refrain. It was said that if Eastamere were ever in mortal danger, Gloveiro himself would rise again, his spirit summoned to defend his homeland with the same unyielding resolve he¡¯d shown in life. The tales described him as one of the greatest swordsmen the world had ever seen, a warrior who had stood alone atop the Gorge¡¯s cliffs and held back an entire Galian battalion. She remembered her father¡¯s voice as he recounted the legend, his tone equal parts reverence and mirth. ¡®Even the mountains answer to our first king,¡¯ he¡¯d said once, his eyes alight with the kind of pride that only the Paloma lineage could claim. ¡®The Galians feared him more than the dragons of old.¡¯If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. But now the story felt more like a hollow comfort than a rallying cry. Legends didn¡¯t stop swords, and ghosts didn¡¯t fight battles. It was flesh and blood that Rickard¡¯s armies would face at Anthera, and for all the fortress¡¯s storied history, Sofia couldn¡¯t shake the sense that it was woefully unprepared for the storm bearing down upon it. Sofia knew the risks if she lost. If the Galians took Anthera, the cracks in her forces¡¯ morale might start to show. It was unlikely her soldiers would abandon the fight entirely¡ªthere were still many strongholds left to defend after Anthera¡ªbut the loss of such a critical position could sow doubt where confidence needed to reign. She couldn¡¯t afford even the whisper of hesitation among her men. I have to make it clear, Sofia thought, clenching her fists, Eastamere would not fall without a fight. The carriage creaked as it moved further along the mountain pass, the wheels crunching over loose stones. Outside, the fog had thickened, a cold, wet shroud that turned the already narrow path into a labyrinth. Somewhere ahead, obscured by the haze, the gorge yawned wide and treacherous. Then came the noise¡ªshouts echoing across the chasm, faint at first, but growing louder with every second. Luis shifted beside her, his movements stiff and cautious as he leaned toward the frosted window. His eyes were wide, darting nervously as if trying to pierce through the fog. ''Galians?'' he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Sofia didn¡¯t answer immediately. She stared out the window, her stomach sinking as she caught the faint glimmer of torchlight flickering in the mist. There were too many flames to count. Her throat tightened as she nodded. ''And far too many of them,'' she murmured. The enemy was already here, their campfires like a constellation spread across the opposite ridge. Soon, those shouts would give way to the twang of bowstrings, the thud of rocks hurled by trebuchets, and the deafening crash of flaming arrows streaking across the gorge. Sofia¡¯s mind raced with images of chaos¡ªthe sky alight with fire, screams echoing off the cliffs, men falling from the parapets into the endless void below. Her breath quickened, but she forced herself to stay still, sitting frozen with the weight of her thoughts. Yet beneath the fear that clawed at her chest, another feeling stirred, strange and unwelcome. Her heart sang. She hated herself for it, but the truth was undeniable. She was about to lead soldiers into battle, to stand as a figurehead of defiance and hope. A year ago, she¡¯d been nothing more than a sheltered princess, ensconced in the safety of her father¡¯s palace. Her days had been a blur of etiquette lessons, idle conversations, and dreams that felt too small for the grand halls she wandered. A part of her yearned for that life again, for the simplicity and safety of being just a princess. But another part of her¡ªthe part she barely understood¡ªthrived in this moment. She wasn¡¯t just a princess anymore. She was a queen, and the lives of thousands rested on her decisions. Her mother¡¯s words echoed in her memory, unbidden. I remember when your father became king. He was just like you¡ªall scared and on edge. Look at him now. That will be you one day. If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed. I can promise you that. She had believed those words then, drawn comfort from them. But now, they felt hollow. She doubted her father had ever felt like this¡ªthis suffocating blend of fear and determination, of doubt and desperate resolve. Her father had been larger than life, a towering figure of authority who made everything seem effortless. How could I ever live up to that? Luis pressed his face against the carriage window, his pale hand trembling as he pointed to the tallest of the towers. Above it, a white flag bearing the golden dove of the Palomas fluttered against the cold wind¡ªa beacon of hope and unity. But Luis wasn¡¯t done. He pointed again, his finger wavering as it landed on the crimson flag adorned with an iron fist, the unmistakable banner of House Gallo. Beside it, the green serpent of House Diae coiled menacingly on its standard, swaying with the same breeze that carried Sofia¡¯s dove. The sight of the two foreign banners standing beside her own made her stomach churn. Allies, yes¡ªbut how long could they protect her? Sofia tore her gaze away from the flags and focused on the fortress itself. Anthera was a marvel of defensive engineering, a relic from an era when survival demanded ingenuity and sheer will. The fortress gates loomed ahead, a towering slab of black iron reinforced with thick wooden beams. Four concentric walls rose behind it, each higher and thicker than the last, forming a formidable barrier between the gates and the heart of Anthera. If everything goes to plan, Sofia thought, my enemies will never lay a hand on the innermost wall. But plans were fragile things, easily shattered by the chaos of war. The carriage groaned to a halt, and Sofia¡¯s royal guard descended with practiced precision, their armour clinking softly as they formed a protective line. One of them opened the door, and a sudden draft lashed through the interior, biting at her skin and taking her breath away. The fresh mountain air rushed into her lungs, crisp and wild, carrying with it the scent of pine and distant snow. For a moment, it steadied her¡ªunclenching her shoulders and loosening the knot in her chest. But the illusion of calm didn¡¯t last. The cold wasn¡¯t a comfort; it was a reminder of how exposed they were. Sofia stepped down from the carriage, her boots crunching against the gravel-strewn path. She moved to the centre of the formation, flanked by her brother on one side and Lord Serben on the other. Behind them marched her royal guard, their eyes scanning the fog-shrouded cliffs for any sign of movement. ''Welcome to Anthera, Your Majesty,'' came a voice from ahead. Lord Gallo stood just beyond the gate, his stocky frame wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. His breath rose in plumes as he rubbed his gloved hands together, his face creased with a faint smile that didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. ''Please, come this way,'' he said, gesturing toward the gate. The massive doors groaned as they swung open, their iron hinges protesting with each inch. The sound reverberated through the gorge like the cry of a wounded beast, sending shivers down Sofia¡¯s spine. She glanced at Luis, who was pale but composed, his lips pressed tightly together. Beyond the gate, the fortress unfolded like a labyrinth of stone and shadow. Soldiers milled about the outer courtyard, their breath visible in the frigid air. Some paused to salute her as she passed, their eyes flickering with a mixture of hope and unease. Others were busy reinforcing barricades, sharpening blades, or hefting crates of arrows toward the ramparts. A wooden platform stretched along the walls, its weathered planks groaning under the weight of soldiers pacing back and forth. Above the massive gate, additional platforms jutted out like jagged teeth, their narrow slits ready for spears and vats of oil. Sofia paused beneath one, her gaze tracing the murder holes cut into the wood where defenders could rain death on any who dared breach the gates. Will that be enough? The thought twisted in her mind like a knife. King Rickard would be relentless; he¡¯d easily burn his own men alive to keep his siege going. Boiling oil and spears only delayed the inevitable if the walls didn¡¯t hold. Her stomach coiled tight, anxiety buzzing through her like an unseen current. She turned slightly toward Lord Gallo, who marched ahead with his usual puffed chest and confident stride. His cloak swayed with each step, fur-lined and embroidered with the iron fist of his house. Sofia wanted to ask him¡ªWill it hold? Will we hold?¡ªbut she swallowed the words. The last time she¡¯d dared voice a concern, he had launched into a monologue on war and tactics that had droned on for the better part of an hour. She could still hear his gravelly voice explaining oil mixtures and ¡®the optimum angle for spear throws.¡¯ Instead, she said nothing. Silence was easier than listening to a man who seemed so certain of things she couldn¡¯t bring herself to believe. The second gate loomed larger than the first as they approached. Like the first wall, it bristled with defensive features¡ªplank-lined platforms, barricades ready to be dragged into place, and narrow arrow slits carved into the stone like watchful eyes. Two walls, she thought. And there are still two more. The incline steepened as they delved deeper into the mountain pass, Anthera¡¯s walls looming over them like sentinels that had been watching for centuries. The air grew colder here, the slate walls seemingly holding the chill, leaching warmth from her fingertips even through her gloves. By the time they passed the third gate¡ªidentical in its defences but larger, more imposing¡ªthe shadow of the fourth wall had swallowed them whole. Sofia tilted her head back, staring up at the final gate. It was monstrous, its iron-reinforced beams thicker than her torso. The stone wall flanking it was doubly thick, layers of slate and granite piled atop one another in a feat of engineering she couldn¡¯t help but admire. If any gate would withstand the Galians, surely it would be this one. But what happens if even this falls? The thought slid unbidden into her mind, a whisper of doubt that tugged at her fraying resolve. Sofia clenched her fists, forcing her breathing to steady. Now wasn¡¯t the time for fear. The fourth gate groaned open, its hinges protesting against years of disuse, and the sound reverberated through her chest like the toll of a funeral bell. Sofia stepped inside, flanked by Luis and Lord Serben, the royal guard fanning out behind them with measured precision. The interior of the fortress swallowed them in shadow. Grey slate greeted her on all sides¡ªwalls, floors, even the vaulted ceiling above, which loomed so high it felt as though the very mountain had hollowed itself out to accommodate Anthera¡¯s heart. Torches were lit along the walls, their flames crackling, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance across the stone like restless spirits. The great hall awaited them, cavernous and cold, its silence deep enough to hear the faint echoes of their footsteps. In the centre of the room stood an immense stone table, carved from the mountain itself and shaped like the continent it represented. Sofia approached, the surface rough beneath her fingertips as her gaze traveled over the table¡¯s sprawling map. Eastamere sprawled to the east, its carved mountains rugged and lifelike, while Galia stretched westward, smooth plains giving way to sharp, raised coastlines. The border was marked by a dark crack splitting the continent, a pattern Sofia had seen a thousand times in her father¡¯s library. On top of the table lay meticulously carved pieces, each representing the great houses of both realms. Sofia¡¯s eyes went first to the soaring dove of House Paloma, the largest and most prominent piece on Eastamere¡¯s side. Its wings spread wide in perpetual flight, its golden edges glinting faintly in the torchlight. Nearby stood the snarling sheepdog of House Rue, its carved teeth bared, its stance one of defence rather than aggression. The piece was weighty and solid, far less elegant than the dove, but reassuringly grounded. Sofia brushed her fingertips over its surface and exhaled shakily. ''We have picked the spot, Your Majesty,'' Lord Gallo said, his voice carrying a note of triumph as he gestured toward the map. His smile, sharp and thin, stretched across his face. Sofia suppressed a shiver; she¡¯d come to recognise that particular smile. It only surfaced when Lord Gallo was speaking of war, and it made her skin crawl. ''Yes, the Galians have nearly double our numbers, but it took King Rickard nearly two years to claim this fortress during the last war. We shall not let it fall again.'' ''Indeed,'' Sofia replied, keeping her voice steady, though a chill ran down her spine. They need to believe I can do this. I must be strong, like my father. They must see a queen, not a scared little girl. She lifted her chin, forcing a hint of steel into her voice. ''But let¡¯s get to the point of why I am here, my lord.'' She turned toward him, letting her once polite smile fade into something colder, sharper¡ªsomething that spoke of command. Her glare locked onto Lord Gallo, and for the briefest moment, he faltered, his smile flickering. She pressed the advantage, replacing any lingering trace of hesitation with authority. ''My father was always the commander of his armies, was he not?'' Her voice rang clear in the hall, its echo filling the spaces between the silent lords gathered around the stone table. ''Then I shall do the same,'' Sofia declared, stepping closer to the table. The carved map loomed before her, its etched contours catching the flicker of torchlight. She studied the pieces spread across it, each representing lives¡ªher soldiers, her people¡ªarrayed against the enemy. Her eyes lingered on the snarling sheepdog of House Rue, King Rickard¡¯s emblem. Jacques¡¯ emblem. For a brief moment, the weight of what lay ahead pressed down on her shoulders. The air felt heavy, and her breath quickened, but she forced herself to keep her composure. She leaned over the table, tracing the borders with her finger, then spoke, her tone calculated. ''King Rickard is a winner, everyone knows this,'' she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm. ''He¡¯s defeated far more powerful men than me. Abrasiveness will not work here. We cannot afford rashness or ego.'' She raised her gaze, meeting Lord Gallo¡¯s eyes. ''Instead, I will use patience. That is a skill you sorely lack, my lord.'' A muscle twitched in Lord Gallo¡¯s jaw, his expression hardening. The air in the room grew taut as a drawn bowstring. The knights standing around the table exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes darting between Sofia and Gallo like spectators waiting for a fight to erupt. ''I¡¯ve been commanding armies for half a century, Your Majesty,'' Gallo said, his voice low, each word deliberate and heavy with restrained anger. ''I know how to be patient.'' ''No,'' Sofia replied, her voice cutting through his like a sword. ''I cannot take that risk.'' She straightened, her presence filling the room despite her smaller stature. She turned sharply toward Lord Serben, who stood stiffly at her side, his hands clasped behind his back. ''Lord Serben,'' Sofia said, her tone softening slightly but still firm, ''I charge you with leading my army and ensuring this fortress remains defended.'' Serben¡¯s eyes widened, his composure slipping for the first time. His gaze darted around the room, searching the faces of the other lords, as if seeking confirmation that he¡¯d heard her correctly. ''Your Majesty, I have absolutely no military experience at all,'' he said, his voice trembling with disbelief and fear. His hands clenched at his sides, the knuckles white against his weathered skin. ''Are you sure you wish me to command your armies?'' Sofia met his gaze, holding it steady, though the unease in his voice tugged at her own confidence. ''You were my father¡¯s most trusted adviser,'' she said, her tone firm and unyielding. ''I know you will follow my instructions to the letter, and that is precisely what we need.'' Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of expectation. She willed him to accept them, to trust her judgment. But Lord Serben¡¯s head shook, more vigorously this time, and the lines of worry on his face deepened. ''I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I must strongly advise against this,'' he said, his voice rising with urgency. ''Lord Gallo is the right choice to defend this castle. He has the experience, the knowledge¡ªhe commanded these walls once before. I implore you to place your faith in him, as your father did.'' At the mention of her father, Sofia¡¯s chest tightened. She glanced toward Lord Gallo, who stood rigid and imposing, his hands clasped in front of him. His expression remained calm, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes that set her teeth on edge. The old lord carried himself as though he were already in command, as if her authority were a mere formality to be endured. Sofia inhaled deeply, the air sharp and cold against her lungs. Her father¡¯s words echoed in her mind: I understand your apprehension, Sofia, but rulers stand alone in their burdens. As much as she wanted to emulate King Geraldo¡¯s strength, the truth was undeniable: she couldn¡¯t do this alone. Too much was at stake. She needed the fortress to hold, the men to fight with resolve. Every decision she made now could mean the difference between victory and annihilation. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she looked back at Serben. ''Very well,'' she said at last, her voice calm but edged with resolve. ''Lord Gallo will lead the defence of this fortress.'' A flicker of relief crossed Lord Serben¡¯s face, but before Lord Gallo could bask in his apparent victory, Sofia turned sharply to face him, her gaze locking onto his like the point of a drawn blade. ''However,'' she continued, ''he will adhere strictly to my battle plan.'' Her tone left no room for debate. ''That is non-negotiable, my lord. Do I make myself clear?'' For a moment, silence blanketed the room. The tension coiled tighter, winding like a snake about to strike. Lord Gallo raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smile It was the smile of a man accustomed to command, one who didn¡¯t take well to orders, least of all from a queen he likely thought untested and unworthy. ''As you say, Your Majesty,'' he replied, his tone smooth, but his words carried a subtle edge, a challenge unspoken yet unmistakable. Sofia stood her ground, her eyes never leaving his. She could feel the weight of every gaze in the room pressing on her, waiting to see if she would falter, if she would break beneath the old lord¡¯s scrutiny. But she refused to yield. ''I mean it, Lord Gallo,'' she said, her voice dropping lower, colder. ''The plan is not a suggestion. If I hear of any deviation¡ª'' She let the words linger, unfinished, but heavy with implication. Lord Gallo inclined his head, the gesture respectful in form but begrudging in spirit. ''Of course, Your Majesty,'' he said, though his tone betrayed a hint of disdain. ''I am also going to speak to my men at nightfall, before the Galians attack,'' Sofia declared, her voice steady despite the anxiety stirring in her chest. ''They need to see me out there, just as they saw my father.'' The words lingered in the air like a challenge. A strained silence followed, broken only by the distant howl of the wind beyond the fortress walls. Lord Gallo¡¯s brow furrowed, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. He shifted his stance, turning to Serben with a questioning look. ''Was this your idea?'' Serben straightened his shoulders and met the old lord¡¯s gaze with a proud smile. ''Our queen wants to help,'' he said firmly. ''I think we should give her that chance.'' Lord Gallo regarded her in silence, his hand rising to stroke his chin. The motion was slow, as if weighing her words on some invisible scale. For a moment, Sofia wondered if he was going to argue, to try to dissuade her. The thought sent a ripple of unease through her, but she stood firm, meeting his gaze with all the determination she could muster. Finally, Lord Gallo gave a small nod. ''Very well, Your Majesty,'' he said, his tone carefully devoid of emotion. ''I¡¯ll make sure the men see you.'' A chill passed across Sofia¡¯s skin, sharp as the mountain air. She couldn¡¯t tell if it came from the old lord¡¯s lukewarm support or from the image his words summoned in her mind: soldiers lining the walls, fighting for her, bleeding for her, dying for her. She imagined their faces streaked with sweat and blood, their eyes alight with desperation as they fought to hold the line. All for the sake of a crown she was still learning how to wear. ''Although¡­'' Her voice faltered slightly as the thought crept into her mind, unbidden. ''I have never¡­ spoken publicly like that before.'' Serben turned toward her, his expression softening. He stepped closer, his smile warm and reassuring. ''Not a problem, Your Majesty,'' he said with quiet confidence. ''I¡¯ll write a speech for you.'' Lord Gallo led Sofia across the narrow slate path, his heavy boots thudding with a steady, unwavering rhythm. The towering black gate of Anthera loomed ahead, an unyielding monolith against the darkening sky. Night had smothered the last embers of sunlight, leaving the world in shades of black and grey, while the air, sharp and frigid, bit at her skin with a cruel ferocity. Sofia exhaled, and her breath escaped in faint white clouds that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, though the chill seemed to crawl beneath the wool, winding itself around her ribs like a vice. Behind her, the tapping of Luis¡¯ cane on the slate shattered the uneasy silence, each tap like a dagger of sound. It startled her, her pulse spiking. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe slowly, to steady the tremor in her fingers as she tightened her grip on the parchment Serben had given her. The ink on the speech¡ªso neatly written, so confident in tone¡ªblurred slightly as her hands shook. Stop it, she scolded herself. They¡¯ll see. The weight of her father¡¯s crown seemed to grow heavier with each step, its cold metal pressing into her scalp, its edges biting into her skin. Ahead, torchlight flickered from sconces mounted high on the walls, casting wavering shadows across the gate¡¯s ancient surface. In their glow, the towering fortress looked almost alive¡ªan enormous beast waiting for battle, its gate a gaping maw, ready to consume whatever dared approach. A shiver ran through Sofia that had nothing to do with the cold. The men beyond this gate¡ªthe soldiers, the defenders, her men¡ªwere waiting for her. They were huddled along the walls, on the ramparts, within the shadows of their tents, clutching swords and spears and wondering if they would live to see the morning. They were waiting for their queen. For her. You cannot fail them. Sofia scaled the stone steps to the wall, her pulse quickening with each step as the chill of the night air cut through her cloak. The clatter of her boots echoed faintly, swallowed almost immediately by the muffled sounds of soldiers shifting on the ramparts above. When she reached the top, she was greeted by a solemn line of Eastamerean soldiers, their silhouettes etched against the faint light of the moon. They stood shoulder to shoulder, each man gripping his weapon tightly, their expressions hardened into masks of resolve. Yet the quiet betrayed the truth. Fear hung in the air like a storm cloud, thick and oppressive, threatening to drown the bravest hearts. Sofia¡¯s eyes drifted down the line, taking in each face, every crease and shadow illuminated by the flickering glow of torches. These were not just soldiers¡ªthey were farmers, blacksmiths, and tradesmen thrust into the brutality of war. One of them, shorter than most and standing near the edge of the wall, caught her attention. He shifted slightly, his trembling hands fumbling with something at his neck. A silver eagle pendant. He kissed it softly, his lips brushing the metal with a reverence that sent a pang through Sofia¡¯s chest. The motion was quick, discreet, as though he feared someone might notice and call him out for weakness. But his hands betrayed him, shaking even as he returned to his place in line, his weapon held high. Sofia locked eyes with him briefly and saw the truth. He was terrified. This could be his last night in the world, and he knew it. Sofia tore her gaze away, swallowing the lump in her throat. She had dreamed of this moment once¡ªstanding atop a wall, a queen before her army, her voice ringing out in a speech that would echo across the ages. She had pictured herself as her father, her words filled with the same commanding conviction and fiery inspiration that had won battles before a single sword was drawn. She had imagined their cheers, the roar of belief and loyalty that would rise from the soldiers like the beating of a single heart. But now, standing here, she understood. This moment was not a dream. Her palms felt clammy, and a cold sweat prickled along her spine as she looked down at her trembling hands, hidden within the folds of her cloak. She gripped the fabric tightly, her knuckles whitening as she steadied herself. The reality of the situation struck her in waves¡ªthese soldiers didn¡¯t need her perfection. They didn¡¯t need a queen with all the answers or a speech carved from legend. They needed someone real. She thought of the story she¡¯d once heard about her grandfather, Geraldo I, a king known more for his wisdom than his voice. His stammer had made speeches difficult, and her grandmother, and later her father, had often spoken on his behalf. Yet when the last war with Galia broke out, it had been Geraldo himself who stood before the soldiers. Her father had told her that when he spoke, his words were imperfect but powerful, marked by the occasional stammer that reminded his men it was truly him speaking, not someone else. They followed him not because he was flawless, but because he was true. I remember when your father became king. He was just like you¡ªscared and on edge. Look at him now. That will be you one day. If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed, I can promise you that. ''Tonight¡­ in this grave hour, we do battle.'' The wind howled along the walls like a chorus of ghosts, whipping Sofia¡¯s hair across her face and clawing at the edges of her cloak. The torches sputtered, their flames dancing wildly, as if the night itself conspired to swallow them. For a brief second, all Sofia could hear was the wind and the faint clatter of armour as her soldiers stood in rigid silence, waiting for her to continue. She swallowed, her throat tight, her pulse drumming in her ears. ''This is perhaps the most fateful night in our history,'' she said, her voice lifting over the storm as she straightened her back. Each word carried weight, pressing down on her chest but carrying her forward all the same. ''Tonight, we are not just fighting an enemy of flesh and steel. We are fighting a war against greed¡ªa war against tyranny. A war against selfishness. A war against hate!'' The words rang out across the ramparts, slicing through the dark like sharpened blades. Faces turned to her, eyes glimmering with torchlight¡ªwide, wary, and resolute. Sofia clenched her fists, willing warmth back into her fingers as she took a step forward. She could feel the weight of all their fears resting on her shoulders, but she stood taller for it. ''For the sake of everything we hold dear¡ªour homes, our families, our freedom¡ªwe must stand together tonight. Shoulder to shoulder. Heart to heart. And we will prevail.'' A gust of wind struck her, stealing her breath for a heartbeat, but Sofia forced her voice louder, stronger, her words defying the storm. ''But let us not fool ourselves¡ªthis victory will not come for free. Not all of us will greet the dawn.'' She paused, letting the truth of her words settle like a shroud. Some soldiers looked down, a few murmured prayers, and that same short soldier kissed his eagle pendant once more. ''Some will live. Some will die. But each and every one of you here with me tonight¡ª'' she raised her voice, clear and ringing like a bell¡ª''fights with honour. With courage. With pride.'' She searched their faces now, letting her gaze linger on one soldier, then another, as if she were speaking to each of them personally. ''You are Eastamerean. And I could ask for no better men to stand with me. There is no army more loyal, no hearts braver than yours.'' A murmur rose among the soldiers, faint and uncertain at first, but it grew as torches were lifted and hands tightened around weapons. Sofia could feel the shift, the faint spark of something beginning to burn within them¡ªa belief, fragile but real. ''It is a brighter future we fight for tonight!'' Sofia declared, her voice carrying far beyond the walls and into the black abyss beyond. ''A future where our children will not kneel to King Rickard¡¯s rule. Where they will not have their freedom stripped and their voices silenced. Where they will grow as free Eastamereans¡ªwhere their lives will belong to them, not to some greedy tyrant who seeks to take everything from us!'' The murmurs became a low rumble. Sofia took another step forward, the cold wind battering her face, her hair whipping behind her like a banner. Her heart was pounding now, each beat filling her chest with fire. ''And we will send a message to King Rickard tonight! He can batter us! He can belittle us! He can burn our cities to the ground and cast us into shadow!'' Her voice rose to a roar, fierce and unrelenting, words forged in the fire of her fear and fury. ''But if we are to burn tonight¡ª'' she thrust her arm into the air, clenching her fist¡ª''then he will burn with us!'' ''To the queen!'' The cry erupted from the soldiers, a deafening roar that reverberated through the night air. It was like a crack of thunder, shaking the very walls of Anthera, and for a fleeting moment, Sofia thought the sheer force of their voices might collapse the ancient stone beneath her feet. The cheers surged in waves, each one louder than the last, but they did not fill her with pride. Instead, they weighed her down, the weight of expectation pressing hard against her chest, pinning her in place. This wasn¡¯t her. These weren¡¯t her words. The speech had been Serben¡¯s creation, every line carefully crafted by someone who knew how to honey their words. Sofia clenched her fists, the paper with the speech still crumpled in one hand. Its smooth surface was now creased and damp from her clammy grip. Her throat tightened as her gaze swept over the soldiers below. They weren¡¯t just warriors. They were people¡ªmen, some barely old enough to wield a blade, their shoulders trembling despite their best efforts to stand tall. She spotted a boy no older than sixteen, his gauntlets too big for his hands, his helmet sitting askew on his head. Beside him stood an older man with streaks of gray in his beard, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles were white. Fear flickered in their eyes, unspoken but impossible to miss. Sofia¡¯s heart twisted. These weren¡¯t nameless soldiers; they were sons, brothers, husbands, fathers. They had families waiting for them¡ªfamilies who might never see them again. And here they stood, offering her their loyalty, their lives, because she was their queen. Their queen. Chapter XVI- A Shaking Grip The needle trembled in Sofia¡¯s blood-slicked fingers, her knuckles pale against its delicate silver glint. Around her, the fortress groaned under the relentless barrage outside¡ªevery distant crash of a catapult¡¯s payload sent tremors snaking through the slate beneath her boots, rattling her spine and echoing like the footsteps of giants in the cavernous infirmary. Dust cascaded from the ceiling with each impact, catching faint orange light from the flickering lanterns and settling in her hair, her eyes, her throat. A crude wooden table sprawled before her, worn and scarred, its splintered edges now slick with sweat and blood. On it, a soldier writhed and wept, his pale face twisted in agony. His trembling hands still gripped the silver eagle pendant around his