Chapter 5: The Knight and the Secret Treaty

  Aeron lunged forward, shoving the Princess aside to avoid the flying blade, but he could not escape its path himself. A sharp sting pierced his shoulder as the dagger lodged in his upper arm. He lost his footing and collapsed under the shock. Ordinarily, he would have wailed as if death were at his door—a tactic he often used when caught stealing—but today, he resolved to die like a man of honor.

  "Kill me if you must!" Aeron shouted, his voice strained. "But let the Princess go!"

  "Enough, Aeron!" Chiryl interceded, stepping between them. "You have no part in this. Leave now; they will not hinder you. It is I they seek."

  "I cannot leave you behind," Aeron insisted, his voice firm despite the agony. "I am, after all... a subject of Lorencine!" He stumbled over the noble sentiment, momentarily forgetting his own pain.

  Chiryl said nothing more. She offered Aeron a gentle, radiant smile and gave a slight nod. "To die alongside a man such as you... perhaps it is not so bad a fate after all," she remarked softly.

  The assassins adjusted their stance, their blades twirling with lethal precision. "It will be over quickly, Princess," the leader hissed.

  They advanced toward Aeron and Chiryl with swords raised high. Then, like a pack of starving tigers, they lunged.

  Two thunderous blasts tore through the alley.

  A thick cloud of dust and smoke erupted, swallowing the passage and halting the assassins' charge. From the rooftops above, three dark silhouettes plummeted, landing gracefully around Princess Chiryl.

  "I have arrived late. I beg the Princess’s forgiveness!" One of them—the Knight of Beche, Grand Commander of the Royal Guard, Richard Tuckerham—knelt in reverence.

  "It is I who should ask for yours," the Princess replied, her voice filled with regret. "I am the one who wounded you..."

  "I would gladly die for the crown. Pray, do not trouble yourself with it," Richard said, bowing his head. "Your Highness’ safety is all that matters."

  "Commander, the King is in grave danger!" Chiryl cried out, the realization striking her. "Assassins from Infregterin have infiltrated the Mantorian embassy. They intend to force the envoy to meet the King and strike him down. You must return to the palace at once!"

  "How could Your Highness know—"

  Richard’s words were cut short as the white smoke began to clear. The assassins were elite swordsmen of Infregterin; with a few practiced sweeps of their blades, they dispersed the mist like morning dew vanishing under a harsh sun.

  "I will explain later!" the Princess urged. "We must reach the palace before it is too late."

  "I shall fire a signal flare to alert the Guard. Vice-Commander Ryan Meramine will reinforce the perimeter; you may rest easy, Princess."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "No!" Chiryl gasped. "The Vice-Commander has betrayed the throne! He refused to send aid even after recognizing the royal pendant I sent with this young man."

  "This man..." Richard’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Aeron. "He has aided you?"

  "Yes, he is my friend," Chiryl nodded. "We must go! Time is fleeting!"

  Richard accepted the command with a grim nod. "Kevin, Dragan—hold them here!"

  The two guards unsheathed their blades in a blur of steel. In an instant, the alley rang with the clash of swords and defiant roars that shook the air. Sir Richard drew his own sword, carving a path for the Princess and Aeron to follow. The assassins watched their prey vanish, unable to break through. Kevin and Dragan were the finest duelists in the Guard; for their enemies, survival was now measured in seconds. The leader of the hit squad realized this only when his sword was sent flying, leaving his hand bloodied.

  "Retreat!" he screamed, slamming a smoke bomb onto the cobblestones.

  Kevin and Dragan charged into the billowing cloud, but the assassins had the advantage of the terrain. They vanished swiftly into the labyrinth of the grimy back alleys.

  Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed along the secret paths leading to the rear of the castle. The evening bells from the ancient tower began to toll—a rhythmic herald announcing the arrival of the Mantorian embassy. They came to seal an alliance bound by a marriage contract between two great houses.

  King Berian had not found his daughter before the deadline, yet he felt no disappointment. In truth, he felt a flicker of happiness for the girl who might now escape the suffocating grip of royal destiny. Born and raised in a palace, oppressed by the decaying laws of a tyrannical empire, he understood better than anyone the weight of a fate one cannot control. He was the King of his people, but he was also a father.

  "Fly far away, my little Chiryl..." the King whispered by the gilded window, gazing out at the bustling capital where the envoy’s colorful retinue had appeared.

  A maid entered, bowing low as she presented a cloak of noble red velvet. The King took it, draping it over his shoulders, and sighed—perhaps for the last time as a mere father. He nodded to the guards as they pushed open the massive oak doors. Radiant, noble, and solemn, he prepared to receive the powerful envoy.

  Heavy footsteps resonated against the stone stairs as the strange ambassador approached. Shorter than a common man but more imposing than any man present, the envoy of Mantorias was no mere wizard. He was a Dwarf.

  Dwarves lived scattered in tribes along ancient mountain ridges or in mines from ages past. They had been nearly driven to extinction following the purges of the Prisoner-Who-Cannot-Be-Released during his reign of terror. After the cleansings and the wars, they were rarely seen within the Crestorim Empire. This envoy was a rare exception.

  Stately and dignified, the Dwarf walked alongside the King without hesitation, sharing jests one moment and turning grave with political discourse the next. However, the King noted one peculiarity: the envoy's attendants. They clung to him like shadows, never straying a single pace. A dark, unsettling aura lingered behind the downcast eyes of these strangers.

  "Shall we enter the Great Hall to discuss the alliance?" the envoy asked, a brief tremor of unease flickering through his stoic demeanor.

  King Berian nodded, setting aside his suspicions. "I have invited many nobles to witness the union of our houses," he replied with a smile.

  "Oh, no..." the envoy blurted out. He glanced nervously at a tall, gaunt attendant who radiated a haunting gloom behind him. "We have secret missives that require a private audience. Once the treaty is signed, the nobles may be informed."

  "I see," the King said, surprised but unwilling to challenge the wish of the Ryul family. "I shall make the arrangements."

  With a clap of his hands, the King ordered the nobles to be escorted to the royal gardens. They departed, secretly relieved to escape a tedious meeting. These men of vanity and excess, their necks heavy with jewels and their minds on wine, filtered out one by one, leaving the Great Hall empty but for a heavy, solemn silence.

  The King signaled the guards to stand watch outside. He and the Mantorian envoy stepped inside. The gaunt attendant with the scarred face followed, a mocking sneer curling his thin, cold lips. As the heavy doors groaned shut, the attendant's hand shifted, and a faint, deadly red light began to glow from his sleeve...