A high-ceilinged chamber of thick, dark stone and narrow windows of clear glass.
A long oaken table dominated the center, flanked by the white banners of Montreal, and shelves filled with battle logs and royal decrees. There was little ornament—only a single sword mounted above the fireplace, its hilt worn from use. The sword of his late father.
"Drakoria is no longer led by fools" said the Chancellor of Montreal.
He was squat and heavy, balding and broad-shouldered, with a black beard shot through with grey. His eyes were like cold chips of flint. There was no kindness in him, only a hard patience.
He sat across from King Cedric at the end of the table, thick fingers laced together on the polished wood.
"That merchant-turned-chancellor is a viper." he added. "If we are not careful, he will own half our trade routes before we realize what's happening."
King Cedric leaned back, fingers drumming lightly on the desk's edge. "How far have they gone?" His tone was measured, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
"Mostly up-and-comers, but three major merchant groups have agreed to join, including the Pangletons" said the official.
Cedric's eyebrows shot up, his hand pausing mid-tap. The Pangletons are major grain merchants. Allowing them to join a group under Drakorian banners would give Drakoria too much control over food security in the south, especially if war were to break out.
He rubbed his temple, a low sigh escaping. "Why in the hells would that boy-king allow this? Does he not see what his chancellor's scheming?"
The chancellor snorted, a derisive sound. "Either he's blind, or he's playing a deeper game. But I'd wager stupidity over cunning."
Cedric's lips twitched, caught between a grimace and grudging admiration. Despite his political feelings of the boy, and often times personal, he can't help but to be impress by his person. The ruthlessness is something to be adored. A cold fire that could almost be respected. Almost. He has shown too much disrespect to ever be a friend. And he is a Dragonhart.
The City's bells went off. The second time in weeks. It can only be one person.
He hurried out of his seat, and went to the window. People were fleeing the streets, slamming shutters, dragging children indoors.
He turned away from the window and left the room, his official followed. Five more knights have arrived to the door for support.
"What is going on?" he asked the crowded knights, but soon saw Owain rushing towards him.
"What is it?" he asked Owain when he reached him.
"The Trossard's house got attacked." Owain said. "Hobart Trossard and his son were killed."
"Fuck!" Cedric slammed his fist deep into the wall, dust and pebbles showering the floor. .
"How the fuck was he killed when Dalot was suppose to be with him at all time?!"
"I do not know, Your Majesty" Owain replied. "He is currently engaging the assassin"
Cedric's eyes narrowed, a flicker of hope cutting through his rage. "The assassin's still in the city?"
"Yes, Your majesty. The city has been locked down. He has no where to go"
His rage wouldn't let him feel the gladness that came with that information, but he felt something. Now not even Alhashem would stop him from wiping Dragonhart off the face of the continent when the assassin would obviously lead to him.
He would have no need for the alliance, and there would be no reason to hand the territories to anyone.
A loud thunderclap vibrated off the walls of the castle, jolting most of them.
Confused, Cedric rushed to the window, the others crowding behind. The sun was supposed to be out for the morning, but the skies were dominated with unnatural black clouds, animated by lightning. It sent the city into greater panic.
"He came himself," Cedric breathed, a savage grin tugging at his lips. "Get my horse!" he barked at a knight, who bolted down the corridor.
Cedric descended the stairs two at a time, his pulse hammering. He couldn't believe his luck. If the boy is doing this, that means he is desperate. Trapped. He will have his head and march with it to collect the crown in Drakoria.
Outside, his horse stood ready, snorting in the courtyard, alongside four others for his knights. As Cedric swung into the saddle, the thunder stopped, the skies began to clear.
"Did he give up so soon?" King Cedric said, almost to himself, reining his horse sharply. "Or did Dalot beat me to his head?"
Even as he said it, there was a fear he refused to name. That fear drove him and he snapped the reins, urging his horse forward, letting the energy remnants lead him.
The fear became worse when he came at the gate. Saw the damage. Saw the quiet. Saw the gloom knight.
"Where is the bastard's head?!" he jumped down from the horse, rushing towards the knight, who has his head bowed slightly.
"Are you deaf?!" he yelled. "Where the fuck is he?!"
"They escaped." the knight said quietly.
Though the knight had his head bowed, he saw the punch coming. He could easily do something about it, but he knows better.
It struck him hard into his armored chest, caving it in, and hurling him across to slam heavy against the wall, coughing blood.
"Aaaaaah!"
Cedric's hands twitched, he wanted to rush the knight where he stayed down and smashed him to pulp, till this mounting rage subside, but there were too many eyes that makes it not worth it.
He turned to the knights who came with him. "Get me the witch"
┌─────── ♕ ───────┐
The streets of The Capital glistened with the damp of early morning, the first rays of dawn already stretching far. The city stirred slowly, its pulse a soft hum of clinking shutters and the distant creak of cartwheels.