neck¡ªa charm too small to shield him from the agony coursing through his broken body. Sofia had already sewn shut three gaping wounds that had torn through his chest and shoulder like the teeth of a beast, but six more remained: red holes the size of arrowheads and deep slashes running like cruel rivers down his arms and legs. The injuries varied, but the cries were always the same, raw and ragged, ringing through the stone air like a dirge. The soldier thrashed, the table creaking beneath his weight, his breath shallow and uneven. Sofia gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus as she threaded the needle into his torn flesh. His skin, cold and clammy, gave way too easily under her shaking hands, and the moment the sharp metal pierced him, he howled¡ªa sound that split the air they breathed. ''I know,'' Sofia said, her voice trembling but firm. Her throat burned from the stench, a sickly mixture of sweat, blood, and bile that clung to her with cruel persistence. ''I know it hurts, but stay calm! Please¡ªstay still.'' The soldier didn¡¯t hear her. His screams filled the cavernous space, drowning out everything but the thunder of the siege and the chaos of the makeshift infirmary. A nurse darted past her, skirts flaring and arms piled high with linen bandages, clutching them as if they were gold. Her shoes struck the slate with hurried, desperate taps that sounded like the sandy grains of an hourglass¡ªanother life slipping away. Sofia glimpsed her wide, panicked eyes before she disappeared into the shadows beyond the table, where more men cried out for aid. Sofia¡¯s gaze flickered around the room¡ªif one could even call it that. The infirmary was a cold, oversized cavern carved from the bones of the fortress, its walls damp with sweat and grime. Torches sputtered in their brackets, their wavering flames barely holding back the darkness as blood pooled in the uneven cracks of the floor. The air itself felt heavy, oppressive, thick with the iron tang of death. Somewhere near the back of the room, a man¡¯s scream ended abruptly, followed by silence. Sofia dared not look. The man¡¯s cries exploded, the sound raw and unrelenting. ''Mother! Gods, please, help me!'' His voice, hoarse and broken, cracked with the weight of his suffering. He wasn¡¯t much older than Sofia¡ªperhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven¡ªbut he wept and screamed like a child ripped from his cradle. Tears streaked his dirt-stained face, mingling with sweat and blood as his body writhed against the table. His flimsy arms flailed toward her again, weakly batting at her hands in desperate, instinctive attempts to stop her. His movements had no real strength, but they still jolted her heart with every swing. He¡¯s scared, she reminded herself. Terrified. He doesn¡¯t know what he¡¯s doing. ''Hold him still!'' Sofia barked, her voice trembling as she glanced at the soldier holding the man¡¯s shoulders down. The older soldier grunted, leaning his weight against the wounded man to pin him to the blood-soaked table. ''You have to keep going, Your Majesty,'' the soldier growled at Sofia through gritted teeth, though his own face had gone pale from the cries of his comrade. I know, Sofia thought, forcing her hands to move despite the way they shook. Around her, the infirmary churned with chaos. The screams of the dying merged into one endless wail, punctuated by the crashing booms of the siege outside. The fortress trembled again, shaking dust from the cavernous ceiling like an angry god rattling his cage. Lantern flames sputtered in their sconces, casting frantic, flickering shadows across the blood-spattered stone walls. And the smell¡ªthe stench¡ªwas unbearable. Sweat, blood, rot, and something deeper and darker, like rusted iron steeped in decay. It clung to her skin, crept into her lungs with every breath, and settled heavy in her stomach like a stone. Sofia¡¯s gag reflex twitched, but she swallowed it down and focused. She pulled the thread tight, sealing the first wound shut with an ugly line of crimson-streaked stitches. The man sobbed beneath her touch, his voice reduced to pitiful gasps and hiccups, his body shuddering violently. ''Done,'' Sofia whispered, though the word felt hollow. She glanced up and immediately wished she hadn¡¯t. The next wound was even worse. It gaped across his side like a second mouth, torn flesh and muscle exposed in gruesome layers. Deep red blood pulsed from it with every weak beat of his heart, soaking into the table, into her sleeves, and dripping steadily onto the slate floor in thick rivulets. The blood pooled like spilled wine, turning the cracks between stones into crimson rivers. Sofia¡¯s head swam. Her stomach clenched violently, threatening to send her meagre dinner spilling onto the ground, but she swallowed hard and pushed the feeling down. Focus. She fumbled for another length of thread with clumsy, blood-slick fingers. Her vision blurred as she jabbed the needle into his torn flesh. The man¡¯s body arched up off the table as he screamed¡ªragged, earsplitting, hopeless. ''Gods, please¡ªstop!¡± he howled, his voice breaking into sobs that made Sofia¡¯s chest ache. I¡¯m sorry, she thought, but she couldn¡¯t bring herself to say it aloud. ''I need you to get through this,'' Sofia said, her voice soft but steady, as if she could pull calmness from some secret well inside her. She tied the stitch off and pierced his skin again, the needle sliding through flesh with sickening ease. ''You¡¯ve done so well with the rest, hang on a little longer.'' Her words were met with no reply beyond the man¡¯s whimpering cries, his lips trembling as he clutched at the bloodied eagle pendant hanging from his neck. He whispered something¡ªperhaps a prayer, perhaps a plea¡ªbut the words were lost beneath the din of the infirmary. Voices crashed around Sofia¡¯s head like waves against the coast¡ªagonised screams of the wounded tangled with the sharp, relentless bark of Doctor Renando¡¯s orders. The sound was everywhere, suffocating, a great ball of noise that swallowed her whole. ''Water!'' Sofia shouted, her voice raw and strained as she pulled the needle through another tear of flesh. Her fingers, slick with blood, moved with frantic precision, tying knots in trembling loops. She didn¡¯t see who answered her plea, but a bottle was thrust into her outstretched hand, cold glass pressing against her palm like a lifeline. For a moment, everything else faded¡ªthe cries, the crashing siege outside, even the man¡¯s convulsing body on the table. Sofia tipped the bottle to her lips, and the water spilled into her throat, cool and clean. Relief washed through her as the liquid soothed the dryness that had scraped her voice down to dry sand. She sighed shakily, clutching the bottle as though it might hold her together. For a heartbeat, she thought of nothing else but the simple act of drinking. But then her eyes darted down to the man writhing before her. His screams had died into rasping, desperate breaths, his lips cracked like parched earth, darkened with dried blood. He needs this more than you. Sofia froze, the guilt coiling in her gut like a tightening knot. He¡¯s the one dying, not you. She dragged her focus back to the wound, driving the needle through his torn skin with renewed urgency. Sweat dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes as it mingled with the grime on her face. Her hands shook from exhaustion, but she forced them steady. When the final stitch was pulled tight, Sofia dropped the needle onto the stained table with a clatter and grabbed the water bottle. She leaned over the man, her body aching, and brought it to his cracked lips. ''Drink,'' she said firmly, her voice hoarse but steady. The man flinched at first, his body jerking as though even kindness hurt him now. His breathing came in ragged pants, and his bloodied face twisted with confusion, as if he could not understand why anyone would offer him relief. But as the water touched his lips, he seized the bottle weakly with trembling hands, gulping down what little he could. The sound of him swallowing was soft, barely audible beneath the chaos, but Sofia heard it as clear as a prayer. ''Th-thank you¡­'' His voice cracked, no louder than a whisper, but his words made her chest tighten. ''Your Majesty¡­'' Sofia stilled. Her eyes met his¡ªwide, glassy, and shining with fevered delirium. Yet he still knows who I am. The thought would have been absurd if it didn¡¯t break her heart. She wasn¡¯t a queen today or an angel. She was just a girl with bloody hands and a needle, holding together lives that were already unraveling. Another crash split the air, a deafening explosion that sent a tremor through the fortress walls. The ground lurched beneath her feet, and Sofia grabbed the edge of the table to keep herself steady. Dust rained down from the ceiling, landing in her hair, in her eyes. The man gasped, his body jolting, water spilling from his lips as his fingers clenched reflexively around the pendant he wore, now streaked with red. The doors crashed open, slamming against the stone walls with a sound like thunder. A flurry of golden soldiers stumbled through, their armour battered and smeared with soot and blood, their breaths ragged and desperate. Lord Gallo was the first to rise, his gilded armour dulled with grime, but his posture remained stiff with authority. Behind him, Serben and Aurelio struggled to pull Luis to his feet, her brother¡¯s face ashen with exhaustion. Four royal guard knights followed close behind, their weapons drawn, their faces hard with the grim knowledge of failure. The sharp tang of sweat, metal, and smoke filled the room as the soldiers gathered themselves. Sofia¡¯s heart seized in her chest as she watched them. Their state said more than words ever could. Still, she sprinted toward Lord Gallo, her pulse hammering in her ears like a war drum. ''What¡¯s happened?'' she demanded, her voice higher than she¡¯d intended. The taste of dread was sharp on her tongue. Lord Gallo¡¯s face turned toward her, grim and streaked with a line of blood across his cheek. ''The fortress is taken, Your Majesty,'' he said, his voice like gravel¡ªrough, cold, and final. ''We all need to retreat.'' Sofia stumbled to a halt, as though the words themselves had struck her. ¡°What?¡± The single word tore from her throat, disbelief twisting her features. Her eyes flickered to Luis, searching his face for confirmation, for something¡ªanything¡ªthat would prove Lord Gallo wrong. But Luis nodded solemnly, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the truth. His lips pressed into a thin, weary line, and that simple gesture landed like a blow to Sofia¡¯s gut. Her stomach dropped. The room seemed to tilt. ''But¡­'' she choked, her breath catching, ''what about the plan? You stuck to my plan, didn¡¯t you?'' Her voice cracked, a tremor betraying her desperation. Lord Gallo¡¯s expression darkened, frustration flaring in his stormy eyes. He ran a gloved hand through his matted hair, smearing more grime across his forehead. ''There was no time,'' he growled, his tone low and simmering with the weight of regret. ''I needed to change something. We were already on the back foot.'' Despite the blood staining her hands¡ªslick, dark, and beginning to crust between her fingers¡ªSofia rested them on the back of her head. Her arms trembled as if the weight of the world now bore down on her shoulders, and her breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. The stifling air of the infirmary was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and sweat, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that refused to leave her nose. She tried to calm herself, to clear her mind, but her heart thudded painfully in her chest, her ribs straining with each shallow inhale. Anger flared like a spark catching dry tinder, searing its way into her bones. Her glare snapped to Lord Gallo, who stood firm, his jaw set and his expression frustratingly stoic. Not a hint of remorse clouded his face¡ªno acknowledgment of the lives lost, of the fortress she had trusted him to hold. Commanding armies for fifty years, is it? The bitter thought coiled like a serpent in her mind, its venom strong and unrelenting. Where was all that experience when it mattered, my lord? But she bit down on the words, swallowing them with a taste more sour than bile. Now was not the time to lash out. Her people¡ªthose who were still alive¡ªneeded her clear-headed. Her fury would have to wait. She forced herself to speak, her voice smashing through the din of clinking armour and far-off screams like a hammer. ''Do we have any way to get out of here?'' Lord Gallo¡¯s sharp eyes flicked to hers, their usual steel softened only by the lines of exhaustion etched into his weathered face. ''There is a pass,'' he replied, his voice low and gravelly, each word clipped by urgency. ''It leads into the mountains. But¡ª'' He hesitated, a flicker of hesitation darkening his gaze. ''We¡¯ll need men to brace the doors. Buy time for what¡¯s left of our forces to escape.'' Sofia¡¯s stomach dropped like a stone. Men to brace the doors¡ªmen who would not make it out alive. She swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat, her mind racing with the brutal arithmetic of sacrifice. How many lives would this cost? How many families would mourn? She clenched her jaw and nodded once, her decision swift and unforgiving. ''Get our strongest men and give us as much time as you can muster.'' Her voice came out steadier than she felt, every word taut with determination. ''Take my royal guard as well. They¡¯ll hold the line.'' For a beat, Lord Gallo¡¯s eyes searched hers, perhaps to argue, to insist she keep her guards close for her own protection. But Sofia¡¯s expression was iron, her gaze unyielding, and he seemed to think better of it. He dipped his head in a curt bow. ''Yes, Your Majesty.'' Without another word, he turned on his heel, his armour clanging like an old war drum as he strode toward the doors. The royal guard fell in behind him, their golden armour smeared with ash and blood but their posture unwavering, their faces set with grim resolve. Gallo¡¯s sharp voice barked orders at the scattered soldiers nearby. ''You two! Barricade that hall! Reinforce the doors!'' The sound of boots pounding against stone echoed through the cavernous space, a desperate symphony of preparation. Weapons were unsheathed¡ªsteel shrieking against leather scabbards¡ªand shields thudded together as soldiers formed ranks. The clangs of armour struck Sofia¡¯s ears like hammers on an anvil, rhythmic and relentless, a cruel reminder that time was slipping away. ''Serben, Aurelio, get my brother to safety¡ªgo!'' Her voice was sharp, laced with desperation, but Serben stood his ground, his face taut with concern. ''What about you, Your Majesty?'' he protested, his deep voice cracking under the weight of the chaos surrounding them. ''You¡¯re the queen. We must get you to safety first.'' Sofia turned to retort, the words already blistering on her tongue, but a sudden, frantic shout from across the hall cut through the chaos. ''I¡¯ll take her, my lord!'' A hand shot up, trembling yet firm, rising above the throng. Sofia¡¯s gaze tracked it, her eyes darting down a thin, armoured arm to the slender figure of a man in golden plate. The flickering torchlight cast fractured shadows over his face, but she recognised him instantly¡ªSir Nicolas. His voice carried with an edge of shrillness, forced steady against the backdrop of distant horns and the fortress¡¯s relentless rumbling. ''I¡¯ll make sure the Queen reaches safety!'' For the briefest moment, the world seemed to pause, as if even the stone walls held their breath. Sofia¡¯s gaze swept across the room. Around her, the wounded lay sprawled on cots or crumpled where they had fallen, their blood staining the floor in dark, glistening pools. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and smoke¡ªa suffocating fog that clung to her skin. Moans of pain echoed like ghostly wails, punctuated by the distant pounding of enemy battering rams against the great doors. Her heart clenched, aching in her chest. These men¡ªher men¡ªwere dying. Faces contorted with agony turned toward her, hollow eyes pleading silently for salvation. Some didn¡¯t even bother to look, their bodies too far gone to care anymore. She could feel their weight pressing down on her, a thousand invisible hands clawing at her sleeves. The wounded, she thought bitterly, the words echoing in her skull. They¡¯ll die if we leave them here. I can¡¯t abandon them. Her breath hitched, panic and helplessness clawing up her throat like a rising tide. Sofia shook her head violently, dislodging the thought as though it might cease to exist if she denied it hard enough. ''I need to get the wounded to safety!'' she cried, her voice fierce and trembling all at once. ''They¡¯ll die if we don¡¯t get them out!'' ''Your Majesty,'' Serben urged, stepping closer as the ground beneath them trembled again¡ªthis time harder, sending a sharp crack splintering up the wall. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, stinging Sofia¡¯s eyes. ''We cannot argue about this,'' he pleaded, his tone bordering on desperation now. ''If we do, we will all die.'' Sofia looked at him, her vision swimming with emotion. The man¡¯s face, usually so steady and composed, now looked carved from stone¡ªgrim and pained, as though he, too, wrestled with the same impossible choice. Another shudder rocked the fortress. In the distance, the doors boomed like thunder as the enemy¡¯s assault grew louder, closer. Sofia could hear shouting from outside the hall, men¡¯s voices turning hoarse as they fought to hold the line. A sharp scream rang out¡ªsomeone was dying. ''Please,'' Serben said, his voice softening, though urgency still rattled in every word. ''Allow Sir Nicolas to get you to safety. If you fall here, the kingdom falls with you. We cannot lose our queen.'' The fortress shuddered again, a deep, bone-rattling groan that echoed through the stone walls like the death cry of a great beast. The air quivered, dust raining from the vaulted ceiling in thin, pale clouds. The crashing of shouts¡ªdesperate orders and panicked screams¡ªbattered Sofia¡¯s ears, as if the fortress itself was alive, collapsing under the weight of its agony. ''Your Majesty, we must go!'' Sir Nicolas¡¯ voice cut through the din, urgent yet steady. His gloved fingers wrapped around her arm, tight and unrelenting, as though he feared she might dissolve into smoke and slip away. ''I can¡¯t leave them here to die!'' Sofia yanked her arm free, stumbling back a step, her eyes darting toward the infirmary. The scene burned itself into her memory¡ªbodies writhing on blood-slick cots, torn flesh and hollow eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. One man¡¯s hand reached for something unseen, trembling violently before it fell limp. Her chest constricted painfully, every face a life she was responsible for, every groan another nail hammered into her ribs. ''Sofia!'' Serben¡¯s voice erupted over the chaos, sharp as steel. He staggered as another tremor surged through the fortress, the floor shifting beneath their feet like a ship caught in a storm. ''Doctor Renando and the nurses will do all they can! You cannot help them now!'' Another roar split the air¡ªclose this time. The sound was a brutal crescendo, followed by a heavy thud that sent the walls vibrating like a drum. A lantern hanging from the ceiling swung wildly, its flame sputtering as it threw jagged shadows across the stone. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Sofia¡¯s mouth opened, words rising to protest, but Sir Nicolas grabbed her again¡ªhis grip stronger this time, brooking no argument. ''No!'' she cried, the desperation in her voice like glass cracking under pressure. ''I didn¡¯t say goodbye to my brother!'' Her voice broke on the last word, the truth of it piercing her like a blade. She twisted her body, straining to look back, to see one glimpse of Luis among the chaos¡ªanything to confirm that he was safe. But the infirmary was already receding into shadow as Sir Nicolas pulled her through the doorway and into the pitch-black halls of the Anthera. The sounds of screaming and the metallic clangor of battle behind them grew muffled, swallowed by the choking quiet of the fortress interior. But the absence of sound brought no comfort. Each step Sofia took away from the wounded felt like a betrayal, like leaving a piece of herself behind to die alongside them. ''I didn¡¯t say goodbye,'' she whispered, the words trembling from her lips. ''I need to protect you, Your Majesty,'' Nicolas said, his voice firm but calm, though the sharp tension in his tone betrayed his urgency. His gauntlet still enclosed her arm, a steel shackle that guided her forward without pause. ''I need to get you to safety.'' Sofia¡¯s mind raced, thoughts tangling like threads pulled too tight. The faint echoes of the wounded reached her ears¡ªhoarse cries for help, desperate prayers whispered to indifferent gods. Somewhere behind them, soldiers barked orders in clipped tones, their voices taut with the weight of impending death. The roaring clash of battle had ebbed into an eerie lull, broken only by the rhythmic, distant rumble of catapult fire. Each thunderous impact sent a tremor through the fortress, making the stone walls shiver like living things. Her breaths came fast and shallow, harsh gasps that burned her throat. The sound of her own panting filled the narrowing world around her, a suffocating drumbeat of panic. She tried to steady herself, to wrestle her focus back to the present, but her thoughts skittered like frightened birds. She had failed them. She was running away, and it was all her fault. In the stables, the sharp tang of manure and hay mixed with the acrid scent of burning wood from the fortress above. The warm, damp air was thick and oppressive, making it hard to draw a full breath. Sir Nicolas moved with the urgency of a man carrying the weight of the world. He grabbed the reins of a dark chestnut horse, its flanks already glistening with sweat from the chaos. The animal snorted, its ears flicking nervously at the distant echoes of destruction. ''Hold on,'' Sir Nicolas muttered, his voice strained but steady. Without waiting for permission, he took Sofia by the waist, lifting her onto the horse as if she weighed nothing. His grip was firm but impersonal, and she barely had time to adjust to the saddle before he swung himself up in front of her. Sofia clutched at the edge of the saddle, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the smooth leather. Her legs squeezed tightly against the horse¡¯s sides, the movement unfamiliar and awkward. She hated the sensation of being a passenger, powerless to guide her own fate. Nicolas took the reins with both hands, his gauntlets glinting faintly in the dim light of the stables. ''Hold onto me,'' he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. The horse lurched forward, its powerful legs propelling them into motion. Sofia grabbed at Nicolas¡¯ armour instinctively, her fingers curling around the cold steel of his breastplate. The pounding of hooves reverberated through the tunnels, each strike a deafening drumbeat in the cavernous space. The narrow walls around them amplified the sound, creating an almost unbearable cacophony. The flaming torches lining the passage flickered wildly as the draft from their gallop stirred the stagnant air, casting erratic shadows that danced like spectres along the stone. Every stride felt like a betrayal. With each thud of the horse¡¯s hooves, Sofia felt the weight of her failure pressing harder against her chest. The fortress was falling, and she was galloping away from it¡ªaway from the cries of the wounded, away from her brother, away from the soldiers fighting and dying because of her plan. This is your fault. The thought rose unbidden, its venom wrapping tightly around her throat. You trusted Lord Gallo. You knew he wouldn¡¯t follow the plan, but you let him take control anyway. The realisation stabbed deeper than any blade. She had entrusted him with everything¡ªthe defence of the fortress, the lives of her soldiers¡ªand he had failed. No, she corrected herself bitterly. You failed. You trusted him, and now they¡¯ll all pay the price. The horse found its way into the mountain pass, its hooves pounding uneven slate with every frantic stride. The impact reverberated through Sofia¡¯s body, each jolt rattling her bones until her muscles screamed in protest. The wind whipped through the narrow pass like an icy predator, its claws scraping against her exposed skin, tearing through her dress as if it were paper. Every gust carried whispers¡ªphantoms of battle cries, distant and distorted¡ªreminding her of the fortress now burning behind them. The night swallowed the landscape whole, a vast expanse of black broken only by the faint gleam of moonlight on jagged rocks. A heavy fog coiled around the ground like a serpent, shifting and slithering with each breath of wind. Sofia¡¯s eyes darted through the gloom, her vision straining for movement. For shapes. For shadows. Somewhere out there, they were being hunted. She could feel it, an invisible weight pressing against her back, making her shiver. The Galians had taken Anthera; they would come for her next. They will find me, she thought, her stomach twisting, and only the Gods know what they¡¯ll do. The horse shrieked suddenly¡ªa sound that cut through the night like a dagger. It reared back, its muscles spasming, and Sofia felt herself lurching forward. Her hands clawed at the saddle, desperate for purchase, but there was nothing. The beast crashed down, legs folding awkwardly beneath it, and Sofia tumbled through the air. The world spun violently as she fell. Her body slammed into the slate. Pain exploded through her skull, stars bursting behind her eyelids before everything went black for a heartbeat. A sharp, metallic taste flooded her mouth¡ªblood. She lay motionless, face pressed against the cold ground, her shallow breaths stirring up clouds of dust. For a moment, all she could hear was the wind¡¯s hollow wail and the drumbeat of her thundering pulse. Slowly, Sofia lifted her head. The ache in her body roared to life, jagged and unforgiving. Blood dripped steadily from her nose, hot against her freezing skin, pooling on the stone like dark ink. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up, her fingers scraping against slate shards. A groan. Her gaze snapped to the side. Sir Nicolas lay crumpled a few feet away, his body twisted awkwardly, pinned beneath the dead weight of the horse. Blood seeped from the knight¡¯s forehead, dripping down his cheek in thin red rivulets. He stirred, gasping as he tried to pull his leg free. ''Your¡­ M-Majesty¡­'' His voice came out strangled, the pain pulling taut through every syllable. Sofia struggled to her knees, the slate shifting precariously beneath her palms. Her heart pounded wildly, her ears straining to hear past her own ragged breaths. And then she froze. Hooves. The sound was distant at first, a faint, rhythmic thumping that quickly grew louder. She turned her head, her breath catching in her throat. From the fog, two figures emerged¡ªmounted riders, their silhouettes tall and dark against the pale mist. The horses moved with a chilling calm, as though their riders knew there was no need to rush. The hunt was already over. One of the figures hefted a crossbow, his movements unhurried, almost casual. Sofia¡¯s gaze flicked to the bolt embedded in the horse¡¯s neck, its blood still pooling on the uneven slate. Her breath hitched as the man lowered the weapon, his free hand brushing against a quiver slung at his hip. Beside him, the taller figure swung a blade idly, its edge glinting dully through the dense fog. Their strides were slow but deliberate, each step crunching against the slate as their figures loomed larger. The mist peeled away to reveal their faces: one was short and bald, his skin pallid and pockmarked, his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. The other, taller and younger, had the kind of handsome face that might have been charming were it not for the dead-eyed grin stretched across it. Both exuded the same grim confidence, as though they¡¯d already decided how this moment would end. The bald man¡¯s eyes flicked to Sir Nicolas, who was writhing on the ground, his breaths uneven and laboured. A low chuckle rumbled in the man¡¯s throat. ''What¡¯s the matter?'' he sneered, tilting his head mockingly. ''Something wrong with your leg?'' Sofia¡¯s stomach churned as Sir Nicolas, against all odds, forced himself upright. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and blood, but his hand closed firmly around the hilt of his sword. ''Stay¡­ away¡­'' he growled, though his voice wavered. The bald man exchanged an amused glance with his companion before taking a lazy step forward. ''Oh, you¡¯ve still got some fight in you? That¡¯s admirable.'' With a roar, Sir Nicolas surged forward, his blade slicing through the air in a desperate arc. But the bald man moved like a snake¡ªswift, fluid, and ruthless. He caught Sir Nicolas¡¯ arm mid-swing with an almost effortless grip, twisting it until the knight let out a strangled cry. Sofia scrambled backward, her knees scraping against the jagged ground. ''Nicolas!¡¯ she screamed, her voice cracking. The bald man glanced at her, his smirk widening. ''Pathetic,'' he muttered, before turning back to Sir Nicolas. Without hesitation, he drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the knight¡¯s throat. The blade slid in with a sickening crunch, and blood erupted in a violent spray, painting the golden armour in dark crimson. Sir Nicolas¡¯ body convulsed, his hands clawing at the dagger, at his throat, at anything. Guttural, wet gargles escaped his lips as he crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with shock and terror. Sofia¡¯s scream echoed through the pass, raw and broken, but the bald man didn¡¯t flinch. He pulled the dagger free with a deliberate slowness, wiping the blood off on the knight¡¯s white cloak before letting the lifeless body flop onto the slate. Sir Nicolas¡¯ chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps, the choking sound of his own blood filling the air as it pooled beneath him. The taller man stepped forward, his expression one of mild amusement. ''You didn¡¯t have to make such a mess,'' he said, his tone almost conversational as he surveyed the spreading crimson. ''Shut it,'' the bald man snapped, though his grin never wavered. ''He deserved it for making me waste my energy.'' Sofia¡¯s chest heaved as she struggled to breathe. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to move, but her body felt paralysed. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the faint whimpering of Sir Nicolas as the life drained from him. The bald man turned his gaze back to her, his smile curling into something darker, something that made her blood run cold. ''And now, Your Majesty,'' he said, taking a step toward her. ''Let¡¯s see if you¡¯ve got any fight, or if you¡¯re as useless as your knight here.'' Sofia¡¯s heart pounded like a war drum in her chest, each frantic beat rattling through her ribs. Her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as she fought to command her limbs to move, to obey her screaming mind, Get up. Get up! The slate beneath her palms scraped her skin raw, its sharp edges biting into her as she clawed for purchase. Her trembling arms quivered under her weight, her body weak and betraying her. The sound of footsteps¡ªslow and cruel¡ªcrunched closer over the loose stone, each one like a nail driven into her spine. The bald man¡¯s shadow stretched across the slate, creeping toward her like an executioner¡¯s blade. Sofia forced her head up, her wild, frantic eyes locking onto his figure as it loomed over her. His grin was a grotesque slash across his face, his dagger still slick with Sir Nicolas¡¯ blood. Is this it? The thought splintered through her mind, jagged and cold. Is this how I die? In this forgotten place, alone and helpless? Her throat burned as if she¡¯d swallowed glass, but no sound came¡ªno scream, no plea. Just her own frantic heartbeat drumming in her ears. ''No,'' she whispered to herself, the word trembling out of her like a prayer. Not like this. Not now. But the man¡¯s cruel smirk widened as if he¡¯d heard her, as if he relished the futility of her defiance. Without warning, something struck her¡ªa sudden, sharp explosion of pain against the side of her head. Her vision fractured into shards of black and white. The world lurched violently as her body collapsed back onto the slate, her face pressed into its cold, gritty surface. Warm blood trickled from her temple, pooling around her cheek and staining the ground beneath her. Sofia tried to blink the darkness away, to focus, but her eyelids felt like lead, heavy and unmovable. Her mind drifted, unmoored, the sounds around her blurring into something distant and far away¡ªlike waves crashing on a distant shore. From somewhere in the thickening void, a voice broke through, low and guttural. ''What are you doing, you fool? The King will want to see her!'' The cool splat of a raindrop on Sofia¡¯s head jolted her awake. It rolled down her temple, mingling with the sticky crust of dried blood that clung to her skin. Her eyelids fluttered open, her vision blurring against the dim, shifting shadows of the slate walls around her. She lay flat on the unforgiving rock, its jagged edges digging into her back and shoulders. Her head throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache, each beat a sharp reminder of the blow the bald man had dealt her. Sofia blinked slowly, trying to orient herself, but every movement sent a wave of pain shooting through her skull. