ã€ŠThe Doves Amongst Demonsã€‹


 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.''This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    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!''A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    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.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    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 originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    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.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    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.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    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.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    ''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.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    ''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.Stolen story; please report.

    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.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    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?