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint metallic tang of blood and the earthy smell of wet stone. She winced, the gritty sensation beneath her pressing harder as she tried to shift. Her arms refused to budge. Panic tightened in her chest. She glanced down and saw the thick rope binding her wrists together. The coarse fibers scraped her skin raw, cutting deep enough to sting with every twitch. Her fingers tingled, cold and numb. She tugged weakly at the restraints, the faint scrape of rope against rock echoing in the confined space. It was useless. The knots were expertly tied, and the effort only sent another jolt of pain up her arms. A shiver ran down her spine, the chill of the cave sinking into her bones. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to focus past the pain and the ache of her bruised pride. I¡¯ve lost. The words rang hollow and bitter in her mind, a weight heavier than the ropes. That was how she had ended up here¡ªin this damp, suffocating prison. Memories clawed their way to the surface, fragmented and disjointed. The slate mountain pass. The horse¡¯s cry. Sir Nicolas falling, blood pooling beneath him. The bald man¡¯s cruel grin. A shadowy figure stepping forward with a barked order before everything went black. She groaned softly, pressing her head back against the cold stone as the fragments threatened to overwhelm her. Her thoughts darted to the others. Serben, Aurelio, Luis¡ªdid they escape? Her chest tightened at the thought of her brother, his face pale but determined as she¡¯d shouted for him to be taken to safety. Had he made it? Or had the Galians caught them, too? The questions gnawed at her, their answers just out of reach. A shaky sigh escaped her lips, the sound fragile and defeated. Her breath misted in the cool air, a faint reminder of her own warmth against the encroaching cold. She tilted her head to the side, staring into the gloom of the cave, searching for anything¡ªa weakness in the stone, a hint of light, a way out. But all she found was darkness. The kind that felt heavy and endless, wrapping around her like the ropes at her wrists. Before her lay the cold, unyielding metal bars of a jail cell. Each iron rod was slick with condensation, the torchlight outside casting flickering shadows that danced and twisted across the stone walls. They seemed alive, taunting her, curling like mocking fingers around her fate. Sofia stared at them, willing one of those shadows to transform¡ªa rescuer stepping out of the dark to break her chains and lead her to safety. But even as her heart flickered with the faintest ember of hope, her mind extinguished it. Tales of gallant knights crashing through prison walls to save a princess were stories for children, spun by poets to distract from the ugliness of real life. This wasn¡¯t a ballad. This was a grim, unadorned truth. She was alone, trapped, and utterly defeated. The only escape Sofia could envision was one where she left this cell not as a queen, or as a princess, but as a corpse¡ªher head severed from her body and placed on a Galian pike as a trophy. The thought coiled tightly in her chest, each breath growing heavier, sharper, as if the air itself turned to glass and cut her lungs. The weight of failure settled over her, crushing and inescapable. She¡¯d lost. Not just the fortress, not just the battle¡ªbut everything. The iron weight of that realisation pressed harder with each passing second, constricting her like the ropes that had bound her earlier. Some queen I am, she thought bitterly, the words dripping with self-loathing. Her fists clenched, though she lacked the strength to drive them into the unforgiving stone floor beneath her. Her heart pounded in the silence, each thud echoing her despair. Anthera¡ªher proud fortress, her soldiers who had trusted her, the carefully constructed plan that was meant to secure their survival¡ªeverything had crumbled to dust. Her mind replayed the sequence over and over, each memory sharper and more agonising than the last. Lord Gallo¡¯s disobedience. The wounded left behind in the infirmary. Luis¡­ The uncertainty gnawed at her, a merciless predator tearing her apart from the inside. Have I doomed them all? Tears pricked at her eyes, blurring her vision, but Sofia refused to let them fall. She bit the inside of her cheek until the metallic tang of blood touched her tongue. Weakness was a luxury she couldn¡¯t afford¡ªnot now, not ever. If this truly was the end, she would meet it with her head held high, the dignity of a queen etched into her final moments. The flickering torchlight outside her cell stretched and warped the shadows, their forms growing larger and more ominous along the slate walls. The crunch of boots grinding against loose stone echoed in the corridor, each step sending a chill through her already cold body. Sofia stiffened, her breath catching in her throat as the shadows resolved into dark figures clad in black armour. The torchlight gleamed off their polished surfaces, giving them an otherworldly, predatory glow. Her stomach churned as the man at the front stepped into full view, his icy stare locking onto her. That face¡ªthose sharp features and the perpetual sneer curling his lips¡ªshe recognised them instantly. King Rickard. His presence filled the space like a thundercloud, heavy and suffocating, and the faint glint of recognition in his cold eyes made her heart sink further. He knew her, just as she knew him. Sofia forced herself to remain still, though her every instinct screamed to retreat further into the shadows of her cell. The damp chill of the stone pressed against her back like the grip of death itself. She squinted at the group behind him¡ªtwo guards, one carrying a massive sword strapped across his back, and the other, the bald man who had knocked her out. His smirk was a twisted echo of the cruelty he had inflicted. The sight of him sent a flash of hot anger through her, momentarily overtaking the fear that threatened to root her in place. King Rickard came to a stop just outside the bars, his armoured frame dominating the narrow hallway. He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were some curious animal caged for his amusement. The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere deeper in the dungeon. Sofia¡¯s mouth felt dry, her heartbeat drumming a frantic rhythm in her chest. She forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath. If her body betrayed her fear, it wouldn¡¯t be because of trembling or quivering. She gathered what little strength she could muster, pushing herself to her feet. Her legs felt like lead, her movements sluggish, but she stood, squaring her shoulders. The flicker of the torches played tricks with the light, making her shadow loom larger against the back wall. Sofia clung to that image. She needed to be larger than life, even if she felt as small as a mouse cornered by a cat. Her gaze locked onto King Rickard¡¯s, her amber eyes burning with defiance. She poured every ounce of venom she could muster into her words. ''It appears you¡¯ve won,'' she said, her voice cold but steady, betraying none of the storm raging within her. King Rickard stood motionless, his face a mask of indifference, as if her words held no more weight than the whisper of the wind. He finally spoke, his tone devoid of triumph, as if this moment was nothing more than a routine task. ''Sir Finn, take her head so we can end this. We¡¯ll deal with the rest of them soon enough.'' The chill of his decree settled over the room like a death shroud. Sofia¡¯s breath hitched, but she forced herself to keep her composure. Her eyes darted to Finn, the knight who had served her once¡ªlong ago, when peace was still possible. She searched his sea-green eyes for something¡ªhesitation, regret, anything that might hint at the man he used to be. Finn stepped forward reluctantly, his sword glinting in the flickering torchlight. ''Yes, Your Majesty,'' he said, his voice low, strained. He gripped the hilt of his blade with knuckles turning white, as though the weight of the task ahead was a burden he could scarcely bear. Fear wrapped its cold, unyielding fingers around Sofia¡¯s throat, tightening with every step Finn took. Her heart pounded, a relentless drumbeat against her ribs. This was it. There would be no miraculous rescue, no clever escape. She¡¯d lost. The reality of her failure crashed over her like a tidal wave, but she refused to crumble. If this was her end, she would face it with her pride intact. King Rickard tilted his head slightly, his lips flickering into the faintest shadow of a smirk. ''Do you have any last words before you die?'' he asked, his voice calm, almost casual, as though they were discussing the weather. Rage surged through Sofia¡¯s veins, scorching away the icy grip of fear. Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she glared at him with fiery defiance. ''My people will never forget this,'' she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut stone. ''Good,'' Rickard replied, his tone as cold as the steel in Finn¡¯s hand. ''It will be a lesson to anyone who dares harm my blood.'' He turned to Finn, his cloak sweeping behind him like the shadow of death. ''Bring me her head when you¡¯re done.'' With that, King Rickard turned on his heel, marching toward the door. The bald man, ever the obedient lapdog, swung it open, bowing slightly as his master passed through. The heavy door closed with a resonant thud, leaving the room cloaked in an oppressive silence broken only by the crackling of the torches on the walls. Sofia¡¯s gaze snapped back to Finn. The sword gleamed ominously as he rested his hands on the pommel, his eyes fixed on her with a mixture of sorrow and determination. For a moment, neither moved, neither spoke. The weight of the moment pressed down on them, each second dragging like an eternity. Sofia swallowed hard, her throat dry and raw as if she had swallowed broken glass. ''Finn, I¡ª'' she started, her voice cracking. ''Kneel,'' Finn interrupted, his tone stern and unyielding. Her breath hitched, her chest tightening. ''You don¡¯t need to do this,'' she pleaded, her voice trembling as she looked into his sea-green eyes, searching for even the faintest glimmer of hesitation. ''Yes, I do,'' he said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth she once knew. His hands trembled ever so slightly on the hilt of his sword, but his gaze didn¡¯t waver. ''Now, kneel. It will go faster if you cooperate.'' The command hung in the air like a death knell. Sofia¡¯s breathing quickened, the dark slate walls pressing in on her, suffocating her. Her thoughts whirled as she fought to think of another way, any way out of this. But the sight of Finn, his black armour tarnished and splattered with the blood of her people, crushed any hope that this was still the man she once trusted. Her knees buckled beneath her as the weight of inevitability settled on her shoulders. The icy slate sent a shock through her body as her knees touched the ground, the cold biting through her clothes. She let out a trembling exhale, trying to steady herself. Each heartbeat pounded in her ears, a relentless drumbeat of her fear. Her mind flashed back to Galia, to the feast in King Rickard¡¯s hall. She remembered Finn as he was then¡ªsmiling, laughing, telling her about his brother Neville and how the two used to spar in their father¡¯s courtyard. She recalled the way he had bowed and asked her to dance, his hand warm and firm in hers as they twirled beneath the shimmering light of the torches. He had looked so handsome then, so alive. Now, all that remained was a shadow, a dog obeying its master¡¯s cruel commands. She clenched her fists, the ropes biting into her skin, and lifted her chin. Her shoulders straightened, and though her legs trembled, she forced herself to remain steady. If this was her end, she would face it as a queen. Her voice quavered but didn¡¯t break as she spoke. "If you see my brother at all..." She paused, her breath catching as tears burned her eyes, threatening to spill. She swallowed hard and pressed on. ''Tell him I¡¯m sorry. Sorry I wasn¡¯t a better sister to him. Sorry I wasn¡¯t a better queen.'' Her gaze softened, but her tone gained strength, the weight of her regret adding gravity to her words. ''I know he¡¯ll wear the crown well and make our father proud.'' Sofia bowed her head, her breath shallow and ragged. She braced herself for the inevitable, her heart hammering like a caged bird desperate for escape. The icy steel of Finn¡¯s blade pressed against the nape of her neck, sending a shiver racing down her spine. It wasn¡¯t the sharp pain of the blade cutting yet¡ªjust the cold, unfeeling touch of metal marking the spot where her life would end. Her thoughts swirled in a maelstrom of regret and longing. She saw her father¡¯s stern but kind face, his eyes gleaming with pride as he spoke of her destiny. Her mother¡¯s gentle hands brushing through her hair, soothing her on restless nights. Luis, her little brother, standing tall and defiant, so much like Father in those moments of knightly bravery. And Jacques... Jacques, with his mischievous grin, the way his laughter echoed in the halls of her memory, and the shadow of hurt in his eyes the day she accused him of treachery. If only she could tell him she was sorry. If only she could see him smile one last time. But it didn¡¯t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, as if trying to anchor herself to these final moments of consciousness. The room closed in on her, the air thick and oppressive. Each second stretched, dragging on in cruel mockery of time. She could feel the weight of Finn¡¯s hesitation in the way his blade lingered on her neck, the faint tremor in his hand betraying his resolve. Sofia squeezed her eyes shut, her body rigid as she waited for the strike that would end her story. Then, a deafening clang echoed through the chamber. The noise crashed against the slate walls, reverberating like a thunderclap. Sofia flinched, her breath catching as her eyes flew open. Chapter XVII- Light Weeding Jacques moved through the grimy halls of Sir Orchis¡¯ brothel, his gait steady but his shoulders taut with unease. The place was alive with depravity, a ceaseless symphony of indulgence that knew no hour. Even in the dim haze of early morning, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh and the raw cries that filled the air grew louder, more oppressive, the deeper he ventured into the establishment. He resisted the urge to cover his ears; this was no time for the Regent King to show weakness. His boots thudded against the sticky wooden floor, each step producing a nauseating squelch that clung to the soles like a parasite. Jacques couldn¡¯t help but glance down, grimacing at the dark streaks staining the boards¡ªa mixture of spilled wine, sweat, and Gods knew what else. The air was a noxious cocktail of odours that clung to every surface, the overpowering musk of cheap perfume clinging to overused linens, and the sour-sweet stench of wine turning rancid in the heat. Shadows writhed along the walls, cast by the flickering light of guttering candles and lanterns that barely held back the gloom. The weak, golden glow seemed almost reluctant to illuminate the scenes unfolding in the dim alcoves. Jacques caught flashes of limbs entwined, bare backs arched, and faces contorted in expressions he couldn¡¯t decide were pleasure or torment. I can¡¯t afford to lose my nerve now. He focused on the staircase ahead, its banisters worn smooth by years of gripping hands, and ignored the leering gazes from shadowed figures lounging in alcoves or doorways. Some offered sultry smiles, their eyes glassy from drink or opium. Others merely stared, their hollow expressions betraying the weight of a thousand transactions that had stripped them of humanity. A hand shot out as he passed one doorway, pale and skeletal, fingers brushing his arm. Jacques froze. He met the gaze of a gaunt woman with sunken cheeks and a fading bruise along her collarbone. Her lips parted, her voice hoarse as she whispered, ''Looking for something, love?'' Her question hung in the air, a brittle thing laced with desperation. ''Not here,'' Jacques muttered, his voice low and cold. He stepped out of her reach and quickened his pace, his boots echoing louder against the planks as if to drown out her quiet, bitter laugh. Jaques gripped the banister and began his ascent. The sounds below faded, but the air grew heavier, thick with an almost tangible dread. He wasn¡¯t just climbing to the top floor of a brothel¡ªhe was ascending into the lair of a predator. The Hawk Knight awaited him there. Jacques could already feel the weight of the knight¡¯s reputation pressing down on him like a suffocating hand. A spymaster who thrived on fear and deceit, Sir Orchis Vortigon perched above his domain like the bird of prey he took his name from, always ready to strike with cruel precision. It had been weeks since his father had departed for the border, marching into the chaos of war and leaving Jacques to shoulder the crushing burden of ruling the capital¡ªalone, save for her. The weight of it all, the ceaseless onslaught of responsibility, was like an avalanche, each day adding another stone to the pile pressing against his chest. It was becoming harder to breathe, harder to think, as the demands of the crown and the treachery of those around him coiled like an iron band around his ribs. From Sir Orchis¡¯ blatant manipulations, so thinly veiled they might as well have been taunts, to Mirielle stealing the Hanneburg deal from under his nose with a smug, cutting smile, every day brought a fresh humiliation. And then there was Rickard. His bastard nephew. The revelation had struck like a thunderbolt, leaving Jacques reeling, his plans scattering like leaves in the wind. The situation wasn¡¯t just dire¡ªit was spiralling out of control. Before he could make any meaningful plans, he needed to uncover Mirielle¡¯s. Her machinations were as intricate as they were insidious, and there was only one man in the city who might have a semblance of insight. Jacques remembered his last encounter vividly¡ªthe sharpness in Sir Orchis¡¯ voice, the calculated glint in his eyes as he dismissed Jacques¡¯ naive attempts at outmanoeuvring Mirielle. How wrong I was, Jacques thought bitterly. The memory churned in his gut, leaving the acrid taste of regret on his tongue. He had believed he could defeat Mirielle without Sir Orchis¡¯ help. That arrogance had cost him dearly. Now, he saw things true. He needed a man like Sir Orchis. He was dangerous, yes, but he was also cunning and resourceful. The Hawk Knight might only need to whisper Rickard¡¯s existence to Mirielle for the boy to be thrust into unimaginable danger. Jacques couldn¡¯t let that happen. He wouldn¡¯t let that happen. This was no longer about pride or grudges. It was about alliances, about survival. For the sake of the people he had sworn to protect, for the memory of Rick and Aubery, and above all, for the boy whose future hung in the balance, Jacques would do what needed to be done. The steps were steeper than he remembered, their worn wooden edges creaking ominously beneath his boots. His legs burned with exertion, muscles straining against the climb, and a sheen of sweat clung to his skin, making his collar itch uncomfortably. Below him, the brothel remained alive with debauchery, a symphony of sin that reverberated through the walls. The drunken laughter, punctuated by cries of pleasure¡ªor despair¡ªmixed with the ceaseless clinking of glasses and the rhythmic creak of overburdened beds. It scraped at his nerves, a constant reminder of the rot beneath the city¡¯s surface. By the time he reached the top, his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. The dimly lit corridor stretched ahead of him, its silence broken only by the faint hum of activity below. Before him loomed the door to Sir Orchis¡¯ office, its polished dark wood reflecting the feeble glow of nearby lanterns. The surface seemed alive, shadows flickering across it like restless spirits. The air here was heavier, laced with the faint acridity of opium smoke that seeped through the gaps in the doorframe. Jacques¡¯ fingers twitched at his side, the instinct to turn and retreat gnawing at the edges of his mind. But he couldn¡¯t. He steeled himself with a deep breath, and rapped his knuckles against the door. The sound echoed sharply, the silence swallowing it whole before a voice, thin and unsettlingly light, called out from within. ''Come in.'' Jacques pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest as he stepped inside. He had expected to see Sir Orchis seated at his usual place¡ªthe rounded table that often served as both battlefield and stage for his machinations. Instead, the knight was across the room, adjusting the position of a black wooden cupboard. He stepped back, his hawkish gaze scrutinising its stability, his movements slow, as if testing the patience of the room itself. Tasting the air, a slight haze crept into Jacques¡¯ thoughts, making his already frayed nerves feel taut and brittle. He fought the urge to cough, his throat itching as he stepped further inside. Jacques stumbled onto a squeaky floorboard, the sharp creak cutting through the heavy silence. Sir Orchis turned at the sound, his gaze locking onto Jacques with direct precision. A slow grin curled across his lips, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and veiled menace. ''Your Grace,'' he drawled, the mockery in his tone as thick as the toxic air, ''to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Have you come to tell me I need to close up shop even earlier than anticipated?'' Jacques fought the urge to wince. So, he thought, that¡¯s how it¡¯s going to be. He swallowed hard, his pride scraping like shards of glass against his throat. ''I¡­'' He faltered, then tried again, his voice steadier this time. ''I came to apologise, good sir.'' Sir Orchis froze mid-movement, his expression transforming into one of mock astonishment. His grin widened. ''You have?'' he asked, his voice dripping with theatrical disbelief. Jacques coughed into his fist, a feeble attempt to clear both his throat and the suffocating weight of his own ego. ''I¡­ doubted your loyalty¡ªto myself and to my father,'' he said, each word tasting bitter as bile. ''And for that, you have my deepest¡­'' He paused. Damn it, what should I say? ''¡­regrets.'' The following silence suffocated him, broken only by the faint hiss of candle flames and the rhythmic creak of the floorboards beneath Jacques¡¯ weight. Sir Orchis tilted his head, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Then, as though unable to contain himself, he let out a soft chuckle. ''Come now, Your Grace,'' he said, his voice smooth as silk but twice as cutting. ''I¡¯ve played this game far too long to mistake that for a genuine apology. You don¡¯t come here, crawling through the muck of my establishment, unless you want something. A favour? A secret? Or¡­'' He stroked his chin in mock contemplation, his smile stretching wider, exposing a hint of his devilishly perfect teeth. ''Could it be you¡¯re interested in a certain someone? Who might that person be, I wonder?'' The amusement in The Hawk Knight¡¯s voice made a fierce heat rise in his chest, his anger simmering just below the surface. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. He had been a fool to underestimate Sir Orchis once. He would not make the same mistake again. He met Sir Orchis¡¯ piercing gaze, the words crawling reluctantly from his mouth. ''You¡¯re right,'' he admitted, ''I do want something. I need to know who Mirielle is going to meet next. I need to be ahead of her. I need to make the deal myself.'' Sir Orchis¡¯ grin widened, his eyes gleaming with delight. He stepped closer, the rich, cloying scent of opium wafting from his armour, wrapping around Jacques like a snake. Suffocating, thick and inescapable. ''Ah, there it is. The truth,'' The Hawk Knight purred. ''You need my help to outmanoeuvre the princess. How deliciously ironic.'' His gaze flicked toward the black cupboard behind him, lingering there for a moment before returning to Jacques. ''Yes, I could sing my song for you, if the mood strikes me. But then, why would I? You mocked me. Insulted my honour. Ordered me to close down an establishment that has lined my pockets quite handsomely. Surely, you can understand my¡­ predicament.'' Jacques¡¯ jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to nod. ''Yes. I can.'' Sir Orchis tilted his head, his grin taking on a crueler edge. ''So, let me teach you a lesson about power, Your Grace,'' he said, ''Power is both ice and fire. It can cut like the sharpest sword or crush like the bluntest hammer. It¡¯s a tide that drowns the unworthy and elevates those who know how to swim. The Jubilees have power. They have numbers. And, more importantly, they have friends. Many friends. Tell me, Your Grace''¡ªhis voice dropped to a venomous whisper¡ª''how many friends do you have?'' The room contracted around Jacques, the air growing thicker, heavier, until the very walls leaned in to smother him. A shiver crept down his spine, cold as death itself, as the weight of Sir Orchis¡¯ words settled over him like a burial shroud. The dim light flickered, casting long, grotesque shadows writhing across the room like spectres. In the deepest corner of his mind, a voice emerged, low and scornful. His father¡¯s voice. I never wanted you. ''So let me make you an offer,'' The Hawk Knight said. ''I give you undying loyalty and all the information you desire, and in return, you allow me to continue my business here in this fine establishment of mine, uninterrupted. I keep all the profits¡ªevery last coin¡ªfor myself. Surely, you¡¯d agree that¡¯s a fair deal.'' Jacques wanted to shake his head, to protest, to stand tall and declare that it was unacceptable. But the words refused to come. How could I say no? Sir Orchis was his best chance to stop Mirielle. He needed the man¡¯s connections, his cunning, his knowledge. Yet, even as he forced himself to meet Sir Orchis¡¯ gaze, the plans he¡¯d envisioned for the brothel clawed at the back of his mind¡ªdreams of taking its ill-gotten profits and funnelling them to the poor, to the orphanages, to him. The thought of his bastard nephew¡ªthe boy whose fragile existence hung in mystery¡ªtightened around Jacques¡¯ chest like a vice. Those funds could give the boy a future, a life free of the shadows that had consumed Jacques¡¯ own. Knights are supposed to be honourable, he thought bitterly, selfless protectors of the weak, or at least that¡¯s what the stories said. But he wasn¡¯t speaking to a knight from the tales of old. He was speaking to The Hawk Knight, a man who wore honour like a helmet and wielded manipulation like a sword. ''And the boy?'' Jacques asked, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. He raised an eyebrow, feigning detachment as he gauged Sir Orchis¡¯ reaction. The Hawk Knight¡¯s expression softened, just a fraction, but enough to make it clear he relished the moment. With exaggerated flair, he crossed his heart with a gloved finger. ''I¡¯ll take the secret to my grave, Your Grace. Princess Mirielle will hear nothing from me. You have my word.'' Jacques stared at him, his features carefully schooled into impassivity, though relief coursed through him like a wave crashing against the shore. Rickard was safe. For now. But trusting in Sir Orchis was a precarious thing, fragile as a thread spun from glass. I have to beware. ''Very well,'' Jacques said at last, his voice clipped ''I will meet your demands. Now¡­'' He narrowed his eyes. ''You will tell me what your spies have been whispering in your ear.'' Sir Orchis nodded. He strode toward the round table where Jacques had sat during his last visit, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the flickering candlelight. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled out a folded parchment from a pocket within his crimson cloak. He unfurled it and smoothed it onto the table¡¯s surface with deliberate care, the crackling of the paper filling the silence. Jacques leaned closer, his brow furrowing as he examined the detailed map now stretching before him. It depicted the city in meticulous detail, from the western walls to the eastern outskirts, and even the countryside for miles beyond. Every road, every field, every insignificant building had been inked with an obsessive precision that hinted at just how deep Sir Orchis¡¯ web of knowledge truly ran. ''Since the war began, the public has grown¡­ concerned,'' Sir Orchis¡¯ finger hovered over the fields sprawled outside the city, tracing the lines as though they were veins carrying the lifeblood of the capital. ''About where their food will come from. More specifically, their meat. A most primal worry, wouldn¡¯t you agree?'' Jacques blinked, his thoughts momentarily derailed. ''Meat?'' ''Yes, meat, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis replied, exhaling a sigh as if Jacques¡¯ response were a personal affront. ''Now tell me, where do you suppose the city acquires its meat from?'' ''Butchers,'' Jacques said, though the answer felt insufficient even as he spoke it. Sir Orchis closed his eyes for a brief moment, as though summoning patience. ''And where, pray tell, do butchers acquire their meat?'' ''From farmers.'' ''Yes,'' Sir Orchis replied, his tone almost patronising now, ''And how do farmers sell their livestock?'' ''Auctioneers.¡¯ ''There we are,'' Sir Orchis said, his smile returning in full force as if rewarding a particularly slow pupil. He tapped a finger against the map with a soft thunk. His nail landed on a marked location outside the city walls, the inked letters spelling out Cooper¡¯s Markets. ''There¡¯s a livestock market a few miles from the city. That,'' he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, ''is where Mirielle will go to make her deal.'' Jacques¡¯ gaze followed the path Sir Orchis had traced, his mind already racing. The market was outside the city¡ªfar enough from prying eyes to make it the perfect spot for clandestine dealings. This wasn¡¯t just about commerce. It was about control. Food was survival, and whoever controlled the city¡¯s food supply would wield an iron grip over its people. Jacques straightened, his mouth dry. ''And you¡¯re certain of this?'' Sir Orchis crossed his arms with an air of smug satisfaction. ''Do you think I would waste your precious time if I weren¡¯t? My sources are impeccable, Your Grace. Mirielle knows that whoever holds the markets, holds the city¡¯s throat in their hands.'' The map before Jacques¡¯ eyes seemed to grow larger, the roads and fields stretching out like an endless maze. Mirielle was always one step ahead¡ªalways scheming, always striking where it hurt most. He couldn¡¯t afford to falter, not now. The Hawk Knight¡¯s grin widened, his expression somewhere between a friend¡¯s pride and a demon¡¯s glee. ''Now tell me, Your Grace,'' he murmured, his voice silkier than before, ''what will you do with this information?'' Cooper¡¯s Markets. A ripple ran through Jacques¡¯ body, a flicker of hope amidst the endless uncertainty. This was it¡ªa foothold in the shadowed battlefield he¡¯d been forced to navigate. If he could intercept Mirielle¡¯s deal, he might finally begin to shift the tide in his favour. But just as the faintest glimmer of victory began to take shape, a sharp bang startled him. The sound came from the black cupboard, jolting violently as if something inside it struggled to be free. Jacques stiffened, a shiver crawling up his spine. The air in the room felt heavier, thicker, pressing down on him like an unseen hand. But The Hawk Knight showed no reaction, his attention fixed on the map before him, his scarred cheek catching the flickering glow. That scar. The words came back to him unbidden, Sir Owen Flagg¡¯s voice echoing in his memory with smug amusement: I understand you knew my brother, Lyndon, Sir Orchis. All too well, Lord Flagg. I still carry a token of his esteem. Jacques concentrated on the scar, a pale line etched like a brand. The memory of Sir Orchis¡¯ mocking, measured words twisted his stomach: I was so sorry to hear of his passing under your watch. Jacques cleared his throat, forcing a strained smile to his lips. ''Sir Orchis,'' he began, his voice light but laced with unease, ''I think I¡¯m growing strangely fond of you.'' The words felt odd as they left his mouth, their levity at odds with the atmosphere in the room. ''But I couldn¡¯t help noticing the friction between yourself and Sir Owen Flagg. He mentioned that you¡­ crossed swords with his brother?'' The change in Sir Orchis was instant and unnerving. The lightness in his posture drained away, his smile vanishing like the sun swallowed by a storm. ''I lost,'' Sir Orchis said flatly, his voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. He didn¡¯t look at Jacques, his gaze staying on the map, as though his thoughts had drifted somewhere far away. ''That¡¯s all you need to know. Lyndon Flagg was bigger than me, stronger than me, and worthy of my lady¡¯s love¡ªand everyone knew it, except me.'' Jacques¡¯ discomfort deepened as he watched the Hawk Knight wrestle with the memory. This was not the glib, confident man who had effortlessly commanded the room moments ago. This was someone haunted, weighed down by a humiliation that still festered. My lady¡¯s love. Jacques stared at the faint shimmer in Sir Orchis¡¯ eyes. He saw something there that made his heart stop. He saw Aubery. The cupboard jolted again, louder this time, a low, ominous rumble followed by a distinct thump that reverberated through the oppressive silence. Jacques¡¯ heart raced, his pulse pounding in his ears. Fear pricked at his senses like the cold edge of a blade. ''What are you hiding in there?'' he demanded, his voice sharper than he intended. Sir Orchis¡¯ smile returned, but it was no longer the practiced smirk of a showman. It was something darker, colder. Without breaking eye contact, he prowled toward the cupboard. ''Do you know what I learned when I lost that duel?'' he began, his tone almost conversational. Jacques said nothing, frozen in place as Sir Orchis reached the cupboard. The knight paused, resting a hand on its surface, his fingers lightly drumming against the black wood. ''I learned humiliation. As I lay on the ground, broken and bleeding, one northerner decided it would be funny to spit on me. Not content with just watching me suffer, he leaned down and made sure I heard him clearly. He told me I was nothing, that I would never rise above the dirt.'' His hand stopped drumming, fingers curling into a fist against the wood. His gaze drifted to some unseen point, far beyond the room they stood in. ''He was an older man, with a scraggly beard, one blue eye, and one green. That face burned itself into my memory as I lay there, my tears watering the earth beneath me. Lyndon Flagg left me to die that day, and I promised myself two things: I would survive, and I would rise higher than he ever dreamed.'' Jacques¡¯ mouth dried, his unease growing with every word. The cupboard thumped again, and this time, the sound was followed by a faint, muffled moan. Sir Orchis¡¯ eyes flickered back to Jacques, sharp and glinting with cruel satisfaction. ''Now Lyndon Flagg is buried beneath the ground, while I stand here, alive, thriving, and unshackled by the chains of failure.'' His voice took on an edge of grim pride. ''Revenge has a flavour unlike anything else, Your Grace. It is bitter, yes¡ªbut oh, how sweet the aftertaste.'' Jacques felt the walls closing in, the room growing darker, heavier, suffocating. ''What does this have to do with that cupboard?'' he asked, though his voice betrayed the trepidation bubbling within him. Sir Orchis¡¯ smile widened, his teeth gleaming in the flickering candlelight. ''I am not like Sir Theon, endlessly serving a kingdom that doesn¡¯t serve him. Nor am I like Sir Owen, so blinded by precious honour that I cannot see the dagger at my throat.'' He gestured grandly to the room, as if presenting a masterpiece. ''I see all, I know all¡ªand I wait until the perfect moment to strike. That is how I win. That is how we will win.'' Jacques¡¯ eyes darted to the cupboard as another faint sound came from within. A chill ran down his spine, his instincts screaming at him to leave, to run. ''And what, exactly, am I meant to make of that, Sir Orchis?'' Sir Orchis exhaled softly, a sound that could have been mistaken for a chuckle. He turned to face the cupboard fully, his hand lingering on its door. ''All of my hard work, my patience, my planning¡ªit paid off just a few days ago.'' He leaned closer to the cupboard, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ''And here lies the culmination of that victory.'' Without another word, Sir Orchis wrenched the cupboard door open, and Jacques peered inside. Shivering in its shadowy crevices, bound and gagged, was a man so gaunt and pale he looked like death¡¯s apprentice. His skin was ashen, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones, and his scraggly beard clung to his jaw like a last defiance. What caught Jacques¡¯ attention most, however, were his mismatched eyes¡ªone blue, cold as a winter sky, and the other green, dull yet flickering with raw, unfiltered terror. ''Is this¡ª'' Jacques turned sharply toward Sir Orchis, his words cut short as The Hawk Knight¡¯s blade was already drawn, gleaming in the flickering candlelight. ''You see, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis said smoothly, his voice devoid of the mockery it had carried earlier. Now it was all ice and iron, brimming with a dangerous calm. ''If it is revenge you seek, all you have to do...'' He paused, stepping closer to the cupboard, the blade¡¯s tip glinting ominously as it caught the light. ''...is reach out.'' Before Jacques could react, Sir Orchis plunged the blade into the man¡¯s neck with a sickening shlunk. ''...and take it.'' The man¡¯s muffled scream turned into a gurgle as blood gushed from the wound in torrents, painting the floor of the cupboard in a gruesome crimson. His body crumpled forward, hitting the ground with a grotesque thud, limbs sprawled awkwardly. Jacques¡¯ breath caught in his throat, his eyes drawn downward as the pool of blood expanded, thick and metallic, creeping outward like a living thing. His own reflection stared back at him in the gleaming red surface, his face pale, eyes wide with shock. Sir Orchis turned the blade in his hand, casually wiping it on a cloth he pulled from his pocket. ''Gods save the King,'' he said, almost conversationally, as though he hadn¡¯t just killed a man in cold blood. Jacques gulped. Gods save the King. Owen held the door open with a firm hand, his sharp gaze scanning the council chamber as his brothers of the royal guard¡ªSir Edrick Combermere, Sir Bryce Howard, and Sir Mandon Jubilee¡ªstrode inside. Their crimson cloaks flowed behind them like blood-stained banners, the heavy fabric whispering against the polished stone floor. Each knight¡¯s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the casual pose exuding a feigned confidence. A sudden laugh shattered the solemn air, high and rasping, like nails dragged across rusted iron. The source of the laughter was Gorgen Cooper, a plump man whose body seemed to spill over the edges of his chair. Belly shaking violently with each guffaw, his jowls quivered like jelly. The uneven remnants of his teeth gleamed in the flickering light of the chamber¡¯s torches, adding an almost grotesque edge to his mirth. The sound reverberated off the cold stone walls, a sharp contrast to the tension that clung to the air like old smoke. At the head of the table sat Prince Jacques, his posture one of utter ease, though his knuckles shone pale against the table¡¯s dark oak. His laughter joined Mister Cooper¡¯s, lighter in tone but carrying the same edge. Beside Prince Jacques perched Sir Orchis Vortigon, his body reclined lazily, though every fibre of him radiated a quiet, serpentine menace. His eyes glittered, reflecting the torchlight like twin shards of obsidian, alive with both amusement and calculation. Further down the table, Sir Robert Bickerton, Sir Julius Nymer, and Sir Osgar Sterling added their own laughter to the mix. But theirs was different¡ªforced, uncertain. The kind of laughter that answered to duty, not joy. It filled the room, stretching the moment of false levity into something brittle, as though it might crack under the weight of the unsaid. Mister Cooper, still quivering from his cackling fit, reached for his goblet with fingers thick as sausages, his knuckles brushing against the table as he lifted it. The ruby-red wine swirled lazily in the cup, catching the flicker of the torchlight. He took a hearty gulp, his throat working with exaggerated effort, and wiped a stray trickle of wine from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. ''You are fine company, Your Grace,'' he slurred, his words rolling off his tongue with the clumsy ease of a man who had already had one too many. ''Let there be no mistake about that.'' He gestured broadly, nearly tipping the goblet in his hand. ''You are kind to say so, my good man,'' Prince Jacques replied, his tone light and courteous, though a faint haze of weariness slipped through his polished demeanour. He rested his own goblet on the table, his fingers tapping idly against its stem as he studied Mister Cooper. ''Though I would strongly recommend one of my knights accompany you back to your home. Unless, of course, you feel confident in your ability to walk straight.'' Mister Cooper erupted into another guffaw, his belly heaving as the sound echoed around the chamber. ''Oh, I¡¯ve been drunker than this, Your Grace, let me tell you!'' His voice climbed higher, his laughter wheezing. ''And with this new deal we¡¯ve struck, I¡¯d say I¡¯m willing to be even more so!'' Prince Jacques allowed himself a satisfied smile, though his eyes remained sharp, flicking briefly to Sir Orchis beside him. He raised his glass, the liquid catching the firelight like blood against the crystal. ''I shall certainly drink to that.'' This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The others at the table followed suit, lifting their goblets. For a moment, the room was filled with the soft clink of glassware and the faint murmur of voices offering muted toasts. Sir Mandon turned sharply toward the door of the council chamber, his heavy armour creaking with each hurried step. The torchlight glinted off his polished breastplate as his jaw tightened with resolve. No doubt he intended to report this meeting to his sister. Owen moved to intercept him. He stepped in front of Sir Mandon, his own crimson cloak swirling around him. His hand landed firmly on his new captain''s shoulder, fingers curling around the cold steel of the pauldron. ''My apologies, sir.'' Owen¡¯s words were formal, yet he hoped his tone carried an unspoken warning for him. ''The prince has called a meeting of the royal guard. You are its captain. Your place is here.'' Sir Mandon¡¯s eyes sparked with indignation, his nostrils flaring like a cornered bull. ''You do not command me, Owen!'' he barked, his voice scraping off the stone walls. Owen¡¯s hand did not waver. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into the grooves of the pauldron with a quiet but unrelenting force. ''Oh!'' came a voice from the head of the table. Prince Jacques¡¯ tone was light, almost playful, yet there was no mistaking the steel beneath it. He turned to the pair with a smile that cut through the tension like a finely honed blade. ''Sir Mandon! Finally made it, I see. Now we can begin our meeting.'' Prince Jacques extended his hand toward Mister Cooper, his movements measured, his posture exuding calm authority. ''A pleasure doing business with you, sir.'' Mister Cooper returned the gesture with a hearty handshake, his fingers engulfing Jacques¡¯ in a moment of silent understanding. ''Likewise,'' he said, his voice gruff but tinged with respect. He withdrew his hand and reached for his goblet, draining the last of the wine before setting it down with a decisive clink. ''Now, I¡¯d best get home. The wife will be wondering what¡¯s kept me.'' ''Give her my regards,'' Prince Jacques replied, his smile never faltering, though his eyes briefly flicked to Sir Mandon, holding a sharpness that suggested he¡¯d already moved on to the next game in play. ''I will,'' Mister Cooper said with a nod, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor as he rose. He adjusted his belt, the faint jingle of coin and steel accompanying his movements, and shuffled toward the exit. He breezed past Owen and the rest of his brothers standing by the door, his wine-stained smile plastered across his face as though they were little more than statues flanking his departure. Prince Jacques leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of wood breaking the silence. His glee sharpened as he fixed his gaze on Sir Mandon. ''Thank you for coming at such short notice, Captain.'' Sir Mandon, Sir Edrick, and Sir Bryce exchanged uneasy glances, the air thickening with unspoken tension as a silence hung heavy over the room. The flickering torchlight painted their faces in shifting shadows, exaggerating their furrowed brows and darting eyes. Prince Jacques gestured toward the empty chairs with a flourish, his expression expectant. ''Please, gentlemen, have a seat.'' For a moment, no one moved. Owen stood a few paces from the door, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning his comrades. The trio hesitated, their hesitation palpable. Finally, with the weight of Prince Jacques¡¯ unrelenting gaze pressing upon them, they moved. Sir Mandon led the way, his boots clicking against the stone floor as he approached the table. The knights slid into their seats, their crimson cloaks pooling around them. Owen took his place at the far end of the table, directly opposite the prince, the weight of his armour gnawing into his shoulders as he lowered himself into his chair. The cold steel felt heavier than usual, as though the unease in the room had seeped into the metal itself. His eyes flicked to Sir Mandon, observing the younger man¡¯s face. The captain¡¯s attempt at composure was failing; his fingers drummed against the edge of the table, his jaw clenched too tightly, and his gaze darted toward the doorway where Mister Cooper had disappeared. Would Sir Mandon address the deal he had just witnessed, or would he try to maintain his fragile mask of indifference? Finally, Sir Mandon leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated yawn, covering his mouth with a gloved hand. ''It¡¯s barely dawn yet, Your Grace,'' he drawled, his tone lazy, though it wavered just slightly. ''I could¡¯ve benefited from some sleep.'' Prince Jacques tilted his head, his smile thinning. ''Yes, well... We¡¯ve all got to make sacrifices.'' A tense silence settled over the room, the kind that prickled at the edges of Owen''s nerves. Sir Mandon¡¯s gaze lingered on the flagon of wine sitting at the centre of the table, its deep red contents glinting under the flickering torchlight. The faint aroma of cherries wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of old stone and oiled steel. Prince Jacques gestured toward the flagon with an elegant flick of his wrist. ''Please, help yourself.'' There was no hesitation. Sir Mandon leaned forward, his armour creaking as he reached for the flagon. The goblet in his other hand clinked faintly against the table. He poured generously, the liquid swirling into his cup with a richness that seemed to fill the room. The knight raised the goblet to his lips and took a long, deliberate sip, savouring the wine as though it were a balm for his frayed composure. He smacked his lips with exaggerated appreciation, his eyes flicking toward the prince. ''Cherry flavor,'' he declared, his voice carrying a faint note of satisfaction. ''This is Mister Hanneburg¡¯s wine.'' A faint smile tugged at Jacques¡¯ lips, though it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ''A wine connoisseur, Sir Mandon?'' The question hung in the air, laced with a subtle challenge. Sir Mandon shrugged, his gauntlet brushing against the edge of the table. ''You could say that, Your Grace.'' ''Please,'' the prince said smoothly, his smile sharpening just enough to unnerve. ''Call me Jacques.'' Sir Mandon took another leisurely sip, his lips stained faintly by the deep red of the wine. The spell of Mister Hanneburg¡¯s craft seemed to seep into him with every swallow, the smooth burn dulling his inhibitions and loosening his tongue. He swirled the goblet idly, watching the wine catch the flickering torchlight. ''Redan wine really is the finest in Galia,'' he said, his words slow, almost drawled, as though the richness of the drink had settled in his very marrow. He tipped the glass again and drained it halfway. ''My sister did quite well to secure this deal.'' Prince Jacques leaned forward slightly, his hands folded neatly on the table. His smile was polite, but his eyes remained keen, unblinking. ''Quite right, good sir. She made it so Hanneburg wine is a delicacy everyone can enjoy. I can only applaud that.'' Sir Mandon scoffed. He held his glass up to the light, watching the deep crimson liquid shimmer like a jewel. ''A luxury like this,'' he said, his voice thick with condescension, ''is wasted on the penniless. Very much like the finest meat. I believe your Mister Cooper sells only to the most esteemed butchers in the city.'' He paused, tilting the goblet to his lips for another slow sip. ''Luxuries like those should be enjoyed by men like us, not the scum.'' That word hung in the air, brash and ugly, carving through the warmth of the wine-soaked atmosphere like serrated steel. Owen¡¯s jaw tightened, but he fought to keep his expression neutral, his years of discipline holding his simmering anger in check. Sir Mandon set his glass down with a soft clink. ''I imagine myself drinking Hanneburg¡¯s wine in a fine cottage somewhere,'' he mused, his voice carrying a wistful arrogance. ''A roaring fire, a beautiful woman by my side¡­ Now that¡¯s my idea of paradise.'' Owen¡¯s grip on the arm of his chair tightened, the leather groaning faintly under the strain. If it weren¡¯t for his father¡¯s fleet propping up the Jubilee family, Sir Mando n wouldn¡¯t have come within a mile of the royal guard. His every word dripped with entitlement, his disdain for the people swore to protect a stain on the armour he wore. Prince Jacques¡¯ grin lingered, but the subtle sharpness in his tone cast a pall over the room. He placed his glass on the table, the soft impact whispering among the gathered knights. ''Sounds enticing enough,'' he said, his voice carrying a note of wistful detachment. ''But that ship¡¯s sailed for me, I¡¯m afraid.'' ''You¡¯d thought the chance to have responsibility and power had sailed for you,'' Sir Mandon said, his tone thick with self-satisfaction. ''But look at you now. You¡¯ve just secured a very important deal¡ªa deal my sister would¡¯ve been proud of.'' The prince¡¯s shoulders rose and fell in a nonchalant shrug, his face betraying nothing but a calm, almost calculating expression. ''Very true,'' he said, tilting his head as though considering the thought. ''The last thing I would¡¯ve expected.'' ''Indeed,'' Sir Mandon replied, his voice tinged with a smug undercurrent, the corners of his mouth curling upward. Prince Jacques shifted in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes narrowed, the faintest glint of steel flashing in their depths. ''I never offered you my congratulations, by the way, Sir Mandon.'' Sir Mandon arched an eyebrow. ''Congratulations? For what?'' ''For becoming the new captain of the royal guard. It must be hard trying to replace a legend of swordsmanship and chivalry like Sir Theon.'' The air grew taut as the prince¡¯s words settled over the room. Owen¡¯s muscles coiled beneath his armour. He had seen King Rickard himself wear that very expression¡ªcalm on the surface, yet charged with the promise of confrontation. Jacques looked every inch the ruler in that moment, his presence filling the chamber like a ghost. Sir Mandon¡¯s expression darkened, his knuckles blanching as his fingers tightened around the rim of his glass. The faint clink of crystal against metal echoed in the charged air. ''Sir Theon Balogun was old and frail,'' he said, his voice steady but dangerously low. ''The King himself said so. He needed to step aside and allow someone younger and more capable to protect His Majesty and the realm. I was honoured to accept the offer.'' ''Interesting¡­'' Prince Jacques murmured, his tone light but his gaze piercing. ''Then I suppose we should look to you as the figurehead for planning any future conflicts. After all, Sir Theon guided us through two wars since my father ascended the throne. Tell me, Sir Mandon, how many wars have you personally seen?'' Owen bit down on his lip, struggling to suppress a smirk. Prince Jacques had baited Sir Mandon like a master angler. It wasn¡¯t the kind of direct confrontation his brother would have opted for¡ªJacques preferred subtlety to Rickard¡¯s brute force¡ªbut it was no less effective. Sir Mandon¡¯s frown deepened, his eyes darting briefly to the other knights assembled. Their gazes were hard, expectant, waiting. He cleared his throat. ''I hardly think that¡¯s relevant. I¡ª'' ''It¡¯s a simple question, good sir,'' Jacques interrupted, his voice sharp and cutting, like the edge of a whetted blade. ''How many?'' ''I¡ª'' Sir Mandon hesitated, beads of sweat beginning to glisten at his temple. ''I¡¯m not sure¡­ one, maybe?'' ''Wrong. You¡¯ve fought in a grand total of zero wars, sir. Yet here you sit, full of bluster and ambition, thinking you¡¯re fit to guide us through the fires of battle? You must have an extraordinary opinion of yourself.'' ''I¡¯ve done my research.'' ''So have I,'' Prince Jacques snapped, giving an icy glare to the man who called himself a knight, ''I¡¯ve read every book about war ever written. Should I wear the cloak?'' Sir Mandon scoffed. ''Of course not, you¡¯re¡ª'' His words cut off abruptly, his lips snapping shut as though they¡¯d betrayed him. Prince Jacques raised an eyebrow, his expression one of cool detachment. ''What?'' he said softly, his voice a low, dangerous current. Deceptively calm. Lethal. The chamber stilled, as if even the air itself had paused to listen. Every gaze locked onto Sir Mandon. The weight of their stares bore down on him, the silence amplifying the unspoken challenge in the prince¡¯s question. Sir Mandon shifted his weight, the leather of his boots creaking against the stone floor. ''I apologise, Your Grace,'' he muttered, the words heavy with reluctant restraint. Prince Jacques leaned forward slightly, his hands resting loosely on the arms of his chair. His gaze was steady, unblinking. ''No,'' he said, his tone icy cold. ''I want to hear it. I can¡¯t wear the cloak because I¡¯m¡­'' Sir Mandon hesitated, his jaw tightening. His bravado¡ªso sure and proud moments ago¡ªteetered, but then he drew a deep breath and forced himself to meet the prince¡¯s piercing gaze. ''Because you¡¯re too weak, Your Grace,'' he spat, his voice a mixture of defiance and desperation. A slow grin spread across Prince Jacques¡¯ face, not one of amusement but of satisfaction, a predator savouring the misstep of its prey. ''A dab of honesty is all I ask for,'' he said, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. He took a measured sip, the soft clink of crystal against his lips the only sound in the council chamber. Sir Mandon¡¯s face twisted, his barely concealed rage contorting his features. His hand hovered near his glass, trembling faintly, as if debating whether to lash out or retreat. No one dared move. Owen¡¯s eyes flickered between Sir Mandon¡¯s clenched fists and the unyielding fire in Prince Jacques¡¯s gaze. That fire was new¡ªan unquenchable hunger, not just for control, but for retribution. It was a look Owen had never seen before, and he doubted anyone else had, either. Sir Mandon, for all his bluster, seemed to shrink beneath it. For the first time in his memory, Owen realised, someone was genuinely terrified of Prince Jacques Rue. ''Anyhow,'' Jacques continued, his voice cool, ''I think it¡¯s about time I address the true purpose of summoning you here at this early hour. You see, good sir¡ªor should I say, not-so-good sir¡ª'' ''Your Grace-'' ''Let me finish,'' the prince snapped, his tone deathly sharp. His glare bore into Sir Mandon, fierce and unyielding, a perfect echo of his father¡¯s cold authority. The room seemed to shrink under the weight of it. ''I¡¯ve been evaluating you and your position here in the capital.'' Sir Mandon blinked, his body stiff as though turned to stone. ''Evaluating?'' he repeated, his voice faltering. ''Yes.'' Jacques tilted his head. ''Sir Mandon, remind me of the oath you swore when you became a knight.'' ''Your Grace I-'' ''Or has it been so many beatings and beheadings you¡¯ve forgotten?'' The prince¡¯s words, spoken with deliberate venom, hung in the air, daring Sir Mandon to respond. The room seemed to hold its breath. Sir Mandon¡¯s frown deepened, so venomous it seemed as if it could turn the wine in his goblet to blood. Yet Prince Jacques stood his ground, his smile unwavering, a thin, dangerous curve that only intensified the tension. ''I remember taking my oath like it was yesterday,'' Sir Mandon managed, his voice strained, exposing the cracks in his composure. ''Do you?'' Prince Jacques asked, leaning forward in his chair. ''Then you should have no trouble telling me what it is you swore.'' Sir Mandon¡¯s gaze darted to his allies seated around the table, a silent plea for assistance. But the faces staring back at him were blank, their helplessness¡ªor fear¡ªrooting them to silence. Owen murmured the vows under his breath, every single word like the first time he¡¯d spoken them. ''Protect the king, of course,'' Sir Mandon stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush, more defensive than certain. ''But there was another part, wasn¡¯t there?'' Prince Jacques replied, his voice soft but no less menacing. His hand casually swirled the wine in his goblet, the crimson liquid catching the light as it moved. His gaze, however, remained fixed, unrelenting, on Sir Mandon¡¯s beady eyes, stuck in place like dried mortar. ''What was it, Sir Mandon?'' Owen watched intently, his heart pounding as he observed Sir Mandon faltering before the prince¡¯s unrelenting fire. This wasn¡¯t just a test¡ªit was a reckoning, and Jacques was savouring every second of it. The Coast Knight gulped, his throat bobbing visibly. ''P¡­ Protect the innocent, Your Grace.'' Prince Jacques¡¯ smile widened. ''Ah yes, protect the innocent¡ªa cornerstone of every fine knight¡¯s duty.'' His voice was silken, each word laced with mockery. ''Which is why I was¡­ perplexed, to say the least, when I found you beating a defenceless girl for the ¡®crime¡¯ of stealing a single apple.'' Sir Mandon¡¯s face darkened. ''A crime is a crime.'' ''That may be so,'' Jacques said, his elbows resting on the polished oak of the council table. ''But dispensing punishment is not your job. Nor will it be, from this day forth.'' If Sir Mandon¡¯s frown deepened any further, the boy¡¯s face might have caved in on itself. His hands clenched the edge of the table as though it were the only thing tethering him to reason. ''What do you mean by that?'' he demanded. Prince Jacques sighed, the sound exaggerated, theatrical. ''Do I have to spell it out?'' The room fell into a suffocating silence. The other knights sat rigid in their seats, their breaths loud in the charged stillness. Sir Mandon¡¯s eyes darted wildly, searching the room for support. But no allies rose to his defence, their faces carefully neutral. His frustration must have boiled over as a low growl rumbled deep in his throat. ''We¡¯ll see what my sister has to say about this.'' The words were a snarl as he shoved his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. The grating sound was jarring, like a knife dragged against steel. Sir Edrick and Sir Bryce rose alongside him, their crimson cloaks flaring out dramatically as they turned toward the door, the motion a synchronised display of silent rebellion. But the rebellion was short-lived. In an instant, four knights leapt from their seats, their movements swift and practiced. Sir Orchis, Sir Robert, Sir Julius, and Sir Osgar unsheathed their swords in unison, the hiss of metal on leather filling the chamber. Their blades gleamed ominously in the candlelight, the edges poised like vipers ready to strike. ''What the hell is this?'' Sir Mandon hissed, his voice cracking as his eyes darted between the glinting blades. ''You know¡­'' Prince Jacques began, his tone conversational but his gaze locked onto Sir Mandon like a predator savouring its prey. ''I don¡¯t think we will.'' He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his composure that of a king. ''I¡¯ve instructed your brothers-in-arms to escort you to the harbour.'' Sir Mandon¡¯s nostrils flared. ''The harbour?'' he spat. ''You can¡¯t¡ª'' ''Oh, I can,'' Prince Jacques said, as nonchalant as discussing the weather, ''You¡¯re clever men. You know better than most how¡­ unsafe the streets of this city can be.'' Sir Mandon scoffed, though the sound was brittle, a desperate attempt to cling to his crumbling bravado. ''Pfft. These men are under my command!'' he barked, his voice louder than necessary, as if volume alone could mask his unease. ''I am their leader! I command respect! Your father knows that! That¡¯s why he chose me as his captain!'' The room bristled at his outburst. Owen¡¯s brothers exchanged wary glances, their swords shaking in their grips. Prince Jacques, however, remained unmoved, his expression a mask of icy contempt. ''My father,'' the prince said, ''chose you because you¡¯re a ruthless cunt, not because you are wise. There¡¯s a difference.'' His tone rose, each word laced with rage. ''And maybe that¡¯s why we¡¯re in this mess now. This kingdom needs a leader who inspires, not one who terrorises.'' Sir Mandon¡¯s hand twitched toward his sword, his fingers brushing the hilt. His sneer deepened, his lip curling like a feral dog cornered. ''Inspires?'' he spat, the word dripping with disdain. ''A weak leader inspires nothing but rebellion.'' ''Then let it be known.'' Prince Jacques rose from his seat, his black cloak draping over his back, like a storm gathering on the horizon. His gaze locked onto Sir Mandon¡¯s, unflinching, unyielding. ''I will rebuild this kingdom not on fear, but on justice and honour.'' Jacques stepped closer, his presence commanding, the fire in his eyes burning brighter. ''And if you can¡¯t stand by that, Sir Mandon,'' he said, his tone smashing The Coast Knight¡¯s remaining facade, ''then perhaps it¡¯s you who¡¯s too weak to wear the cloak, not me.'' Sir Mandon¡¯s face contorted with rage, his hand trembling as it clutched the hilt of his weapon. But the resolve in Prince Jacques¡¯ gaze was unshakable, a sheer force of nature no man could ignore. ''Take them away!'' Sir Robert¡¯s iron grip clamped down on Sir Mandon¡¯s shoulders, forcing him across the room and up the stairs with a strength that made The Coast Knight¡¯s struggles appear pitiful. Boots scraped against the floor, arms flailing wildly as Sir Mandon tried in vain to break free. ''Unhand me you fucking oaf!'' The heavy door at the top of the stairs swung open with a grating creak, as if protesting the drama to unveil. Framed by the threshold, Princess Mirielle Jubilee stood tall, her slender figure silhouetted against the dim light spilling in from the corridor behind her. Her expression was a tempest¡ªa storm of confusion mingled with a fury that seemed to ripple through her poised stance. ''Mandon?'' she gasped, her voice tinged with disbelief. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she watched Sir Robert drag her brother closer to the exit. ''What is the meaning of this?'' ''Miri!'' Sir Mandon let out a high-pitched squeal, his bravado from earlier crumbling into cowardly desperation. ''Help me! Do something!'' Mirielle¡¯s frown deepened, her lips pressing into a tight line. She whirled to face the prince, her fury igniting like dry kindling. ''What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing, Jacques?'' Her voice was sharp and unforgiving, each word lashing the air like a whip. Prince Jacques remained seated, his posture relaxed, his expression impenetrably calm. ''Just a bit of light weeding, Princess,'' he replied, the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betraying his amusement. ''Sir Robert?'' The Iron Knight halted in his tracks, turning to the prince with the same measured composure Owen had always known him for. Prince Jacques gestured toward Mirielle with a flick of his hand. ''I think we have room for one more on the boat. Perhaps the Princess would like to join her brother on his journey home.'' All eyes shifted to Mirielle as she stood rigid, her face reddening with fury. She straightened her shoulders, locking her blazing gaze onto the prince. ''I am not going anywhere with him!'' she spat, her voice trembling with both rage and defiance. ''I am the Queen Regent, by order of your father, the King!'' ''And now I¡¯m relieving you of that burden. Sir Robert, if you please¡­'' The Iron Knight gave a small shrug, as if the task were no more difficult than moving a stubborn cupboard. With an almost casual ease, he swept Mirielle off her feet and slung her over his broad shoulder. Her shriek pierced the air, her fists pounding against his back as she writhed in his grasp. ''Jacques!'' she roared, her voice a mixture of rage and panic. ''Order him to let me go this instant! I am the Queen Regent! Do you hear me? You can¡¯t do this!'' Her words echoed through the chamber, but Jacques didn¡¯t flinch. He adjusted his cuffs, his gaze fixed on the commotion as though watching a play unfold. ''Oh, but I can, my dear lady,¡¯ he said, his voice cool and measured. ''And I am.'' Mirielle¡¯s curses grew louder, her struggles frantic, but Sir Robert¡¯s grip remained. With one arm holding her securely in place, he continued dragging Sir Mandon toward the exit. The chamber filled with the swirling storm of Mirielle¡¯s shrieks, The Coast Knight¡¯s sputtering protests, and the clanging of boots on stone as Sir Osgar and Sir Julius escorted Sir Bryce and Sir Edrick out of the room. Their red cloaks trailed behind them, the fabric swirling like roses. Mirielle¡¯s cries grew fainter as Sir Robert carried her down the corridor, leaving only the sound of footsteps and the soft clink of armour to echo in the emptying chamber. When the last of the dissenters had been removed, silence descended like a heavy shroud. Owen glanced around, his gaze landing on Prince Jacques, who sat motionless at the head of the table. His expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet fire in his eyes¡ªa mixture of triumph, resolve, and something darker, something devious. The prince poured himself another glass of deep red wine, the liquid catching the flickering torchlight as it cascaded into the goblet. He paused for a moment, letting the wine breathe, before pouring a second glass for Sir Orchis. The faint aroma of spiced cherry filled the air as he raised his goblet. ''To revenge.'' ''To revenge,'' Sir Orchis echoed, the crisp chink of their glasses ringing. The Hawk Knight took a deliberate sip, savouring the wine before adding, ''The only matter left now is selecting a new captain. Naturally, I shall put my name forward for consideration, but the choice is yours, Your Grace. You are the Regent King, after all.'' The room fell silent, the weight of Sir Orchis¡¯ words hanging thick in the air. The prince¡¯s fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, his expression thoughtful yet unreadable. Finally, his eyes flicked toward Owen, piercing Owen¡¯s heart with an intensity that made his breath hitch. ''Sir Owen Flagg¡­ I would name you the new captain of the royal guard.'' Time halted. Owen sat frozen, the weight of the words crashing down on him like rocks down a mountainside. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a deafening drumbeat in his ears. His vision narrowed, and for a fleeting moment, the room faded into insignificance, leaving only Prince Jacques¡¯ words echoing in his mind. Fifteen years of relentless sacrifice, sleepless nights, and unwavering dedication had culminated in this singular moment. This was the recognition he had long dreamed of, the validation of every hard-fought duel and every quiet act of service. Owen struggled to maintain his composure, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts as he gripped the edge of the table for support. He resisted the almost primal urge to punch the air in triumph, knowing this was not the time for such displays. Yet, despite his efforts, his jaw fell open, his shock breaking through the carefully constructed facade he had worn for years. ''I¡­ I am not worthy of the honour,'' Owen stammered, his voice trembling. ''I need to keep this city in check while my father fights in the war,'' Prince Jacques replied, his tone firm yet carrying a thread of urgency. ''For that, I need men I can trust. Trustworthy men seem to be in short supply in these parts. The rest of us¡ªthose who remain true¡ªwe need to stick together now, or everything will unravel.'' Owen nodded slowly, the enormity of the prince¡¯s words pressing down on him like an anvil. The room seemed to grow colder, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the stone walls as if they mirrored his simmering apprehension. He glanced at Sir Orchis, who remained on his perch, his sharp brown eyes fixed on Owen. Sir Orchis¡¯ expression was inscrutable, his thin lips barely twitching, but there was something calculating in his gaze, as though he were already weighing his opponent in his mind. ''The first thing we need to do is rebuild the royal guard,'' the prince continued. ''We need people loyal to me¡ªonly me. Sir Orchis, you will pick the candidates. Owen, you will train them. The four best will fill the vacancies.'' Prince Jacques leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His eyes glimmered with a fierce determination. ''Then,'' he said, his tone lowering but no less commanding, ''we need to establish some kind of force to keep our streets in check. This city festers with crime, and I want to know where every whisper, every plot, every scheme originates. We need to stop it before it grows. Do any of you have suggestions?'' ''Weavenhall Prison,'' Sir Orchis said without hesitation, his voice steady and confident. Owen¡¯s heart jolted. Weavenhall Prison? he thought, the name ringing in his mind like an ominous toll. His blood ran cold, and his throat tightened as childhood stories of the prison surfaced¡ªits grim reputation, its corridors filled with the most hardened and dangerous criminals in the kingdom. Is he mad? ''Weavenhall Prison?'' Prince Jacques asked, his brow furrowing. The best way to deal with criminals is to use those who know the very underbelly of this city. No one knows where criminals operate better than criminals who¡¯ve already been caught. If we pay them enough, we¡¯ll have a network that can thwart criminals before they can even step outside of their holes.'' Owen¡¯s stomach churned, and for a moment, the room closed in on him. The idea seemed wrong, unnatural¡ªlike building a house on paper foundations. He swallowed hard, the bitter taste of discomfort rising in his throat. He couldn¡¯t hide the disapproval twisting his features. ''I thought punishment was meant to come after the crime,'' Owen said, his voice firm but laced with unease. He met The Hawk Knight¡¯s gaze, hoping for some kind of answer that would make sense. Sir Orchis¡¯ eyes flashed a sharp, calculating gleam. He didn¡¯t seem at all disturbed by the challenge. Instead, he leaned forward, his posture suddenly more menacing, as though closing the distance between them would make Owen want to retreat. ''We don¡¯t have the luxury of waiting for crimes to be committed,'' he countered, his voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous register. ''You don¡¯t always have the time to wait for the crime. By the time the crime has been committed, it¡¯s too late. There¡¯s no justice then, only retribution. And retribution doesn¡¯t help the people who¡¯ve already suffered. Let me tell you a story, Sir Owen.'' Owen glanced over at Prince Jacques and caught him rolling his eyes¡ªa gesture that spoke volumes about how many times he may have heard this particular tale. Sir Orchis pressed on, his voice unwavering, his gaze locked firmly on Owen as if daring him to challenge his logic. ''My great-grandfather, Lord Vincent Vortigon, was said to be good man,'' he began, his tone shifting into one of almost nostalgic reverence. ''A loyal man. A man who loved his people. He used to go down to taverns, drink with the common folk, laugh with them. He went with no protection, no sword at his belt, because he trusted people.'' The Hawk Knight¡¯s voice darkened as he continued, the weight of the words pressing down like a thick fog. ''One day, someone murdered him in cold blood. No reason. Just a knife in the dark. That¡¯s when my grandfather, Lord Kembrys, realised the truth.'' Owen sensed the shift in the room, the air thickening with the rising bitterness of Sir Orchis¡¯ story. He was not speaking of strategy now; this was something personal, something that had hardened him into The Hawk Knight sitting before him. Owen swallowed, trying to keep his discomfort in check. ''My grandfather blamed his trusting nature. From that day forward, he never went anywhere without a sword at his belt. He never let his guard down again. But,'' he added, his voice lightening like the end of a cavern, ''he still held the same love for his people. He just¡­ didn¡¯t trust them anymore. And he passed that lesson down to my father, and my father down to me. You can love your people, but that doesn¡¯t mean you need to trust them.'' The silence suffocated. Owen pulse raged in his throat, the words from Sir Orchis sinking into him like a boulder dropped into a lake. Prince Jacques¡¯ dilemma pressed down on him, the internal conflict starting to unravel the prince¡¯s thoughts and decisions. Trust¡ªthe very foundation of everything Owen himself had valued, and his father and brother before him¡ªwas now in question. Could trust truly be sacrificed so easily for something as pragmatic as this? ''They will fear us, and they will hate us,'' Owen hissed through gritted teeth. ''If we do this, we¡¯re no better than King Jacob when he fried men alive ¨C a man who slaughtered all our grandfathers, if my memory serves me right.'' His eyes flicked to Sir Orchis, whose ever-present smile faltered, though his posture remained infuriatingly calm. ''Your Grace, is that the kind of ruler you want to be remembered as?'' ''It doesn¡¯t matter what I want,'' Jacques replied, meeting Owen¡¯s defiance with a resolute expression, though his voice betrayed a hint of weariness. ''It matters what this kingdom needs. We need stability. We need control. That is what my father expects of me, and that is what I must deliver.'' The fire in his eyes burned brighter, the weight of responsibility and ambition igniting within him. Yet Owen could see the cracks beneath the surface ¨C the desperation of a second son trying to emulate his father, trying to be his brother. Owen gulped, seeing his younger self sitting right in front of him clear as day. Jacques wasn¡¯t asking for agreement; he was begging for loyalty. ''The plan is this,'' the prince continued, ''Sir Orchis and I will travel to Weavenhall Prison and recruit the numbers we need. Owen, you will train the candidates once they arrive. We will create a force to reclaim these streets.'' His gaze swept across the table, pausing briefly on Owen. ''Do I have full cooperation from you all?'' Owen turned his glare to Sir Orchis, who lounged back in his seat like a game-master in control of the entire board. His calm demeanour only weathered the storm raging in Owen¡¯s chest. The cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach. Sir Orchis Vortigon was more than a dangerous man; he was a schemer, someone who could wield influence as lethally as a blade. The prince couldn¡¯t see it ¨C or worse, wouldn¡¯t. How can I stand by and watch this? The weight of his oath came crashing down, the promises he¡¯d made not just to the King, but to himself. Protect the royal family, no matter the cost. His loyalty had defined him for years, and he couldn¡¯t falter now, no matter the danger, no matter his doubts. He unclenched his fists, though the tension still vibrated through his body. He raised his head and met the prince¡¯s gaze. ''Always, Your Grace,'' he said. ''Good. Now, we can have a drink and celebrate. Orchis, bring the boy. I think we¡¯ve got some things we need to discuss.'' Prince Jacques pushed himself up from his chair, his movements quick and assured. He strode toward the heavy oak door of the council chamber, a newfound energy in his step that bordered on exuberance. The change in him was striking ¨C a glimmer of the leader Owen had hoped he could become. For a moment, a flicker of pride warmed Owen¡¯s chest. Perhaps this was the turning point they all desperately needed. But then his gaze shifted to Sir Orchis Vortigon. The knight rose leisurely, like a serpent uncoiling, his sharp smile plastered across his face as he fell into step behind the prince. He followed with the same unwavering presence he always carried ¨C a shadow clinging to Prince Jacques, impossible to shake. Owen¡¯s chest tightened. The warmth of pride turned to ice as cold contempt flooded his veins. Whatever confidence Jacques had found, it was The Hawk Knight who lurked just behind it, waiting to bend it to his will. Prince Jacques had named him captain of the royal guard, a position of trust and power, but what good was it if Sir Orchis still held the prince in his grasp? Owen¡¯s pulse quickened, a low thrum of anger and unease building within him. He wouldn¡¯t let Sir Orchis poison the prince¡¯s growing strength. Not anymore. With a sharp intake of breath, Owen thrust himself to his feet, the sound of the chair scraping against the stone floor slicing through the chamber. He had taken an oath, a sacred promise to protect the royal family and their ideals, even if it meant standing against a man as slippery as Sir Orchis Vortigon. If Jacques was to lead, truly lead, it wouldn¡¯t be with The Hawk Knight manipulating his every move. As soon as the prince disappeared on the other side of the door, Owen took his chance. Sir Orchis extended a hand toward the handle, but Owen was faster. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud, and before The Hawk Knight could react, Owen¡¯s hand shot out, gripping his throat like a vice. He drove Sir Orchis backward, slamming him against the solid oak. The impact sent a sharp metallic clang echoing through the chamber as Sir Orchis¡¯ armour clattered against the wood. Owen kept his face inches from Sir Orchis¡¯, his breath hot with anger. ''What sort of game are you playing, eh?'' he snarled, his voice low and guttural. ''Tell me!'' Sir Orchis gasped for air, but even as his breath came shallow and strained, his lips curled into a maddening grin. ''May I be the first,'' he rasped, his voice dripping with mockery, ''to offer my congratulations, Captain Flagg?'' Owen¡¯s grip tightened, his fingers pressing hard into the steel gorget that protected Sir Orchis¡¯ throat. His knuckles blanched under the strain, his fury screaming to rip him to shreds. ''You will do well to remember that,'' Owen growled, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. ''His Grace made me captain, and I¡¯ll honour that decision by protecting him with everything I¡¯ve got. From any threat. Even you.'' The Hawk Knight¡¯s cackling laugh broke the tension like a jagged knife, sharp and grating against Owen¡¯s ears. His brown eyes gleamed, catching the flickering light of the chamber¡¯s sconces as he leaned as far forward as Owen¡¯s grip allowed. ''You know¡­ you look so much like your brother Lyndon when you¡¯re angry. I remember him well, that fiery glare, that stubborn pride. We crossed swords once, if you recall. Do you know where he is now?'' Owen¡¯s breath hitched. The mention of Lyndon was a gut punch, a name wrapped in pain and loss. The memory surged forth, vivid and raw ¨C the image of his elder brother, brave and defiant, standing tall like the lord he was always born to be. And then the arrow. It had come out of nowhere, a whisper of death, splitting the air before burying itself deep in Lyndon¡¯s skull. The blood. The lifeless thud of his body hitting the ground. Owen¡¯s grip faltered as the vision consumed him. His fingers slackened, trembling now as they fell away from Sir Orchis¡¯ throat. His chest heaved, his breaths shallow and uneven as the knot of grief and rage cruelly twisted in his stomach. Sir Orchis straightened, rubbing his neck with an exaggerated slowness, his sly grin widening like salt pouring into an open wound. ''Ah, there it is,'' he whispered, his tone a mixture of pity and glee. ''You¡¯re haunted by it still, aren¡¯t you? The loss. The failure. I wonder¡­ would Lyndon be proud of you now? Would anyone? Never fear¡­ you¡¯ll find out soon enough.'' Owen¡¯s hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he struggled to anchor himself. ''What do you mean?'' The room seemed to tilt, the air thick with tension as Sir Orchis leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ''Come now, my brother-in-arms,'' he sneered, his words oozing false camaraderie. ''We have a prince to serve.'' Chapter XVIII- A Bastard Boy Rickard sat stiffly in one of the many battered booths lining the perimeter of The Black Bull Tavern. The air was thick with the scent of ale and damp wood, mingling with the faint tang of spilled wine that never quite left the floor. The usual hum of raucous laughter and bawdy songs absent, the tavern lay eerily quiet, its empty chairs and vacant hearth casting long, unsettling shadows in the dim morning light. Sitting next to him loomed Sir Owen Flagg, The Northern Knight. His broad shoulders filled the space, his presence a wall of flesh and steel that left little room to breathe. A tankard of ale sat gripped in one of his massive, calloused hands, the other resting idly on the table, its fingers twitching like a coiled viper ready to strike. Rickard dared a glance at the man¡¯s face ¨C a map of scars twisting his features into something fearsome and tragic. Though Sir Owen wore an honest, almost fatherly smile, the brutal marks told a story of violence that made it hard for Rickard to meet his gaze for long. Opposite them, The Hawk Knight, Sir Orchis Vortigon, reclined in the shadows. The flickering light caught the sharp lines of his face, but his familiar brown eyes stood out, glittering like polished stone as they flicked over Rickard¡¯s face with unnerving precision. Every glance was a cleaver, dissecting him bit by bit, as though Sir Orchis could read the very blood in his veins. Prince Jacques sat draped in an air of nonchalance. He leaned back against the cracked leather of the booth, sipping his wine with an elegance that felt out of place in such a grim setting. His snow-white hair gleamed in the lantern¡¯s glow, framing his pale skin in an ethereal light that made him seem almost otherworldly, a ghost amongst men. His gaze wandered lazily over the room, as though he were at some highborn¡¯s garden party instead of an empty tavern reeking of old drink and struggle. Rickard¡¯s throat tightened as he lifted his own mug, its rim chipped and uneven. The bitter brew burned on the way down, but it did little to soothe the unease clawing at his chest. The last time he was here, he had been with friends, their laughter spilling out over half-empty mugs as they shared crude jokes and stories of the day. Now, those friends were gone, and in their place sat the new crown prince, a knight who made monsters look tame, and another whose face seemed carved by the battles he¡¯d survived. The tavern door creaked slightly in the breeze. Even the landlord had disappeared, off to fetch new supplies for the evening crowd. It was just the four of them now, alone in the suffocating silence. Rickard shifted in his seat, feeling the worn leather stick to the back of his tunic, and dared a glance at Prince Jacques. ''So¡­ why am I here?'' He asked, his voice catching despite his attempt to sound steady. ''We are celebrating, dear boy,'' Prince Jacques declared, lifting his glass with the effortless poise of someone who had been born to command attention. The ruby-red wine caught the dim light of the tavern, glinting like blood in a glass. ''To the new captain.'' ''To the new captain,'' Sir Orchis echoed, his voice smooth and velvety, a sharp contrast to the steely clink of their glasses meeting. The knight¡¯s eyes, dark and unreadable, never left Rickard as he took a slow sip, his lips curling faintly around the rim of his goblet. Rickard blinked, unsure if he had misheard. ''The¡­ new captain?'' He blinked again, the silence settling around him as the prince¡¯s grin widened. ''I thought Sir Mandon Jubilee was the new captain.'' ''So did he.'' The prince leaned forward, his hair falling around his face like the edge of a pale flame. His tone remained light, almost cheerful, as if they were discussing the latest fashions in court rather than matters of state. ''We¡¯ve made some lovely improvements to the royal guard. One of them being the immediate dismissal of anyone who might want me dead.'' Rickard¡¯s stomach dropped, his pulse quickening. ''Turns out three of them didn¡¯t like me very much. Well,'' Prince Jacques waved a hand airily, ''I soon disposed of them.'' Disposed. The word hung in the air like a noose, its implications twisting in Rickard¡¯s gut. ''And since the crown is yet to find a suitable replacement for Sir Theon, this means four spots in the royal guard are now open.'' The prince smiled, his teeth flashing white. ''We¡¯re giving you an opportunity to train, go through trials, just as the men who sit here before you did. And if you succeed, you¡¯ll find yourself wearing the crimson cloak and rise as a knight of the Galian royal guard. How does that sound?'' Rickard stared at him. His body frozen, his mind rebelled against the words that had just been spoken. The crimson cloak? Me? The very idea felt so preposterous it bordered on absurdity. This couldn¡¯t be real. This couldn¡¯t be happening. It had to be a joke, some twisted jest conjured by a man with an equally twisted sense of humour. He managed a nervous chuckle, though the sound came out strangled. ''You¡¯re having me on.'' The prince¡¯s expression darkened, his easy demeanour hardening into stone. ''I am not,'' he said. His pale blue eyes burned with an intensity that made Rickard¡¯s skin prickle. ''Work hard and train well, and you¡¯ll see yourself rewarded in the end.'' He turned his head toward Sir Owen. ''Isn¡¯t that right, Owen?'' Sir Owen rumbled a low confirmation. ''If the boy listens, yes.'' The weight of The Northern Knight¡¯s words only added to the tension in the room. Rickard glanced at him, hoping to find some trace of humour or kindness in the man¡¯s scarred face, but there was none. Only grave certainty. ''See?'' Prince Jacques said. ''No trick.'' Rickard¡¯s heart pounded like a drum in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. His hands were damp with sweat, and he resisted the urge to pinch himself, to shatter this utterly surreal moment. He felt as though he were caught in a storm, the room spinning around him as his mind struggled to grasp the enormity of what was being offered. A knight. A knight of the royal guard. It was impossible. Men like him didn¡¯t rise to such heights. Sir Theon¡¯s journey from commoner to captain was the stuff of legend, a tale told to inspire but never to replicate. It was a one-in-a-million chance. Rickard was just an orphan rat, blending into the background, destined for nothing. And yet here I sit. Rickard narrowed his eyes at the prince, suspicion swirling in his chest. ''Why me?'' he asked. ''There are probably a thousand kids out there who want what I want. Why am I so special?'' The prince didn¡¯t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly tapping the rim of his goblet. His eyes, sharp and calculating, searched Rickard¡¯s face as though weighing how much truth to reveal. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured yet firm. ''Because your father saved my life.'' Rickard blinked, his breath hitching in his throat. The words struck him like a slap, leaving a stunned silence in their wake. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table as though to steady himself. ''You¡­ you knew my dad?'' Prince Jacques nodded solemnly, but it was Sir Owen who answered, his droning northern voice tinged with something that sounded almost like reverence. ''We all did. He was a brave man, a loyal man.'' My father. The man Rickard had only ever known in fragmented dreams and stories whispered by his mother. A figure shrouded in mystery and absence, whose face he had conjured countless times in his mind. He pictured him tall and broad-shouldered, like Sir Owen but unmarred by the scars. He would have a smooth, kind face with a glistening smile that could brighten the darkest day. In his dreams, his father¡¯s voice was deep yet melodic, commanding respect but offering comfort in equal measure. It was a voice Rickard imagined teaching him, guiding him, scolding him when necessary but always with love. And now, to hear these men speak of him as though he had been real, as though he had been more than just a shadow in Rickard¡¯s imagination¡ªit was almost too much to process. ''Was he a knight or something?'' Rickard asked, his voice a mix of awe and curiosity. ''No,'' the prince replied. ''But he was a warrior. One of the finest I¡¯ve ever met. If it weren¡¯t for his courage, I¡¯d be without a head right now. So I owe him.'' Rickard felt his throat tighten, his chest aching with the weight of what he had just learned. His father¡ªa hero. A man who had not only been brave but had saved the life of a prince. He wondered if he¡¯d met the King, or Prince Rickard, or even Sir Theon Balogun himself. The thought filled him with both pride and sorrow, an aching longing for someone he could never truly know. Prince Jacques¡¯ voice faltered slightly, and when Rickard looked up, he saw a glimmer of something unexpected in the prince¡¯s eyes. Sadness. The prince sniffed once, quickly, as if trying to conceal the crack in his composure, but it was there¡ªa fleeting glimpse of vulnerability. Whether it was guilt, or perhaps a secret that refused to surface, Rickard couldn¡¯t tell, but it left him unsettled, the questions piling up in his mind like stones in a river. ''But,'' Sir Orchis Vortigon interjected, his voice slicing through the fragile moment, ''if the whispers about you are to be believed, I think he¡¯d be bitterly disappointed in the choices you¡¯ve made.'' Rickard frowned as a hot wave of anger washed over him. ''What?'' ''Oh yes,'' Sir Orchis continued, his tone dripping with disdain. ''You were in education, best in your class, weren¡¯t you? And now look at you. Crawling through the gutter like a rat, wallowing in whatever hole this is you¡¯ve chosen to fall into.'' The words hit Rickard like a blow to the chest. He shook his head, but the image of his father¡ªhis imaginary, idealised father¡ªflared to life in his mind. He could almost see him standing there, arms crossed, scowling in disappointment. Judging him. He doesn¡¯t understand. He¡¯s not even real! ''You can¡¯t talk to me like that,'' Rickard snapped. ''This place¡ªthis city¡ªfucks you up!'' ''Ah, yes,'' Sir Orchis sneered, leaning back in his chair with a derisive chuckle. ''Always someone else¡¯s fault, isn¡¯t it? The city, the system, the stars¡ªanyone but yourself.'' Rickard¡¯s fists clenched under the table, his knuckles turning bone-white. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he bit back the urge to scream. He pictured every long, gruelling day he had endured since his mother died¡ªbegging for scraps, stealing when he had no other choice, lying just to survive. The memory of each humiliation, each painful compromise, burned like a brand on his soul. ''Do you think I had much of a choice?'' Rickard growled through gritted teeth. ''Do you think I wanted this? I¡¯ve had to beg, steal, lie¡ªdo whatever it took just to survive. But you wouldn¡¯t understand that, would you?'' He leaned forward, his fury bubbling. ''Because you¡¯re just some son of a high lord who¡¯s never had to lift a finger in your damn life!'' For a moment, Sir Orchis said nothing. His sharp brown eyes, cold and unfeeling, locked onto Rickard like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, he grinned. Slowly. Calculatingly. The kind of smile that sent a chill crawling up Rickard¡¯s spine. ''You wound me,'' Sir Orchis murmured, the mockery in his tone unmistakable. ''But I think you¡¯re forgetting who you¡¯re speaking to.'' His grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a look so sharp it could have drawn blood. ¡®And if we are to be brothers-in-arms, then I suggest you learn to speak to me more softly.'' The Hawk Knight¡¯s stare pinned Rickard to his seat, those piercing brown eyes cutting through his anger and peeling away his defences. Rickard couldn¡¯t stop his resolve from faltering, his shoulders sagging as the weight of Sir Orchis¡¯ presence bore down on him. In silence, he sat small. Exposed. And completely at The Hawk Knight¡¯s mercy. ''Sir Orchis, take it easy on the lad,'' Sir Owen commanded, his deep voice carrying a weight that smashed through the simmering tension. His massive body shifted toward Rickard, and he placed a hand on his shoulder¡ªa bear¡¯s paw in truth. Rickard flinched at first, but the touch grounded him, the warmth radiating from Sir Owen¡¯s palm a stark contrast to the icy gaze Sir Orchis cast from across the table. ''Look,'' Sir Owen said, ''we all want to help. But we can¡¯t help unless you help yourself.'' He leaned forward, his scarred face close enough for Rickard to see the humanity behind those harsh, weathered lines. ''If you want, we¡¯ll walk out that door right now, and you can go back to your life as it is. No shame in it. But if you come with us¡ªif you decide to take this chance¡ªI¡¯ll make you as good a knight as any in the kingdom. On your father¡¯s honour, you have my word.'' The words hung in the air like the toll of a bell, solemn and full of promise. Rickard¡¯s chest tightened, his breath hitching as his gaze darted between Sir Owen and Sir Orchis. Despite the warmth of Sir Owen¡¯s reassurance, the weight of Sir Orchis¡¯ shadow lingered in the corner. His presence made Rickard¡¯s skin crawl, a constant reminder that failure was not an option¡ªnot with those piercing brown eyes watching his every move, dissecting him like a bug under glass. Is this really happening? Pride and fear churned together in his gut, threatening to consume him. His father was a hero, a man who had once saved the life of the prince himself. But that man was a ghost, a figure of legend Rickard had never truly known. ''You have your father¡¯s spirit, lad,'' Sir Owen said, his voice full of conviction. ''I see it in you. I know you can do this.'' Something stirred deep within him, a spark of determination that burned away the haze of doubt clouding his mind. His back straightened as if pulled by an invisible thread, his chest rising with newfound resolve. His eyes flicked back to Sir Orchis, still lurking in the shadows like some twisted spectre of judgment. The Hawk Knight¡¯s lips curled into a faint, sardonic grin, as though he could see right through Rickard¡¯s moment of courage. Sir Theon wouldn¡¯t run from a shadow, Rickard thought, the memory of his childhood hero surging to the forefront of his mind. Sir Theon wouldn¡¯t run from anything. The doors to the tavern groaned as they swung open, the sound cutting through the silence like a warning bell. Three looming figures trudged into the room, their swords glinting at their sides, their shoulders broad and hunched with purpose. Rickard froze mid-breath, his blood turning cold as he remembered the night he¡¯d killed the fourth member of their group. The memory slammed into him: the smell of sweat and blood, the guttural shout as his blade found its mark, and the sickening thud as the body hit the ground. It had been chaos, a blur of survival and regret, but there was no mistaking the face of the biggest man now stomping toward him¡ªthe same man who had laid him out cold with a single punch to the face. Beady eyes fixed on Rickard like a sentinel watching for intruders. ''What the fuck is that boy doing here?'' the man snarled, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the room. ''Are you taking the piss?'' Their boots hit the floor like drumbeats, each step heavy as they advanced. Tables and chairs groaned in protest as they shoved them aside, the furniture skittering across the floor like discarded toys. The flickering light of the tavern¡¯s hearth stretched their shadows across the walls, grotesque and monstrous. The men were like walking storms, their presence filling the room. Rickard¡¯s breath hitched as his gaze darted between them, his stomach churning. They¡¯ve come for me. Bushy brown beards bristled as the men grinned, their yellowed teeth gleaming in the dim light. Their eyes, hard and unblinking, seemed to bore into Rickard, peeling back every layer of bravado he tried to muster. ''You¡¯re in need of a beating again, I think, boy,'' rumbled the tallest of the lot, his voice as rough as gravel. He unsheathed his blade, the steel catching the firelight and sending a sliver of light dancing across the walls. ''Perhaps that¡¯ll knock some sense into ya.'' Rickard¡¯s heart hammered in his chest, each beat a deafening drum in his ears. His hands curled into fists beneath the table, his nails biting into his palms. Every instinct screamed at him to grab a weapon, to defend himself, but the memory of that punch¡ªthe force of it, the darkness that followed¡ªparalysed him. I¡¯m doomed. ''Look, gentlemen...'' Rickard blinked, his gaze snapping to Prince Jacques, who was swirling his wine with a glistening smile that didn¡¯t reach his eyes. His snowy hair seemed to catch the firelight, giving him an otherworldly glow. ''We are celebrating a wonderful occasion,'' the prince continued, his voice light, as though he were addressing courtiers rather than brutes with swords. ''And I would greatly appreciate it if you left us in peace so we could finish our drinks.'' ''Fuck off, cunt,'' one of the shorter men spat, his voice sharp and dripping with venom. Sir Owen shifted his massive frame slightly, his gaze hardening. ''Careful, Sir,'' he said, his deep voice carrying an unspoken warning as he gestured towards Prince Jacques. ''This is the Regent King.'' The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike, but the shorter man didn¡¯t flinch. His lip curled in a sneer, and he jabbed a finger in Sir Owen¡¯s direction. ''And you¡¯re in the way of my quarry, you northern twat. Now piss off!'' Prince Jacques¡¯ expression remained serene, but there was a flicker of amusement¡ªor perhaps annoyance¡ªbehind his icy blue eyes. He glanced at Sir Owen, their silent exchange carrying a weight of understanding. With the slightest nod from the prince, Sir Owen began to rise. His shadow engulfed the three intruders, his scarred face set like stone. The men instinctively stiffened, their bravado faltering for a heartbeat as Sir Owen¡¯s sheer size pressed down on them. Without a word, Sir Owen began to move, his steps slow and deliberate. The trio parted just enough to let him pass, their bravado replaced by a flicker of caution. But as soon as the knight stepped towards the door, their attention snapped back to Rickard like wolves circling wounded prey. ''Now, come ''ere, you little murderer!'' the biggest one snarled. Rickard barely had time to flinch before the man lunged, his massive arms reaching out like a bear swiping at its target. Iron fingers clamped around Rickard¡¯s collar, hoisting him from his seat with terrifying ease. His boots left the ground, and for a moment, he felt weightless, helpless, as though the ground itself had abandoned him. The man¡¯s fiery eyes bored into Rickard¡¯s, alive with rage and malice. His breath reeked of stale ale and rotten teeth, the stench making Rickard¡¯s stomach churn. ''Think you can kill one of us and just walk free?'' the man growled, shaking him like a ragdoll. Rickard¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, the thundering beats deafening in his ears. His hands clawed at the man¡¯s grip, but it was useless. His strength was too overwhelming, his fingers like steel clamps. This is it, Rickard thought, panic surging through him. I can¡¯t fight him. I can¡¯t win. He glanced desperately at the prince, at Sir Orchis, at anyone who might intervene. But the prince merely sipped his wine, his expression as calm as ever, as if this were just another boring council meeting. Sir Orchis, meanwhile, leaned back in his seat, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, his dark eyes glinting with intrigue. Neither of them moved to help. ''Fight back, boy!'' the big man roared, shaking him harder. ''Aren¡¯t you a killer? Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve got!'' Rickard¡¯s chest tightened, shame and fury warring within him. If he were any sort of knight¡ªany sort of man Prince Jacques wanted him to be¡ªhe¡¯d be fighting back. But his arms felt like lead, his strength sapped by the man¡¯s sheer dominance and the crushing weight of his own fear. He could barely think, barely breathe. He was powerless, small, the shadow of his imaginary father looming large in his mind. You¡¯re not worthy, the shadow whispered. You¡¯ll never be worthy. Then, a quiet sound rippled through the chaos like a pebble in the sea: click. Rickard frowned. The big man beside him mirrored his expression, only with far more menace, his scarred knuckles tightening around Rickard¡¯s collar. Together, their gazes swung toward the tavern doors, the muted hum of conversation in the room faltering to a chilling silence. All eyes followed the measured movements of Sir Owen as his gloved fingers flicked the locks on each door. One. Click. Two. Click. Three. Click. The metallic snicks seemed louder than they should, ricocheting in the quiet space. No escape. ''You know what,'' Sir Owen said, his voice low and steady. ''I¡¯m going to teach you a lesson my mother taught me. Manners cost nothing.'' Sir Owen drew his sword, the hiss of steel escaping its scabbard cutting through the tension like an axe through flesh. It was not just a weapon; it was an extension of him, gleaming silver in the dim, flickering light of the tavern¡¯s lanterns. The big man¡¯s grip slackened, and Rickard fell to the floor with a breathless gasp, the rush of blood and panic roaring in his ears. The wooden boards bit into his palms as he scrambled back, his eyes wide, watching the men who had moments before seemed so intimidating now take up arms against this lone knight. The big man¡¯s companions joined him, drawing their swords with grim determination. The scrape of steel on steel echoed as they fanned out in a loose, defensive arc. The Northern Knight strode forward with an unsettling calmness, his black armour catching the flicker of the firelight, every plate polished to a deadly gleam. The crimson cloak draped across his shoulders flowed like a river of blood, every step, every movement purposeful. He looked like death incarnate. But it¡¯s three against one? Surely even a royal guard couldn¡¯t manage those odds. Rickard swallowed hard, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. It was too much. For anyone. Even for the great Sir Theon Balogun, perhaps. Certainly for the likes of Rickard, a skinny, scared boy who could barely lift a sword. Sir Owen¡¯s voice sliced through the charged silence, cold and sharp enough to cut. ''Who wants to be taught first?¡¯ The three men exchanged wary glances, their earlier bravado slipping like water through their fingers. For all their bluster, they hesitated, their knuckles white around their hilts. The big man stepped forward first, his sword raised and jaw set. Sir Owen¡¯s gaze locked onto him, unblinking, and in that moment, Rickard saw something terrifying in the knight¡¯s fiery maple eyes. Not rage. Not fear. Something worse. Certainty. The violence erupted in an instant¡ªa blur of flashing steel, sharp grunts, and the sickening ring of metal on metal. The world slowed, every detail searing itself into Rickard¡¯s memory. The three men struck in unison, their weapons carving through the air. But Sir Owen was faster. Far faster than Rickard thought possible for a man clad in armour. The first attack came down in a brutal overhead arc¡ªSir Owen twisted, the blade missing him by inches. The second came from his left, a reckless thrust¡ªhe deflected it with a flick of his wrist, his sword ringing like a bell. The third man lunged, but Sir Owen slipped past and pivoted with inspiring ease. Rickard¡¯s excitement warred with his fear, a strange, giddy energy coursing through him. This¡ªthis was mastery. He had heard the songs, the whispered stories of knights who could take on ten men at once, who could carve through battlefields like gods of war. But seeing it unfold before his eyes? It was something else entirely. The three brutes fought like drunken brawlers, swinging wildly, their strikes fuelled by rage rather than skill. Their swords clashed against his with force, but no precision, no strategy. It was as though they had never been tested in a real fight before, their techniques crude, their coordination nonexistent. The Northern Knight made them look like fools. Worse than fools. Like children swinging sticks in the air, hoping one might land by sheer luck. Sir Owen bundled one man over with a brutal shove, sending him sprawling onto his back. The fool barely had time to gasp before the blade struck. A swift, calculated thrust drove cold steel through the man¡¯s throat. Blood erupted in a crimson volcano, spraying across the tavern floor, splattering chairs and tables, and streaking Sir Owen¡¯s armour in dark rivulets. The scent of iron thickened the air, mingling with the stale stench of spilled ale. Sir Owen¡¯s sword arced through the dimly lit room, a flash of merciless steel. It struck with the finality of an executioner¡¯s axe, severing the second man¡¯s head in a single, clean stroke. A sickening thud echoed as the head hit the ground, rolling like a dropped melon, its glassy eyes still frozen in shock. The third man staggered back, horror distorting his face as he fumbled for some desperate defence. Too slow. Too late. Sir Owen pivoted, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. The final attacker barely managed a breath before sword met flesh. A wet crunch, a gurgled scream, and then silence. The man collapsed, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut, his lifeblood seeping into the cracks of the wooden floor. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. For a moment, the only movement in the tavern was the sluggish pooling of blood creeping toward Rickard¡¯s boots. Sir Owen stood amid the carnage, his breath ragged, his massive chest rising and falling beneath his dented breastplate. His grip on his sword loosened slightly, though his fingers remained curled around the hilt as if he expected another fight to come. The weight of his years must have pressed on him in that instant, a flicker of fatigue showing through the sheer force of his presence. Across the booth, Prince Jacques remained seated, his expression unreadable, his goblet still cradled in one hand. He did not flinch, did not react. He simply watched, as if the slaughter before him were no more troubling than spilled wine. ''My apologies, Your Grace,'' Sir Owen managed through the pants, his tone as courteous as if he had merely knocked over a goblet. ''I¡¯ve made a mess.'' Prince Jacques regarded the carnage before him with a detached amusement, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet as if contemplating its vintage rather than the blood soaking the tavern floor. The bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen, their cooling flesh already drawing the interest of flies. The Prince took a sip, his lips curling slightly at the taste. ''All we¡¯ll need is a substantial tip for our poor landlord,'' he mused, his voice carrying a languid ease. ''It¡¯s going to take days to clean this up.'' He turned then, his gaze settling on Rickard. The flickering lantern light caught the fine embroidery of his cloak as he reached beneath its folds and withdrew a parchment. With a practised flourish, he laid it out on the table between them, smoothing it with his hand. The parchment was heavy, the kind reserved for royal decrees, its surface covered in an elaborate weave of dense text. Words like duty, loyalty, and oath stood out among the highborn splurge, promises laced with power and responsibility. At the bottom, a signature box waited, its gilded edges catching the dim light, gleaming like the pommel of a freshly polished blade. Beside it, an ink bottle sat open, a quill resting in its dark pool, ready. Prince Jacques leaned in slightly, his voice smooth and persuasive. ''You want to help people like you in this city, don¡¯t you?'' He gestured toward the parchment. ''Sign the contract, pledge yourself to the training, and we¡¯ll help you do that.'' Rickard¡¯s eyes flicked to the quill and ink. They sat there, almost mocking him in their simplicity. It seemed absurd that so much could hinge on such a small thing¡ªa flick of his wrist, a few strokes of ink on paper. This was it. The moment he had always dreamed of. The chance to elevate himself from the filth and obscurity of his current life into something greater. The opportunity to step into a world of power, influence, and purpose. To become a knight of the royal guard. Rickard¡¯s fingers twitched as he grasped the quill, the feathered shaft foreign and unsteady in his grip. He dipped it into the ink, watching as the cool, viscous liquid coated the tip, an inky abyss waiting to etch his fate. As he poised the quill above the parchment, shadows stirred in the corners of his mind. Sneering faces leered at him, their mouths twisting into cruel smiles. The jeers of his fellow candidates, their biting laughter, rang in his ears like a taunt carried by the wind. Street rat. Look at him. Thinking he can be like us. His hand hovered, unmoving. Am I really ready for that? Prince Jacques observed him with the patience of a man who already knew the outcome. ''What¡¯s the matter?'' His voice was smooth, but beneath the silk lay something deeper, something expectant. Rickard swallowed, his throat parched. He placed the quill down, his fingers slipping slightly on the polished wood of the table. ''People will just laugh at me,'' he admitted. Prince Jacques leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. ''Why should that be a problem?'' he mused, his tone rich with amusement. ''People have been laughing at me for years, yet here I am.'' He gestured at the grand cloak draped over his shoulders, at the opulence he carried so effortlessly. His gaze locked onto Rickard¡¯s, sharp and unrelenting. ''Do you want this, or don¡¯t you?'' Rickard¡¯s stomach knotted. He tried to breathe, but the air felt thin, his thoughts a blur of nerves and longing. He thought of Sir Theon Balogun, The Silver Knight, who had once donated his tournament winnings to his orphanage, the man who had changed lives with a single act of kindness and chivalry. Could I, too, make a difference? The thought was tantalising, a flicker of something greater than himself. But beneath it, fear gnawed at his resolve¡ªthe fear of failure, of ridicule, of reaching for something only to have it slip through his grasp. ''I¡­'' Rickard hesitated, shame creeping into his voice. ''I don¡¯t actually know how to write a signature.'' For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, Prince Jacques chuckled¡ªa low, melodic sound, the kind that could be mistaken for kindness if not for the glint in his eyes. He leaned forward, plucking the quill from the table, his smile widening as if he had been waiting for this very moment. ''I will take that as a yes, then.'' A few weeks passed, and lords across Galia were submitting their sons for royal guard training. The capital swelled with eager young men, their ambitions burning like torches in the night. Owen paused outside the dressing tent of the fighting pit, inhaling deeply. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, leather, and oil¡ªa familiar, almost nostalgic blend. The tent¡¯s red and yellow striped canvas flapped violently in the wind, snapping like a war banner before a charge. From within, the chatter of nervous recruits drifted outward, punctuated by the occasional laugh or the sharp shink of metal as someone ran a whetstone down their sword. Fifteen years ago, he had been one of them. A young man, knuckles white around the hilt of his father¡¯s sword, lungs tight with fear. The memories pressed against his ribs¡ªlate nights spent drilling until his muscles screamed, the biting cold of dawn inspections, the ever-present knowledge that one misstep could mean failure, obscurity, or worse. Back then, he had been desperate to prove himself. To be seen. To be more than the disgrace he always saw himself as. Now, he was Captain of the royal guard. The weight was different from armour¡ªit didn¡¯t press on his body but on something else entirely. He was no longer just a soldier fighting to earn his place. He was the gatekeeper now, the final wall between knighthood and unworthiness. Some of them would be hardened warriors in a few years, seasoned and disciplined. Most would falter. That was the way of things. But among them was one who carried more than just his own fate: Prince Jacques¡¯ bastard nephew. Owen exhaled sharply. The boy¡¯s presence complicated everything. Would he have to coddle him? Ensure his survival for political reasons? Or would the prince expect him to break the boy like he would any other? Owen squared his shoulders, adjusting Ramshorn at his hip. Everyone saw only The Northern Knight. The warrior. The captain of the royal guard. None of them saw the young lord he had once been. And they never would. ''You deserve this, Owen.'' The prince stepped beside him, his cloak billowing slightly in the breeze, white embroidery on black. ''How many are in there?'' Owen asked. ''Ten,'' Prince Jacques replied, his tone casual, almost amused. ''But they must be whittled down to four. My father would only accept the best.'' Owen nodded, the unspoken weight of duty settling over him like a familiar shroud. ''Very well, Your Grace.'' For a fleeting moment, Owen caught something sharp in Prince Jacques¡¯ expression¡ª perhaps ambition or hunger, but whatever it was, it extended far beyond this pit of hopefuls. It reminded him of the King, of King Rickard, and that sent a shiver running down his spine. ''I¡¯ll see you soon,'' Jacques said, his lips curving into a knowing smirk, his demeanour turning back to what Owen was used to. ''Hopefully with an army at my back.'' An army of criminals, Owen thought. But he kept it to himself. Thieves, killers, outcasts. Trained properly, they could be deadly. But can I ever trust them? The idea of fighting alongside them was unsettling, no matter how skilled they were. Knighthood had always been a symbol of discipline, duty, and honour. This blurred the lines. But Owen had been a soldier long enough to know the truth: ideals didn¡¯t win wars. Strength did. The prince¡¯s vision was bold. Perhaps too bold. You have your orders, Owen thought, a good soldier always obeys. The prince patted Owen on the back, a parting gesture, before turning and vanishing into the city¡¯s tangled streets. His silhouette melted into the morning din, leaving Owen alone with his thoughts¡ªand with the ten young men waiting inside. They were all looking to prove themselves, to earn a place among the kingdom¡¯s elite warriors. He would see all types in there. There always were. There would be the overconfident boy from some great house, chin lifted with entitlement, convinced his name alone guaranteed him a spot. There would be the brute¡ªa slab of muscle relying on sheer strength over skill. Perhaps one of them would be considerably older, a man desperate for one last chance at glory. And, of course, there would be the fiery one, the vengeful one, the one with a point to prove, the one Owen knew to keep an eye on. Every batch comes with its own surprises, he thought, recalling the words Sir Theon had told him once. Let¡¯s see if you¡¯re right, sir. Owen swept the tent door aside and stepped in. Instantly, the low hum of conversation died, snuffed out as though his presence had stolen the air from the room. The recruits snapped into formation, spines straight, hands locked behind their backs in perfect discipline. All except one. Young Rickard¡¯s hesitation was small, barely more than a heartbeat¡¯s delay, but Owen caught it. That split-second difference between a trained soldier and someone who was only just learning to play the part. Owen¡¯s gaze swept the line, noting the crests embroidered on their tunics. The roaring tiger of House Gallan. The coiled squid of House Barnier. The rearing bear of House Karling. Generations of battle-hardened warriors, producing some of the finest knights the realm had ever seen. And then there was Rickard. His hastily stitched emblem¡ªa squat, warty toad¡ªstood out like a joke among lions. House Rodon. A name Prince Jacques had conjured out of thin air to give his bastard nephew some semblance of legitimacy. The boy looked absurd next to the others, his uniform crisp but ill-fitted, the fabric betraying its second-hand origins. The others might not say it aloud, but Owen could already feel their silent judgment. They had grown up knowing their worth, raised with the certainty that their blood alone set them apart. Rickard had none of that. He would have to fight for everything. ''Good morning,'' Owen said, standing tall, his voice carrying through the tent like the edge of a whetted blade. ''My name is Sir Owen Flagg. I will be your commanding officer over the next few weeks. Weeks that will see four of you walk away with spots on His Majesty¡¯s royal guard.'' He let the words settle, watching the flicker of anticipation in their expressions. Then, with a sharp inhale, he drove home the truth. ''All of you are from noble houses and no doubt have been trained in combat before.'' Owen¡¯s eyes lingering for half a beat on a brown-haired recruit who smirked slightly at the mention of training. ''But let me assure you, the royal guard is much more than swinging swords and winning glory. It is a commitment. A commitment to your king and a commitment to your kingdom. It is not to be treated irresponsibly.'' A gust of wind rattled the canvas walls of the tent, and for a moment, the silence inside felt thick enough to choke on. Owen let it stretch just long enough to make them uneasy before he counted the heads before him again. His jaw tightened. Something was off. ''Nine.'' A small frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. I should be looking at ten. ''We appear to be short a man,'' Owen said. ''Does anyone know where our last man is?'' The young men shifted ever so slightly, their gazes darting toward one another, searching for an answer they did not have¡ªor did not want to give. Lips pressed into thin lines, shoulders lifted in half-hearted shrugs. No one spoke. Owen fought the urge to huff. If the missing recruit failed to show soon, he would have no choice but to disqualify him before they even began. It was harsh, but the rules were clear. The King would demand discipline. A knight who couldn¡¯t arrive on time was no knight at all. Just as the silence threatened to collapse under its own weight¡ª Owen heard the tent flap burst open. The fabric snapped in the wind, the ropes straining, and some panting followed, laboured as though the late comer had just outrun death itself. Owen did not move, not so much as flinched. He merely sighed. ''You''re late,'' he said, turning sharply to face the late arrival, his tone clipped with disapproval. ''That¡¯s not a very good start, is¡ª'' The words died in his throat. He barely stopped himself from choking. The recruit standing before him wasn¡¯t a young man at all. She was a girl¡ªno older than fifteen. The dim light of the tent caught in her auburn hair, strands glinting like burnished copper as they danced in the wind. She was slight but stood with rigid defiance, her shoulders squared, her chin raised just enough to challenge the stares now boring into her from every direction. A black doublet fit snugly to her frame, and across her chest, stitched in defiant grey, was the unmistakable ram of House Flagg. His crest. Owen¡¯s world shrunk to the girl before him, to the maple-coloured eyes staring straight into his soul. ''Roxanne?'' he whispered, the name clawing its way past the tightness in his throat. Roxanne brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her lips curling into a sardonic grin. ''Hello, Father.'' The shadows of Sir Owen Flagg and Roxanne stretched long across the red and yellow walls of the tent, their forms flickering like restless wraiths under the midday light. The canvas walls trembled with every gust of wind, the sun casting slashes of gold. Meanwhile, Rickard¡¯s fellow recruits had dispersed, returning to their sleeping areas with varying levels of efficiency. Some moved with the practiced ease of men accustomed to discipline, arranging their spaces with neat precision, their hands confident as they laid out their armour and weapons. Others fumbled, struggling to shake off the weight of noble privilege, muttering curses under their breath as they adjusted stiff bedding or searched through overstuffed satchels. Metal rang against metal¡ªbelts being unbuckled, swords resting against wooden racks, the occasional rasp of a whetstone sharpening a blade. The scent of oiled leather and sweat mingled with the damp earth beneath their feet, the fragrance of knights preparing to compete. Rickard sat apart from the rest, silent. I have nothing compared to them. Where other recruits had brought trunks of silk-lined tunics, engraved daggers, and feather-stuffed bedrolls, he had arrived with a single sword, the scabbard worn and unremarkable, and the fake doublet bearing the hastily stitched toad crest of House Rodon¡ªa name as fabricated as his right to be here. He didn¡¯t even know where the sigil came from, only that Prince Jacques had conjured it out of necessity. The others stole glances at him. Not outright sneers, not yet. But they didn¡¯t have to. He could feel the quiet weight of their judgment, the unspoken reminder of their suspicion. This was their world¡ªthese sons of noble houses, these men with names etched into history like stone-carved legacies. I am a footnote at best. Still, none of that would matter once he earned his place. Once he knelt before the King and named a knight of the royal guard. But that day felt impossibly distant. The bed to Rickard¡¯s right lay empty. That must be her¡¯s. Sir Owen¡¯s daughter. Roxanne. Or at least, he hoped it was. He wanted to tell himself she wasn¡¯t pretty. Convince himself that she was just another recruit, nothing special. But he would be lying. Rickard focused on finishing his bed, smoothing out the rough blanket with steady hands. The wool was coarse beneath his fingers, no doubt a far cry from the silken sheets of noble houses, but he was used to discomfort. It would always be a part of him. Then the tent flap ripped open. The noise shattered the low murmur of the barracks, and Rickard jolted before he could stop himself. Roxanne stormed in. There was nothing soft or hesitant about her movements¡ªshe didn¡¯t walk; she marched. Each footfall hit the ground with palpable force, a rhythm that spoke of boiling fury. Her jaw was set, her hands curled into fists, her shoulders locked so tightly it looked painful. She crossed the space like a soldier heading to war and threw her pack onto the bed with a dull thud. Her sword came next¡ªa fluid motion, an unthinking habit. She propped it against the frame in a way that told Rickard she had done this a hundred times before. Then, without a word, she started setting up. Rickard couldn¡¯t move. Couldn¡¯t think. The way the sunlight filtered through the slits in the canvas, catching in the damp strands of her auburn hair, made it gleam like polished brass. A fine sheen of sweat clung to her skin, glistening in the dim light, evidence of some exertion he hadn¡¯t witnessed. She looked like she was carved from the same iron as the northern warriors of old, forged in some brutal forge, untouched by the dainty airs of nobility. Rickard swallowed hard. I should look away, he thought. I need to. But his gaze remained fixed, trapped by something he didn¡¯t quite understand. ''Are you alright?'' The thick northern accent landed like a war hammer, rough and unpolished, smashing straight through his daze. Rickard blinked. Once. Twice. Pull yourself together! ''What?'' he managed, his tongue clumsy in his mouth. Roxanne raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. ''You. I asked if you were alright.'' Her tone was flat, unimpressed. ''It¡¯s just, you keep staring at me.'' Rickard¡¯s stomach twisted. Shit. He blinked again, trying¡ªand failing¡ªto hide the way she had completely thrown him off balance. ''Erm¡­'' ''Fall in!'' Sir Owen¡¯s bark smashed through the air like a whip crack, sharp and commanding. Rickard jolted, grateful for the distraction, as his heart hammered from that terrifying exchange. Around him, the recruits scrambled into formation, boots thudding against the dirt as they rushed to stand at attention. Rickard¡¯s pulse thrummed in his ears. Roxanne was still beside him. Too close. He could feel her presence¡ªlike standing near a fire, uncertain whether it would warm him or burn him to a crisp. To his right, a brown-haired young man with a stag emblazoned on his doublet adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders with an air of effortless confidence. The kind of ease that came from knowing the world already belonged to him. ''Now, where was I?'' Sir Owen said as he paced in front of them. His tone was cool, unreadable. ''Oh yes. The royal guard is a commitment¡ª'' ''You¡¯ve already said that, sir.'' Sir Owen stopped mid-stride. Silence. Rickard turned slightly, barely shifting his gaze to the person who had spoken up. The Stag boy. He wore a smirk, the kind that spoke of entitlement rather than courage, as though he were merely humouring the exercise rather than taking it seriously. Sir Owen rubbed his chin, as if considering. A frown etched deep lines into his scarred face. ''Have I?'' he murmured. ''Is that so?'' Sir Owen¡¯s eyebrows lifted, almost playfully, but there was no warmth in his expression. ''Oh yes, I did. Thank you, young man.'' The Northern Knight¡¯s voice carried an eerie lightness, the kind that preceded a crushing storm. He eyed the emblem on the lordling¡¯s doublet, a regal stag poised in mid-leap. ''That emblem you bear¡ªHouse Staggard of Stag¡¯s End, is it not?'' The boy straightened proudly, his smirk deepening as he replied, ''Yes, sir. My name is Charles, sir. Second son of Lord Henryn of House Staggard.'' Sir Owen nodded, his lips curling into a smile¡ªone that never reached his eyes. ''Very good,'' he said, ''You can shove that up your arse for all I care.'' A still, stunned silence gripped the tent. Rickard bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself not to laugh. The smirk on Charles'' face flickered¡ªjust for a moment¡ªbut it was enough. ''Sir?'' ''You see, young man, a house name means nothing when you serve in the royal guard.'' His gaze swept over them, piercing, unwavering. ''Yes, the King likes to recruit warriors from noble bloodlines, but make no mistake¡ªyour titles, your privileges, your family legacies¡ªthey die the moment you pledge yourself to the crown. You are now a knight. Not a lord, not a father, not a son, but a warrior, and a warrior until the day you die.'' A few recruits shifted uneasily, their fingers curling into fists. Some of them had likely never considered the weight of such a sacrifice¡ªgiving up the very thing that had defined them their whole lives. Rickard¡¯s heart pounded. But beside him, Roxanne muttered something under her breath. He barely caught the words, but there was no mistaking them. Forsake. Family. Rickard stole a glance at her, but her face was unreadable, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on the man who was supposed to be her father. ''You trade your old life for a new one,'' Sir Owen pressed on. ''And the only family you have now are the men who will stand beside you in battle. Those are your brothers. The ones who will fight for you, bleed for you, and¡ªif need be¡ªdie for you.'' Rickard swallowed. A few recruits exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked defiant, others uncertain. A handful¡ªmostly the youngest among them¡ªlooked like they had just begun to grasp the true gravity of what they¡¯d signed up for. ''So,'' Sir Owen continued, ''that will be your first exercise. I want each of you to meet every single person in this tent. And I mean every single one. Do not miss anyone out. Do not make the mistake of thinking you can do this alone.'' His stare lingered, like he already knew which of them would try to isolate themselves. ''I will be watching,'' he added, ''not just to see how well you excel as individuals¡ªbut to see how well you function as a unit. If you do not learn to trust one another, you will fail.'' Rickard exhaled slowly, his mind racing. This wasn¡¯t just some test of skill. This is survival. ''I wish you all luck. And I strongly advise you to get a good night¡¯s sleep before our first training session tomorrow.'' Sir Owen¡¯s eyes flickered over them one last time. ''Now¡ªfall out.'' Sir Owen turned toward the door, his crimson cloak trailing behind him as he swept aside the tent flap. Without another word, he disappeared from sight and into the city beyond. The moment he was gone, the recruits broke formation like a crumbling dam, the tent filling with a sudden rush of voices. Conversations overlapped, laughter rang out in short bursts, and the occasional clatter of weapons being shifted against beds punctuated the noise. Rickard exhaled when he reached his bed, rolling his shoulders. The tension from standing at attention for that long was beginning to seep from his muscles when¡ª A slight hand appeared before him. ''My name¡¯s Roxanne, by the way. And you are?'' Rickard hesitated, caught off guard by how direct she was. His gaze flickered to her maple-coloured eyes¡ªa shade so similar to Sir Owen¡¯s. ''Rickard,'' he said, clasping her hand. Her grip was firm, steady¡ªstronger than he expected. Roxanne glanced down at the emblem on his doublet, her brows knitting together. ''House Rodon?'' she murmured. ''Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve heard of it. Is it southern?'' Rickard¡¯s stomach clenched. The prince had drilled every detail of House Rodon into him¡ªits fake holdings, its fabricated bloodline, the carefully crafted backstory meant to make his existence seem true. He had repeated it over and over in his head before arriving, but now, standing beneath the weight of Roxanne¡¯s questions, his mind went blank. All he could do was nod. ''Yeah,'' he said, forcing out the words. ''Pretty southern.'' I need to change the subject. Now. ''How about you, though?'' he asked, his voice a touch too eager. ''House Flagg? What¡¯s it like up north? Is it cold?'' Roxanne¡¯s expression shifted¡ªjust for a moment. It wasn¡¯t quite sadness, nor was it anger, but something caught between the two. She shrugged, the motion almost practiced, like she¡¯d done it a thousand times before. ''You get used to it,'' she said, her voice light, but she was no actor. ''Us Flaggs are good at enduring hard times.'' Her eyes flickered toward the exit¡ªthe same place Sir Owen had vanished through. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. ''At least¡­'' she muttered, almost to herself, ''we¡¯re supposed to be.'' ''Well, well, well.'' A voice slithered from behind Rickard¡¯s back, oozing with condescension. Charles Staggard stood before him, his grin wide and wolfish, his sharp eyes glinting with the pleasure of finding fresh prey. To either side of him were two more young men, their expressions painted in matching smirks¡ªone clad in an orange doublet emblazoned with a rooster, the other in blue with a peacock crest. ''Where did they dig you up?'' Charles sneered, eyeing Rickard as if he were a stray mutt that had somehow wandered into his kennels. The weight of their eyes pressed down on him, measuring him, picking him apart like seagulls. Before he could open his mouth, Roxanne stepped forward, her boots planting hard against the tent floor. ''We¡¯re supposed to be making friends, Staggard,'' she growled, her voice edged with pure iron. ''Remember?'' The boy in the blue doublet let out a chuckle, shaking his head. ''Alright, northern girl, no need to bite his head off,'' he said with a smirk. ''Charles was only making polite conversation, weren¡¯t you? I¡¯m Ramsay of House Frill.'' Rickard frowned slightly. ''House Frill?'' Ramsay¡¯s grin widened. ''That¡¯s right.'' He motioned to the other boy with a lazy wave of his hand. ''And the one with the rooster on his doublet is Rufus of House Morne. Rufus, this is Rickard.'' Rufus extended a hand, and Rickard shook it. His grip was strong, unyielding, perhaps testing Rickard¡¯s own strength. ''So, Rickard,'' Rufus said, his voice smooth but searching, ''do you have any combat experience?'' Rickard¡¯s chest constricted. For a moment, he was back in that dark street, his hands sticky with blood, the weight of the man¡¯s dying breath rasping against his ears. He had fought once¡ªand won. But it hadn¡¯t been honourable. It hadn¡¯t been clean. It had been murder. Rickard swallowed hard and shook his head. ''None at all?'' Rufus pressed, his brows rising in disbelief. He shook his head again, slower this time. ''That¡¯s strange.'' Rufus tilted his head, eyes narrowing like a hound catching a scent. ''Usually, a lord¡¯s son would have some combat training, especially if he has aspirations of becoming a knight. Who was your master-at-arms?'' Rickard¡¯s mind raced, grasping at anything¡ªany name, any lie¡ª but the walls were closing in too fast. I must not give him anything. ''I don¡¯t remember his name.'' Rufus¡¯s eyebrow arched higher. ''Stranger still.'' Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Every second pulled the noose tighter. Charles let out a low chuckle, the sound dripping with feigned sympathy. ''Look, Rufus, he¡¯s clearly tired,'' he said, his voice smooth but razor-sharp. ''Perhaps we should give him some time to rest¡­ and think of an answer.'' A ripple of laughter followed, smug and knowing. The three of them turned away in perfect synchronisation, their backs to him before he could even muster a reply. They strolled toward their beds, their whispered voices slithering through the air like snakes in dry grass. Rickard stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. They know. The heat crept up his neck, his shame curdling into anger. ''Just ignore them,'' Roxanne murmured beside him, her voice a quiet balm against the burning in his chest. ''These southern boys don¡¯t know anything.'' Rickard swallowed hard. All of those ¡®southern boys¡¯ were bigger than him, stronger than him. They had been trained by the best warriors in their regions, raised with steel in their hands and battle drilled into their bones. And now they¡¯ve set their sights on me. A boy from the streets. A fraud. A target. Rickard exhaled sharply, his voice a whisper. ''They¡¯re going to kill me, aren¡¯t they?'' Roxanne scoffed, rolling her eyes as if the thought was ridiculous. ''Don¡¯t be so dramatic,'' she said, her tone light but firm. ''No one¡¯s going to die here.'' The royal palace loomed in the distance, its white towers piercing the gloomy sky. Owen¡¯s boots struck the cobbled streets, his strides long and measured, but no amount of discipline could lighten the weight pressing down on him. Every step carried the ghosts of a thousand regrets, clinging to him like a shroud. The city hummed around him¡ªmerchants selling their wares, distant bells tolling from the cathedral, the laughter of children playing in the street¡ªbut the noise barely registered. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a relentless war drum, each beat driving home a memory he had long tried to bury. There she was¡ªa slice of his past, a fraction of his shame, a mistake made flesh. He had regarded her as a distant memory, a face that would fade with time, just another phantom of the life he had left behind. But now, as she lingered in his mind, Owen realised how foolish he had been to believe that ghosts stayed buried. The tent flaps had barely settled behind them when he¡¯d grabbed her by the arm, dragging her into the open air. Wind lashed at them, making the canvas billow and snap like a living thing, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging between them. He had expected resistance, maybe even blazing anger. But what he found instead turned his blood into ice. She was smiling. Not the kind of smile that came from joy or relief, but one laced with quiet victory. A razor-sharp grin, daring and defiant, framed by a face he barely recognised. When had she become this? Owen thought. When had the girl with wide, wondering eyes turned into this¡ªthis hardened warrior with fury burning beneath her skin? Owen¡¯s voice had slipped out harsher than he¡¯d intended, his own emotions seeping through the cracks in his control. ''What are you doing here?'' Roxanne tilted her head, crossing her arms over her chest with infuriating ease. The wind tugged at the loose strands of her auburn hair, making them dance like fire. But her eyes¡ªa Flagg¡¯s eyes¡ªheld nothing but cold steel. ''Did you really think after what you did, I wouldn¡¯t come looking for you?'' Her voice was steady, but there was venom beneath it, laced in every syllable. Owen¡¯s grip tightened, not out of malice, but desperation¡ªdesperation to find something, anything, in her face that reminded him of the babe he had once known. But there was nothing. Just bitterness, resentment, and the undeniable truth that he had made her this way. Owen exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering as it left him, heavy with the weight of her words. She was right, of course¡ªthere was no use denying it. Time had not erased her. The Gods had been waiting¡ªwaiting for the right moment to rise, waiting for the right face to drag the darkness screaming into the light. And now, here it was, standing before him in the form of a young woman whose piercing gaze cut deeper than any blade ever could. He forced himself to breathe, to steady the storm raging inside him. He could not afford to break¡ªnot here, not now. Not when Prince Jacques needed him. ''Sir Owen!'' A voice, small yet urgent, cut through the haze of his thoughts, yanking him back to the present. His pulse, still rattled by the memory of Roxanne¡¯s blazing eyes, thumped heavily in his chest as he turned toward the source. A girl¡ªno older than nine or ten¡ªstood a few paces away, her hands fidgeting at her sides. Her gaze wavered between awe and hesitation, as if she were uncertain whether she had made the right choice in speaking to him. Owen forced himself to breathe, straightening his stance as he pushed the past back into its cage. ''Yes?'' The girl glanced over her shoulder at a woman standing a short distance away¡ªher mother, no doubt. The woman, perhaps in her late thirties, met Owen¡¯s eyes briefly before nodding at her daughter, a silent encouragement to proceed. The girl swallowed, then stepped forward, her fingers gripping the hem of her tunic as if gathering courage. ''I think you¡¯re amazing, sir,'' she said, her voice filled with pure, untainted admiration. ''I read about you, and the other knights in school. One day, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.'' Owen blinked. A breath hitched in his throat, unexpected and sharp. For a fleeting moment, he saw Roxanne¡ªnot the young woman she had become, filled with fury and resentment, but the babe she once was. A girl with kindling eyes, brimming with dreams of a world untouched by cruelty. A girl who had once filled his heart with joy. If this little girl knew the truth of his past, she would not hold him in such high regard. The innocence in her eyes, the pure admiration in her voice¡ªshe saw a hero when heroes were dead. Owen forced himself to smile, a lie stretching across his lips. As he took a slow step toward her, his mind flashed to Sir Theon, to the day he had given Rickard a piece of his cloak. A small gesture, one that had meant everything to the boy. Look at where Rickard was now. Perhaps, despite all he had done, he could do something right. Owen unsheathed his sword. Ramshorn¡¯s steel caught the light, her gleam a sharp contrast to the gloom stirring in his chest. With a slice, he cut away a piece of his cloak, watching as the fabric drifted down like a dying ember. ''Hold your hand out,'' he said, his voice quieter now, softer. The girl extended her small hand, her fingers trembling¡ªnot with fear, but with excitement. She had no idea the weight of what he was giving her. No idea what that cloak had cost him. Owen placed the cloth in her palm and gently closed her fingers around it. The fabric was rough, worn from years of service¡ªyears of blood, sacrifice, and regret. ''Keep it,'' he told her. ''As a reminder.'' The girl¡¯s face lit up with unfiltered joy, her eyes shining as if he had given her something priceless. ''Thank you, sir!'' she chirped before bounding back to her mother, clutching the piece of cloak as though it were a treasure. Owen watched her go, his chest tightening. The sight of her running off, untouched by the burdens of the world, only made the ache inside him worse. He had kept his oath¡ªto his King, to his brothers in the royal guard. But what has it cost? His fingers brushed the edge of his cloak, now slightly frayed from where he had cut it. A cloak of crimson. Chapter XIX- The Blood Of The Dove Luis¡¯ leg trembled beneath the table, a sharp pain radiating up his thigh with every slight movement. His eyes remained locked on the inn¡¯s door, unblinking, his muscles coiled with a tension that refused to ease. His heart, a storm of hope and dread, pounded against his ribs¡ªeach beat a frantic prayer for his sister¡¯s safe return, each silence between them a hollow whisper of the grim news that would completely shatter him. The Orange Inn was a modest enough place, its whitewashed walls and dark wooden beams giving it a sense of quiet familiarity. The scent of aged wood, damp from the evening¡¯s rain, mixed with the lingering traces of stale ale and smoke from the hearth. A cup of wine sat untouched to Luis¡¯ side, the liquid dark and still, as if mocking him. I should be out there. Every fibre of his being screamed that he should be scouring the land, turning over every stone, questioning every traveler. But Lord Serben had been firm¡ªhe had to stay where it was safe. Safe. The word felt like a curse, a prison made of well-meaning chains. What does safety matter when my sister could be out there, all alone¡­ or¡­ The last image of her burned behind his eyelids: Sir Nicolas gripping her wrist, pulling her toward the mountain pass, her protests cutting through the chaos. The desperation in her voice, the fight in her stance¡ªit haunted him. He could still see her twisting, trying to wrench free. He could still hear her shouting his name. And then she was gone. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. The Galians were still out there, still thirsty for Eastamerean blood, their hatred unquenched even after their glorious victory in taking Anthera. If they had found her¡ª No. His hands clenched into fists beneath the table. He could not¡ªwould not¡ªthink like that. Not until he knew for certain. Not until there was proof. Luis¡¯ heart leapt into his throat as the inn¡¯s door swung open with a slow, jarring creak. A sliver of harsh midday light cut across the wooden floor, silhouetting the figure standing in the doorway. Luis¡¯ pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the muted murmur of the tavern. Aurelio stepped inside, his golden armour catching the dim light, its once-glorious sheen dulled by dust and wear. His smooth, dark hair fell across his face as he moved, partially obscuring his sharp features. But nothing could hide his eyes¡ªthose piercing green eyes, usually so steady and sharp, now clouded with something Luis couldn¡¯t quite place. Hesitation. Guilt. Defeat. The rest of the royal guard followed in silence, their presence looming like a funeral procession. Their white cloaks, usually flowing with pride, seemed heavier somehow, weighed down by dust and something unseen¡ªsomething unspoken. Lord Gallo and Lord Serben joined them, their faces carved from stone. The weight of tension pressed into the space between them, thick and suffocating. Luis was already on his feet before his mind could catch up with his body. Pain ripped up his injured leg like wildfire. ''What news?'' His voice came out sharp, urgent, carrying the weight of his agony. Aurelio¡¯s mouth parted, but for a moment, he said nothing. He glanced toward his father, as if seeking permission¡ªor courage¡ªbefore lowering his gaze. His fingers twitched at his side. Finally, he spoke. ''I¡¯m sorry, Luis.'' His voice was quiet, yet it stabbed deep into Luis¡¯ heart. ''We got as close as we dared. We found nothing.'' Luis world tilted beneath him, his heart plummeting into a bottomless pit. Nothing? Three days. Three days of waiting, worrying, barely sleeping, clawing at every ounce of hope he had left. And now¡ªthis. A void where his answers should be. Perhaps they hadn¡¯t searched hard enough. Perhaps they had given up too soon. Perhaps she was still out there, just beyond their reach, just beyond their sight. No, Luis thought, his heart burning with rage. No more waiting. No more worrying. I am going to find her, even if it kills me. The royal guard exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion evident, but not one of them moved to stop their former captain. A charged silence stretched between them, thick with hesitation. Serben¡¯s firm grip clamped down on Luis¡¯ arms, rooting him in place. Luis tried to shake him off, but his father¡¯s old friend held fast, his fingers like iron shackles. Serben¡¯s piercing green eyes bore into his, not with anger or defiance, but something far worse. Pity. Resignation. A sorrow akin to a father telling his son that a loved one had died suddenly. ''You cannot go, Your Majesty.'' The words struck Luis like lightning, his breath catching in his throat. Your Majesty. The title rang in his ears, cold and hollow, a thing not meant for him. A thing that should have belonged to his father. To Sofia. His chest tightened. ''What did you just call me?'' The words came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. Serben exhaled deeply, his grip loosening just enough for Luis to pull away. He did not meet his gaze. Instead, his voice softened, steady but grim, as though each word chipped away at something fragile. ''Your Majesty, the odds of your sister being alive are slim.'' He hesitated, then pressed on, his tone measured. ''If it would put your mind at ease, Lord Gallo and I will personally lead a mission deep into enemy lines to determine if she has been taken captive. But I must be frank with you. The odds are not in her favour.'' Luis barely heard him. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his mind grasping at the title that had been spoken so casually yet changed his world completely. Your Majesty. If Serben was calling him that, it could mean only one thing. Luis swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. ''No,'' he murmured, shaking his head, his voice raw. ''No, that¡¯s not¡ª'' Serben squared his shoulders, his expression grim. ''We are the ones who killed King Rickard¡¯s son. The Galians will not forgive that. If your sister was taken, it will not be for mercy. I am afraid we must prepare for the worst.'' Luis gulped, his throat tight, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A flicker of anger ignited in his chest, scorching through the suffocating weight of despair. This couldn¡¯t be happening. This wasn¡¯t his fate. He wasn¡¯t meant to be King. His father had ensured that. Had stripped him of the burden before he was even old enough to understand it. Luis had been given a sword, an oath, a life in service to the crown¡ªbut never the crown itself. He had trained to fight, to protect, to obey. Not to rule. Yet here I stand. Serben¡¯s words rang with undeniable truth. Each passing day made Sofia¡¯s survival seem more impossible. Clinging to hope felt like grasping at mist, an illusion slipping through his fingers. But to let go of it completely? To accept that she was gone? No. I can¡¯t. I won¡¯t. Sofia was out there. She had to be. Eastamere needed its queen. I need my sister. Luis swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. ''Lord Serben, I¡ª'' A sudden cry from outside the tavern shattered the moment, muffled through the thick wooden walls. Luis froze. A murmur rippled through the room, the tension coiling even tighter. Then¡ªanother shout, louder this time. Urgent. Elated. ''The Queen!'' Luis¡¯ breath hitched. ''The Queen lives!'' His ears burned as a rush of adrenaline shot through him, scorching away the fear, the doubt, the weight. The words piled on top of him. They were impossible, ridiculous¡ªand yet. He bolted for the door, pain striking his leg, but he barely registered it. His heart pounded in his chest, driving him forward. He shoved past the threshold and into the open air, blinking against the sudden glare of sunlight. The world outside was a brilliant explosion of colour¡ªvivid greens stretching across the fields, the sky a brilliant blue unmarred by clouds. The wind rushed past him, carrying with it the scent of fresh earth and something else¡ªsomething buzzing, something alive. A crowd had gathered, their voices swelling in excitement. But in the distance, silhouetted against the horizon, a horse galloped down the road. Luis¡¯ breath caught. Two riders. Luis¡¯ jaw slackened as his mind struggled to catch up with the impossible sight before him. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat a chaotic drum of hope and dread. His leg throbbed with every hobbling step, but the pain was nothing¡ªa distant whimper compared to the roar of disbelief surging through his veins. The crowd of soldiers stood frozen, their murmurs hushed into an awed silence, their gazes all locked onto the same sight. A white stallion stood at the edge of the gathering, its powerful form gleaming in the golden daylight. Its muscles twitched beneath its pristine coat, nostrils flaring as if sensing something. A magnificent creature, a beast bred for war, yet it held itself as still as divinity itself, untouchable. On its back, clad in the obsidian-black armour of the Galian royal guard, sat Sir Finn Alisser. Luis¡¯ stomach twisted at the sight of him. The dark metal of Finn¡¯s armour gleamed, its engraved insignia unmistakable¡ªa sigil of the very enemy they had bled and died to defeat. A ghost of war, a living reminder of the ruthless adversary that had nearly shattered them. But Luis¡¯ gaze didn¡¯t linger. A figure sat behind him small, fragile, yet unmistakably alive. ''Sofia,'' he whispered. The name barely escaped his lips, raw with a mixture of relief and disbelief. She clung to Finn¡¯s waist, her fingers curled tightly against the plate armour. The wind toyed with her dark hair, strands catching the sunlight like raven feathers. Dirt smudged her skin, her clothes torn, but her eyes¡ªthose sharp brown eyes¡ªwere the same. For a fleeting second, recognition flashed across her face. Her lips parted, and there¡ªthere it was. That spark of familiarity, of relief, of something achingly close to joy. The sister Luis had known, the sister he had feared he would never see again. But then, as her gaze swept past him¡ªto Serben, to Lord Gallo, to the assembled soldiers¡ªsomething shifted. The twinkle in her eyes dimmed. The soft edges of relief hardened into steel. Her fingers loosened from Finn¡¯s armour, but her posture straightened, shoulders squared like a queen standing before her court. His stomach dropped. She was here. Alive. Breathing. But something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Lord Serben hesitated before stepping forward, his movements stiff, uncertain¡ªso unlike the man who had always been a pillar of unwavering control. He cleared his throat. ''Your Majesty,'' he said, bowing low. His voice was steady, but there was a careful restraint to it, as if testing fragile ice beneath his feet. ''It gladdens my heart to see you alive in these troubled times.'' Sofia did not answer. Her glare bore into Serben as if she were looking through him, past him, beyond him¡ªto something darker, something only she had seen. The silence stretched taut, pressing against the gathered men, suffocating in its weight. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. Luis had expected her to stumble, to show some sign of exhaustion or strain after what she must have endured. But Sofia landed with a controlled firmness, her boots meeting the dirt as though she had commanded the dirt itself to hold steady beneath her. This was not the sister he had known. The girl who had once snuck into the city to drink wine with her friends, breaking every rule Luis could possibly name¡ªshe was gone. In her place stood the Queen of Eastamere. Forged anew. Her gaze swept over the assembled men, and one by one, they stiffened. Even seasoned warriors¡ªmen who had fought and bled on the battlefield¡ªflinched under the scrutiny of their queen. The Orange Inn¡¯s sign creaked above them, swaying in the faint wind, its rusted chains groaning like old bones. ''It appears we have experienced a setback.'' Her voice, so cool, so composed, sliced through the silence like a blade. Not frantic. Not relieved. Not broken. Simply in control. Luis swallowed hard, watching her with a strange, unsettling mix of admiration and unease. Sofia¡¯s gaze flicked briefly to the swaying inn sign, her eyes narrowing slightly before returning to Serben and the rest of her council. ''Come,'' she said. ''Let¡¯s discuss our next move.'' Lord Serben, Lord Gallo, and the rest of the royal guard stepped aside, forming a solemn corridor as Sofia strode forward. The rhythmic crunch of her boots against the dirt was the only sound that dared to break the heavy silence. Luis stood at the edge, watching her move with the effortless grace of someone who had seen hell and returned untouched. But he knew better. No one survives unscathed. His leg gnawed at him with relentless pain. He clenched his jaw, willing it away, but the memory resurfaced with cruel precision. He closed his eyes, shutting out the world for a moment¡¯s respite. But all he saw was blood. My failure. ''Aren¡¯t you joining us, Luis?'' His eyes snapped open. Even now, when I should be happy, I feel like a burden, a weight dragging everyone behind when we need to be moving forward. How could I ever become King? He forced a smile, though it formed into more akin to a grimace. ''Coming.'' Sofia gave a small nod before turning away. No warmth. No hesitation. The moment had passed. Two golden-armoured knights stepped forward, their movements automatic¡ªtrained, disciplined. Once, they had been his brothers, men he had honed his skills with, bled alongside. Now, they were the ones propping him up, like a tree ready to fall over. Their hands hooked beneath his arms, steady but firm. Luis gritted his teeth, swallowing the lump in his throat as he took a step. Then another. As they moved, one of the royal guards, Sir Raul, stiffened, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicked toward the white stallion, and to the Galian still sitting on top of it. ''What about him, Your Majesty?'' Raul¡¯s voice was sharp, edged with suspicion. A ripple of unease spread through the gathered soldiers. Eyes narrowed. Fingers curled around weapons. The weight of their mistrust settled thick in the air, tangible as a descending storm. Luis watched as Sofia gulped, a fleeting hesitation that most wouldn¡¯t have noticed¡ªbut he did. He had spent a lifetime reading her expressions, knowing her moods before she even spoke. And in that brief instant, he saw it. Doubt. Only a flicker. Gone in a breath. Sir Finn Alisser swung himself off the saddle, his boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. He stood tall, unshaken by the sea of hostile stares surrounding him. The black armour of the Galian royal guard clung to him like a shadow¡ªa stark reminder of the men who had slaughtered Eastamere¡¯s soldiers, of the enemy they had bled and died fighting. Sofia stepped forward, meeting him in the centre of the gathering. ''This man saved my life!'' Her voice rang out, clear and unwavering. A murmur rippled through the soldiers, some in disbelief, others in barely concealed resentment. Luis caught movement¡ªLord Serben shifting his stance, Lord Gallo¡¯s fingers tightening at his side. Even the guards supporting him stiffened, their grips momentarily faltering. ''He wears the Galian colours, but he did a great service to me,'' Sofia continued, sweeping her gaze across the gathered warriors. ''Therefore, I will not see him harmed. Anyone who attempts it will answer to me.'' Luis¡¯ pulse thundered in his ears. The men won¡¯t like this. What are you doing, Sofia? And yet Sofia didn¡¯t falter. The Fish Knight stood still, unreadable, but Luis caught the subtle shift in his posture¡ªthe way his broad shoulders squared just slightly, as if bracing for the weight of her words. ''Sir Finn Alisser,'' Sofia declared, her tone firm, regal. ''For your courage and bravery, any wish that is within my power, I will grant you.'' A hush fell over the congregation. The distrust was still there, thick and suffocating. Luis could feel it pressing in, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to boil over. His own leg throbbed, pulsing agony. The Galians had put a blade in his thigh. They had shattered his body, his future. And now this man, this knight of the enemy, was being offered a reward. A muscle in Luis¡¯ jaw twitched, but he forced himself into silence. Sir Finn¡¯s sea-green gaze swept the crowd, assessing. Calculating. He could see it too¡ªthe way the soldiers¡¯ hands tightened, the tension coiling in their muscles, ready to snap. And then, in one smooth motion, he took a step forward, dropping to one knee before the Queen. ''I wish to be in your service, My Queen,'' Sir Finn said, his voice unwavering, each word laced with conviction. ''I wish to be a knight of your royal guard, if you¡¯ll have me. I wish to serve you, and you only. I will shield you, keep your counsel, and I will obey your every command. I swear it.'' A stunned silence stretched across the gathered soldiers, holding the moment in a taut, breathless pause¡ªthen came the murmurs. First a trickle, then a flood. A Galian? In the Eastamerean royal guard? Some voices rose in protest, others whispered in hushed, urgent tones. Hands twitched. A few exchanged wary glances, their gazes darting between Sofia and Finn as if expecting the Queen to laugh, to strike him down, to do anything other than entertain such madness. The wind swept through the encampment, kicking up dust and making golden dove banners ripple. It lifted strands of Sofia¡¯s dark hair, but she remained unmoved, her expression impassive as steel. Then¡ªa single step forward. The murmurs died in an instant. Her eyes swept across the crowd¡ªsharp, unyielding, a silent warning. The weight of her authority crashed down on them, demanding obedience without a single spoken command. The men straightened. Lips clamped shut. A few lowered their heads. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Then, and only then, did she turn back to Finn. And when she did¡ªher expression softened into that of an angel. ''Then I name you into my royal guard, starting from today.'' Her words rang out, final, undeniable. For a moment, Finn did not move. His breath hitched ever so slightly¡ªso quick that perhaps only Luis noticed. Then, in one smooth motion, he rose to his feet. A knight of the Eastamerean royal guard. His sea-green eyes gleamed, caught between disbelief and something deeper¡ªrelief, pride, something unspoken yet unmistakable. A wide smile broke across his face, but it wasn¡¯t arrogance. It was earnest, filled with something tangible. ''Some of these kind men will provide you with a tent,'' Sofia continued, returning his smile. ''Now, go and get yourself cleaned up. I shall see you soon.'' Finn hesitated¡ªjust for a fraction of a second¡ªbefore bowing low. ''Your Majesty.'' His voice was thick with gratitude, reverence. Then, without another word, he turned and strode through the crowd, disappearing into the camp. Luis watched him go, his jaw clenched. The unease in the air had not lifted. The tension had not broken. The moment had not settled. And yet¡ªSofia had made her decision. The Queen spun on her heels, her dress snapping at her feet as she strode toward the inn. The sharpness of her movements left no room for argument¡ªnow, there was business to tend to. Her councillors scrambled to keep up, their hushed voices lost beneath the rhythmic clinking of armour. The royal guard followed in tense silence, their unreadable expressions concealing whatever reservations they might have had. Luis trailed behind them, his breath shallow, his leg burning like hot coals beneath his weight. Each step sent fresh needles of pain pricking into him, but he forced himself forward. One step. Then another. The air grew thicker as they neared the inn. A storm of thoughts churned in Luis¡¯ mind, but one stood out above all others. Sofia¡¯s back¡ªbut something¡¯s different. He barely had time to dwell on it before they crossed the threshold. The door slammed shut behind them, the sound reverberating through the dimly lit space. The impact sent a shudder through the old wooden beams, dust drifting from the rafters like ash after an eruption. This place had once seemed so humble, so familiar. Now it felt smaller¡ªtighter. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged wood, damp fabric, and the lingering bitterness of ale. The fire in the hearth crackled, but its warmth did nothing to thaw the chill that had settled over the room. Sofia turned to face her council, her jaw tight, her shoulders squared in a stance that commanded absolute authority. Her scowl remained etched deep, her piercing gaze settling first on Lord Gallo, then on Lord Serben. Outside, the wind howled against the walls, as if sensing the brewing storm within. Lord Serben cleared his throat. ''Your Majesty,'' he began cautiously, his words carefully chosen, ''I know you¡¯re upset, but, as you said, it¡¯s merely a setback¡ª'' ''Lord Serben, with respect, I do not want to hear anything more from you.'' Sofia¡¯s words cracked through the air like a whip, cutting him off before he could finish. She paced the length of the room, her boots tapping against the wooden floor in a sharp, restless rhythm. ''I asked you to command my armies¡ª'' she whirled to face him, her eyes dark with frustration ''¡ªbut you refused, counselled me otherwise. I asked you about negotiating with Lord Barcen. Again, you counselled me otherwise. And now, both decisions have proven to be mistakes.'' Her voice wavered only slightly, but it wasn¡¯t weakness, never weakness¡ªit was exhaustion, betrayal, the weight of too many missteps. For a moment, just a breath, her shoulders slumped. A flicker of the girl she used to be. But just as quickly, she straightened, steel returning to her spine, her face hardening with resolve. ''I blame myself for listening to you.'' The pain in The Queen¡¯s words tore into Luis¡¯ heart, so final and undeniable under the weight of the pressure. Lord Gallo shifted uncomfortably; Serben¡¯s mouth opened, then closed, his face pale. Sofia exhaled slowly, as if releasing the last remnants of doubt. Then she spoke again, her tone crisp, decisive. ''We need a new plan, and quickly, if we¡¯re to stand any chance of beating Galia. Tomorrow, I shall ride north and negotiate with Lord Barcen for his fleet.'' The room stilled. A gust of wind outside rattled the window panes, an eerie whisper against the silence. Serben and Lord Gallo exchanged uneasy glances. Serben¡¯s grip tightened on the armrest of his chair before he leaned forward, his face etched with concern. ''Your Majesty, I¡ª'' ''This isn¡¯t up for debate.'' Sofia lifted her chin, daring Lord Serben to challenge her. ''I¡¯m going.'' Serben hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line, thinking better than to argue with Sofia now. He swallowed. ''Who shall accompany you?'' A beat of silence. Sofia turned, her gaze sweeping over the room before locking onto Luis. He held her gaze, keeping his nerves steady as he distracted himself from the pain pulsing in his leg. ''Luis will join me... alongside my royal guard.'' ''What about the Galian?'' Lord Gallo asked, his voice laced with suspicion, his sharp gaze flicking toward the door. A slow breath escaped Sofia¡¯s lips. She didn¡¯t sigh¡ªit was too measured, too restrained for that. Instead, she simply exhaled, as if keeping her temper in check. Then she turned to Lord Gallo, her expression composed, her eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than anger¡ªcertainty. ''I said I¡¯m taking my royal guard, did I not?'' The words were soft, almost indifferent, but the flicker of fire in her eyes made both Lord Gallo and Lord Serben hesitate. Luis noticed another glance passed between them¡ªuneasy, uncertain, unspoken. Sofia lifted her chin. ''Now, if you please, I¡¯d like a moment alone with my brother.'' Lord Gallo and Serben bowed their heads, their awkwardness palpable. The royal guard turned in practiced unison, boots striking against the wooden floor in rhythmic precision as they marched towards the door. The heavy thud of it closing behind them rippled through the silence. For a moment, nobody spoke. Sofia stood rigid, her face an unreadable mask, the weight of command still settling over the room like an iron cloak. Luis searched her eyes for something beyond the queen, beyond the figurehead. Her fingers trembled, her breath hitching as relief surged across her face like a dam breaking. He saw her. She moved before Luis could react, throwing her arms around him, holding him as if she were warding away the demons from taking him away. The pain in his leg flared at the sudden pressure, but he ignored it. His arms locked around his sister, his grip tightening as the full weight of everything that had happened¡ªeverything that could have happened¡ªpiled on top of him. I could have lost her. Tears slid down his cheeks. Sofia shuddered slightly, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. ''I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t hug you earlier,'' she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling like a child. ''Didn¡¯t seem like the right time.'' Luis swallowed hard. ''I know.'' A beat of silence passed as he held her. ''I¡¯ve missed you.'' Sofia let a shaky breath escape, her grip only tightening. ''I¡¯ve missed you too.'' They pulled apart slowly, as if afraid the moment might shatter. Luis took a step back, his eyes roaming over her, still disbelieving. She was here. Alive. Breathing. Real. I could have lost her forever. The war, the pain, the burden of his useless leg¡ªnone of it mattered now. ''I should¡¯ve listened to you back on the ship,'' Sofia admitted, her voice laced with regret. ''When we had Jacques in our custody¡­ you were right. We should¡¯ve tried to negotiate or¡ªsomething.'' She let out a breath, shaking her head. ''Serben, Gallo, all of them¡ªuseless. No one has talked sense to me since I became queen. No one but you.'' Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, frustration screaming through the tightness of her jaw. Then, softer, almost vulnerable¡ª''I¡¯m sorry.'' Luis stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in. You should never have to apologise, Sofia, he thought, it¡¯s my job to protect you. I will protect you now. He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. ''I¡¯m always going to be here, Sofia.'' His grip tightened slightly, anchoring her. ''You aren¡¯t in this alone.'' A twinkle sparked in Sofia¡¯s eye¡ªsmall, fleeting, but it was there. Hope. Fragile as glass. A candle flickering against the howling wind of war. Luis swallowed, his throat dry. Reality loomed over them both. If they lost, their heads wouldn¡¯t simply roll¡ªthey¡¯d be mounted on spikes, displayed as trophies in King Rickard¡¯s throne room. The thought made his stomach twist. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to shove the fear aside. He wouldn¡¯t dampen this moment. Not now. The door swung open, a gust of cool air rushing in and filling the room. Lord Serben strode inside, his slender frame taut with urgency. Luis stiffened. ''I thought I said I wanted a moment with my brother,'' Sofia snapped, turning her head sharply towards him. Serben did not flinch. His hands remained clasped in front of him, his face carefully composed, but something lay beneath it¡ªsomething uneasy. ''Apologies, Your Majesty,'' he said, bowing slightly, his tone smooth yet insistent. ''But there is an urgent matter I must discuss with you. I only ask for a few moments of your time.'' Luis caught the flicker of something in Serben¡¯s eyes¡ªconcern¡­ and something else. Something colder. His stomach twisted again. He exchanged a glance with Sofia. Her expression mirrored his. Unease. ''What is it?'' Sofia demanded, her tone edged with impatience. Serben¡¯s piercing green gaze flicked toward Luis, eyes so similar to Aurelio it set his nerves on edge. ''I would appreciate it,'' Serben said slowly, ''if it were just the Queen and I.'' Luis¡¯ stomach tightened. A request like that from Serben was nothing unusual¡ªhe was their father¡¯s most trusted advisor, after all. But now, with so much instability, tension crackled in the air like a storm. Something about this feels¡­ off. He turned to Sofia. She was frowning in deep contemplation, her brows pinched together, her fingers tapping against her arm¡ªa small, almost imperceptible gesture, but Luis knew it well. She¡¯s actually considering this. Finally, she exhaled. ''Luis, this won¡¯t take long.'' Her voice softened, the steel melting ever so slightly. ''Maybe get some rest.'' Luis hesitated, his lips pressing into a hard line. His knee ached, his body screamed for respite, but his mind¡­ his mind refused to settle. I must obey, he thought, his hand itching to strike Lord Serben where he stood. Sofia needs me to be calm. Without a word, he turned and hobbled toward the door. The scent of damp earth and dying embers curled into his lungs as he stepped into the morning light. The camp sprawled out before him, a restless, uneasy beast. Soldiers murmured in low voices by the fires, their faces weary, their hands never straying far from their weapons. Luis stood there for a moment, inhaling deeply, trying to quiet his restless thoughts. But they refused to yield. Instead, they raced back to The Fish Knight, Sir Finn Alisser. The Galian who should have been their enemy. The man who should have cut Sofia down the moment he had the chance. Yet he¡¯d saved her. Protected her. Risked everything for her. Why? If he had been loyal to King Rickard, he would have beheaded her where she stood. Instead, he had defied his homeland. Turned his back on his King. Branded himself a traitor. For Sofia. Luis exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. It doesn¡¯t make sense. None of this makes sense. His leg burned with each step as he forced his aching body forward, his direction clear. Sir Finn had given up everything. I must find out why. ''Your Majesty,'' Serben said. His frown deepened as Sofia met his gaze, a silent plea shadowing his usually measured expression. ''Please sit down.'' Sofia released a breathe, her patience tearing like parchment. ''Lord Serben, I have made my feelings about your advice abundantly clear. I don¡¯t believe I need to repeat myself.'' Serben hesitated, his desperation palpable. He leaned forward, his voice quieter now¡ªbut no less insistent. ''I do not wish to speak as an adviser to a queen. I wish to speak as a friend. Please, Sofia. Sit.'' Something about the way he said her name¡ªunadorned by title, stripped of formality¡ªmade her hesitate. A muscle twitched in her jaw as she studied him. His expression was unreadable, but the weight in his voice, the unspoken urgency, coiled around her like a snake. She lowered herself onto the chair across from him, her every movement precise. Yet, as she settled, an unnerving sensation crept into her chest¡ªlike a child about to be scolded. A ghost of memory flickered in her mind: her father, arms crossed, that same thunderous frown carved into his face whenever she, Fernando, and Esme had plotted yet another prank on Luis. The way he would sigh before speaking, weary but expectant. Sofia straightened her posture, forcing steel into her spine, her chin lifting just slightly as she met Serben¡¯s gaze. ''I wish you could follow your heart, Sofia,'' he said, and something in his face shifted¡ªjust slightly. Less rigid. Less guarded. Sofia did not move. Did not breathe. ''I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t see¡ª'' ''That boy, the Galian.'' Her stomach tightened. Serben did not falter. ''I¡¯ve seen the way you look at him.'' His name unfurled in her mind before she could stop it, as if conjured by Serben¡¯s words alone. Finn, with his bronze hair catching the sunlight. Finn, with his broad shoulders and steady hands. Finn, with his maddening beauty¡ªso unguarded, so effortlessly disarming, like he held no fear of her crown. Sofia swallowed, her expression carefully composed, but her fingers curled imperceptibly against the softness of her dress. ''He saved my life and risked his own in the process. I think it only right I repay him.'' Serben shook his head. A quiet sigh left his lips, and when he met her gaze, his green eyes brimmed with a knowing sadness, as if he had seen this before¡ªlived this before. ''I know what I saw. It¡¯s not the first time I¡¯ve seen it either. Your father was the same when he was your age.'' A flicker of something¡ªunease, irritation, or perhaps something deeper, something she refused to name¡ªsparked in Sofia¡¯s chest. Her fingers tightened against the armrest. ''Lord Serben, you are wildly mistaken.'' Serben did not flinch. He simply studied her, his silence stretching between them like a chasm she could not cross. And then, finally, his voice dropped lower, quieter. ''Let me tell you a story about when your father and I were in our twenties, just like you.'' Sofia''s lips pressed into a thin line, but despite herself, her posture shifted, her spine loosening just enough for the tension to slip through the cracks. With a controlled breath, she eased back into her chair, arms folding across her chest. ''Very well,'' she said. ''Your father and I were riding one day along a path in the mountains around Palomia. We used to do it often when your grandfather was king. We mustn¡¯t have been a year or two younger than you are now.'' Sofia watched Serben closely, arms stubbornly folded, but the rigid line of her shoulders had loosened just enough to betray her interest. ''Your father stopped his horse so suddenly I nearly rode into him. He raised a hand, told me to listen.'' Serben¡¯s brow furrowed, as if he could still hear the sound echoing in his memory. ''And then, I heard it¡ªa scream. A terrible, raw scream. The scream of a young woman.'' Sofia¡¯s breath stilled in her throat. Serben clasped his hands clasped together, his voice dropping lower as if sharing a secret with the past itself. ''The screams grew louder. And then we saw them. Three figures, barreling down the rocky path. A girl¡ªhardly wearing anything, her clothes torn and tattered¡ªrunning for her life. And behind her, two men.'' He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. ''They were laughing, grunting like lions toying with their prey.'' The air in the room seemed to tighten, pressing against Sofia¡¯s ribs. My father¡ªmy father had witnessed this? Had he done something to stop it? ''Your father didn¡¯t hesitate. He lashed the reins and spurred his horse forward, charging down the path like a storm. And I, admittedly, with far less certainty, followed behind him.'' The flickering torchlight in the tavern cast sharp shadows across Serben¡¯s thin face, deepening the lines etched by time. ''When he reached them, he didn¡¯t even stop to think. He leapt from his horse, halberd in hand, and within moments, the men were on the ground¡ªgroaning, broken, defeated.'' Serben¡¯s lips pressed together for a moment, his gaze distant. ''And then he turned to the girl. He knelt beside her, his weapon forgotten, and asked if she was alright.'' Sofia could almost see it¡ªthe young prince, barely more than a boy, reaching out with that same quiet intensity she had known all her life. ''And I¡¯ll never forget the look he gave her,'' Serben murmured. ''A look that told me¡ªbefore he even knew it himself¡ªthat he was already lost to her. That he had fallen before she¡¯d even spoken a word.'' The silence between them stretched, heavy and unrelenting. Then Serben met her gaze, his eyes sharp as flint. ''It was the same look you gave that boy. The very same look.'' Sofia shifted in her seat, an uncomfortable heat rising in her chest¡ªa strange, tangled mix of burning anger and a sinking unease. She wanted to dismiss Serben¡¯s words, to wave away his story as nothing more than the wistful ramblings of an old man clinging to ghosts. But she couldn''t. Something in his voice¡ªlow, unyielding, edged with something dangerously close to grief¡ªcompelled her to listen. ''Her name was Oberia. She had been living on her own in one of the mountain villages. She told us she¡¯d lost everything in an attack by those men who had been chasing her¡ªher family, her home, her very sense of safety.'' Serben sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to will away the memory. ''Your father¡­'' Serben''s voice softened for just a moment before hardening again. ''He made sure she was comfortable, made sure she had food, blankets, a safe place to rest. But it was more than duty. I knew it then.'' Sofia swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. ''I suspected he loved her that very night. But when he offered her a place in the royal household, that¡¯s when I knew.'' Serben¡¯s fists clenched against the table, his jaw clenched. ''As his closest friend, I had to tell him it could never be. That no matter what he felt, the world would never allow it.'' His voice darkened, raw with something beyond frustration¡ªsomething deeper, something old and unforgotten. ''But he didn¡¯t listen. He told me I was mistaken.'' That word¡ªmistaken¡ªdripped from his lips like venom, sharp and bitter, laced with years of unspoken resentment. A shiver ran down Sofia¡¯s spine. Serben''s whole body was rigid now, his fingers curled into fists so tight they trembled. His eyes¡ªnormally filled with the cool calculation of an adviser¡ªburned with something hotter, something reckless. Anger, yes, but not just anger. Pain. ''Every day, I watched it happen,'' Serben continued. ''Their love growing, deepening, until it consumed them. They tried to be discreet at first, sneaking glances in the corridors, brushing hands in the shadows. But love is not a thing that can be hidden forever.'' Sofia¡¯s breath shallowed, her fingers curling against the fabric of her mother¡¯s gown. ''Then, one night, I caught them. They were lying together in the stables, whispering to each other as if they were the only two souls in the world. They had stopped caring about secrecy, about the consequences. In that moment, it was only them. Damn everybody else.'' Serben¡¯s face darkened, the lines on his face deepening. ''But I knew.'' His voice was quiet now, almost resigned. ''I knew it would not last.'' Sofia¡¯s heart pounded, an anxious rhythm she couldn''t ignore. ''The end came when your grandfather died, and your father ascended the throne. A king could not marry a serving girl, no matter how much he loved her. No matter how much he wanted to. So your father was left with a choice. He could marry Oberia for love or marry someone else for duty. That someone being your mother.'' Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then, Serben smiled¡ªa small, knowing smile that did not reach his eyes¡ªbefore giving Sofia a slight nod. ''I think it is fairly apparent which choice he made.'' Sofia couldn¡¯t speak. My father never told me this. Not once. Not even a whisper. She felt suddenly unsteady, as if the very foundation of her world had shifted beneath her feet. One choice, and his life could have been entirely different. One choice, and she would never have been born. She thought of the way her father would always look at her, that familiar twinkle in his eye, the warmth in his voice when he told her he loved her. Had it been love? Or had it been reassurance? Reassurance that he made the right choice? Sofia swallowed hard, her throat tight. ''I am not my father,'' she said finally, though the words barely made it past her lips. They felt foreign¡ªfragile. A desperate shield against a truth she wasn¡¯t ready to face. Serben did not blink. ''That much is true,'' he said, his voice colder than the floor. ''But the blood of the dove runs thick.'' Sofia stiffened. Serben did not raise his voice, but he didn¡¯t need to. The weight of her father¡¯s dying words pressed into her chest, sinking into her bones like a warning¡ªlike an omen. The blood of the dove runs thick. The greasy scent of crackling bacon curled into Luis¡¯ nostrils, mingling with woodsmoke drifting above flickering campfires. Beneath it all was the faint, earthy freshness of the fields beyond¡ªuntainted, unlike the air in the camp, thick with sweat, steel, and the unspoken weight of anticipation. He moved through the maze of tents and huddled soldiers, his cane tapping against the packed dirt in a steady rhythm. Voices surrounded him, murmurs of conversations that never quite faded, floating on the morning mist like ghostly whispers. Laughter flared up in bursts¡ªbooming at one fire, barely more than a chuckle at another¡ªyet it all felt distant, as if he were moving through a world that no longer belonged to him. And then, as he passed a small group crouched near a spit of roasting meat, he felt it. The weight of their stares. The shift in the air. The kind of silence that only precedes a cruel remark. ''Hard to believe he was once the greatest swordsman in Eastamere, isn¡¯t it?'' The words struck sharper than steel, biting deep into his leg like iron jaws. The disbelief. The pity. A sharp elbow silenced the speaker before he could say more, but it was too late¡ªthe words had already reached him. Luis didn¡¯t stop. Didn¡¯t glance their way. His face remained an unreadable mask, the same one he had perfected in the mirror, in front of his men, in front of the world. Even before the injury. But beneath it¡ªbeneath the careful steps, the rigid control of his breath¡ªsomething curled and twisted inside him. His fingers tightened around the head of his cane until his knuckles ached. The wound had long since scarred, but the ache remained, burrowing deep, gnawing at him with a hunger that never waned. He kept walking. The whispers followed him, just quiet enough that they thought he couldn¡¯t hear. ''Luis!'' The sharp call dragged Luis from his thoughts like a hook to the ribs. He turned¡ªtoo quickly¡ªand his leg protested viciously. A grimace flickered across his face before he smothered it, shifting his weight onto his cane as he peered back up the path. At the crest of the hill, The Orange Inn stood like a silent sentinel, its weathered beams and slanted roof overlooking the camp below. But it wasn¡¯t the inn that held Luis¡¯ attention. It was the figure marching toward him, his golden silhouette framed against the grey morning sky. Aurelio. His stride was purposeful, heavy with intent, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword¡ªa gesture Luis knew all too well. Luis exhaled slowly, watching as Aurelio closed the distance. ''Where are you going?'' Aurelio¡¯s voice was edged with concern, but beneath it lurked something firmer¡ªsomething close to accusation. Luis straightened. ''To see our new recruit.'' ''Sir Finn?'' Aurelio¡¯s face darkened, his mouth pulling into a tight line. He settled his hands on his hips, his stance widening ever so slightly. Luis arched an eyebrow. ''What¡¯s wrong?'' Aurelio¡¯s fingers drummed once against his belt before stilling. His gaze flicked to the ground, then back to Luis, storm clouds brewing behind his eyes. ''I just¡­ don¡¯t trust him.'' The words were careful, too careful. The restraint cracked, and his voice hardened. ''He¡¯s a Galian. Why would he betray his king like that?'' Luis¡¯ fingers curled around the head of his cane, gripping it like the sword he could no longer wield. ''He saved my sister¡¯s life, Aurelio. He deserves thanks. Most of all, from me. Are you coming or not?'' Aurelio¡¯s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Instead, his eyes swept across the camp¡ªthe wounded stretched out on makeshift beds, their pained groans bleeding into the murmurs of the healthy. Bandages stained deep crimson, doctors moving swiftly between the fallen. It was impossible to ignore the truth laid bare before them. War didn¡¯t care for honour. Only survival. When Aurelio looked back at Luis, something in his stance had changed. The hesitation was still there, a whisper of doubt lingering in the set of his shoulders¡ªbut his gaze had hardened. He gave a single, sharp nod. The two of them strode along the dirt path cutting through the heart of the camp, their footsteps muffled by the churned-up earth and scattered straw. Soldiers turned as they passed, offering respectful nods or salutes¡ªthough some came laced with something else. Pity. Once, they would have looked at me with admiration. With awe. Now, their gazes flickered to his cane, to the way his gait stuttered when the pain surged up his leg. He ignored them. The air saturated with mingling scents of sweat, blood, and smouldering embers. The wounded lay scattered in clusters¡ªsome wrapped in stiff, sweat-damp bandages, others pale and trembling, their pain barely subdued by the meagre rations of medicine available. A few groaned in restless sleep, their bodies wrestling with the fever that so often followed deep wounds. Luis'' chest tightened. I was lucky. His injury gnawed at him constantly, but he could still stand. Still walk. Still fight, in whatever way remained to him. A few yards ahead, a broad-shouldered figure finished tying the last knots on his tent, securing the ropes with practised ease. Sir Finn Alisser. Even in the dim morning light, he seemed taller than Luis remembered, his frame leaner but no less powerful. When they had last traveled together from Galia to Eastamere¡ªa journey Luis would rather forget¡ªFinn had carried a trident. Now, a sword hung at his hip, the hilt well-worn, the leather darkened from use. Luis slowed his awkward steps as he approached. ''Sir Finn.'' The knight lifted his head instantly, his keen eyes locking onto Luis. ''Your Highness,'' Finn answered, rising to his full height with effortless grace. His voice was steady, polite. But there was something unreadable beneath it¡ªsomething Luis couldn''t quite place. Luis studied him for a brief moment before speaking. ''I didn¡¯t have the opportunity before to properly thank you for saving my sister¡¯s life.'' His voice was measured, but he hoped his words carried the weight of sincerity. ''You were very brave to do so.'' For the briefest moment, something dark flickered in Finn¡¯s expression¡ªgone almost before Luis could catch it. Then, Finn extended his hand. ''The pleasure is all mine.'' Luis hesitated, his fingers curling involuntarily at his sides. Something about the Galian unsettled him. Not out of fear¡ªno, it was something deeper, something tangled in memory. For a fleeting moment, he was back there. Back in the prison halls. Back in the agony. Steel flashing. Blood spilling. The moment his world shifted forever. Luis forced the thought aside, his jaw tightening. He reached out at last, clasping Finn¡¯s hand. His grip was firm, warm, but not without delay. ''My sister¡­'' He exhaled, composing himself. ''She has been struggling with doubt lately. I know that winning a knight of the Galian royal guard onto her side will give her confidence. Tremendously so.'' Finn inclined his head slightly, but he remained silent. Luis studied him for a beat before adding, with a touch of dry amusement, ''Out of curiosity¡­ why did you decide to switch sides? I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve noticed, but we¡¯re losing.'' A shadow passed over Finn¡¯s face, his features hardening into something unreadable. For the first time, Luis saw it¡ªthe weight Finn carried. The burden of the choice he¡¯d made ''I understand that, my prince,'' Finn said, his voice quieter now. ''But you must understand something as well. Before, when I served in King Rickard¡¯s royal guard, I knew I was standing behind a tyrant.'' His hand curled into a fist at his side, his sea-green eyes burning. ''A man who is mad for power, who will not stop until he has taken everything for his own. I stayed by his side because I believed I had no other option.'' Luis'' throat tightened, his gazes flicking to Aurelio standing beside him. That feeling¡ªbeing trapped beneath duty, beneath expectation¡ªit was one he knew all too well. Finn exhaled slowly, shaking his head. ''Then I met your sister.'' His voice was softer now, less like a warrior¡¯s and more like a man¡¯s. ''And I knew instantly she was¡­ different. I don¡¯t believe she fights for power, nor for conquest. I believe she fights for those she loves¡ªfor the right of her people to live without fear.'' He let out a breath, as if the words themselves carried unbearable weight. ''I would like to live in that world.'' Silence stretched between them, heavy yet fragile. Luis wanted to challenge him. To question his sincerity. To remind him that one man¡¯s ideals could not win a war. But instead, he found himself looking at Aurelio again. For far longer than he intended. Despite everything¡ªdespite the bloodshed, despite the betrayal, despite the scars that still ached beneath his skin¡ªhe realised something. I want to live in that world too. Luis pulled his hand away, flexing his fingers as if the contact had left a lingering heat. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to push down the unease twisting in his gut. The words he wanted to say¡ªshould say¡ªlodged somewhere deep, tangled with old wounds and fresh uncertainty. ''I wish you luck in your time with us,'' he said at last, keeping his voice low, measured. Or at least, he tried. There was the slightest tremor in his tone, a wavering note. Did Finn hear it? Did he notice? Luis didn¡¯t wait to find out. He turned away sharply, setting his sights on The Orange Inn at the top of the hill. Each step was a test of will. His leg throbbed in protest, sending sharp, jagged pain up his spine, but he kept moving. Kept walking. Kept breathing. Behind him, the sounds of the camp continued as they always had¡ªlaughter and groans, whispers and murmurs, the ever-present crackle of fire. But something felt different. He focused on the inn ahead. Sofia would be there. And right now, she needed him to protect her, even if she thought he couldn¡¯t do so anymore.