For Jakob Hanlon, the king's aging chief administrator, the world now felt heavy with the weight of routine, his boots scuffing rhythmically against the uneven stones as he shuffled toward the king's hills. It was not just the whore houses, but after so many years of doing this, he thinks he has done his part. It should be about time to call it quit.
His breath puffed in small clouds, and the chill nipped at his knuckles, gnarled from decades of clutching pens and ledgers.
The street was narrow, flanked by timbered shops and homes, their upper stories leaning inward. A butcher's sign creaked on its hinges, and somewhere a dog yipped, answered by the low coo of pigeons roosting on a tavern's roof. Hanlon's ears caught a sharper sound cutting through the morning's calm—stomping, like boots on wet earth, punctuated by jeers and the high, reckless laughter of youth. His face tightened, the lines deepening in his weathered face, but he pressed on, his cloak brushing the stones.
As he rounded the corner, a cluster of children, none older than twelve, formed a loose circle in an alley's mouth, their faces alight with cruel glee. They stomped hard and shoved, their voices rising in a chorus of taunts and cackles. At the center, was what must be a barbarian boy, huddled against the wall, doing little to defend himself.
"Done with it, you little rascals!" Hanlon's walking stick cracked against one boy's skull.
They had seen him approaching but didn't expect him to intervene so they didn't mind him.
He tried to strike another kid but he dodged and the rest of the kids quickly dispersed in mocking laughter of their friend who still clutched his head as they ran.
Hanlon cursed under his breath, and continued on his way.
The little barbarian, Holger, rose, brushing dirt from his bread with slow, deliberate swipes. His face was blank, eyes dull, as if the blows hadn't registered. Though he is called little, that has nothing to do with his size, for he was 5'11, weighing at least 164 pounds, but his age. He was 11.
Those boys were his age and some of them less, but none of them is above 4'7 or half his strength, yet they always pick on him when they see him. They always pick on all of them.
He bit into the crust, chewing without thinking, staring after the old man. His head hurts as he ate, but it will subside. It always does.
He turned to leave, but out of the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw something move fast. He turned back, but there was nothing. Not even the old man.
It confused him. The old man had been slow and seemed to be walking ahead, but now there was no sound of his cane.
Then something hit the stones nearby with a dull thunk.
He walked to it, not out of fear or urgency, but simple curiosity. His chewing never stopped.
It was a head. Eyes wide, mouth frozen.
He hadn't seen the old man's face, but he knew it was him.
Holger stared at it for a long while. A pigeon flapped nearby. He blinked slowly.
Then the loud bells went off.
In another part of the city, just before the bells went off, 3 men barged into Matilda's tavern. It was morning, so there weren't many inside, but the usual suspects were there.
The moment Old Buck saw the men were armed and masked, he knew they were looking for him, and before he could hide under the table, his eyes met one of them.
He made to run, but the man was onto him immediately as he struggled out of his seat, and stumbled into tables.
The crowd was confused, but then one of the other two armed men, hacked the head of the nearest man clean off. Blood sprayed the floor and screams erupted.
Old Buck reached the door, but the masked man caught him, slashing deep across his back. He crumpled. A second cut tore into his neck, leaving him to bleed out on the floor.
The man turned and watch the carnage his colleagues were unleashing on the rest. At a corner, Matilda, the tavern's matron, clutched her two girls, their sobs rising. "Finish them," he said, voice flat.
A blade rose. Matilda's eyes squeezed shut, her daughters' cries piercing. The steel fell, cracking into her skull first. The girls' screams cut short as the blade struck again.
Then the awaited bells rang out, heavy and relentless.
┌─────── ♕ ───────┐
I thought I dodged the arrow, but it tore the side of my neck.
My fingers clamped down, hot blood seeping between them as we crashed to the floor. I landed seated, gasping, one hand still pressed to my neck. Ophelia was face-down beside me, three arrows buried deep in her back, one dangerously close to her neck. I didn't know if she was still alive, but she remained unconscious, and her blood was pooling beneath her.
<Ἄνοιξον βίᾳ!>
The door of the room slammed open, startling a passing maid. Her shriek pierced the air, followed by the clatter of scattered silverware.
Footsteps followed quickly—armored, measured. A knight appeared in the doorway, sword half-drawn, peering into the gloom. The hallway light didn't reach us, but recognition flickered across his face.
Confusion followed.
His eyes darted to the open window, then back to us—first to Ophelia and the arrows protruding from her back, and finally to the one sticking out of my chest. That's when he rushed.
He dropped to his knees beside me. "Your Majesty—!"
I held up a trembling hand. "Tend… to her. First."
The words rasped out of me, thinner than I expected. The pain flared as I spoke, and something in my chest pulled tight. "Now!" I forced.
His hesitation left him, and he drew closer to her as I pressed harder into my bleeding neck.
He yanked the arrows out, one after the other, with speed. Turning her over, he propped her up, uncorked a vial from his belt, and tilted its contents into her mouth.
"Is she…" I gasped, the words scraping out, "still alive?" My chest tightened, each breath shallower than the last.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, emptying the vial down her throat. "But this won't be enough."
"You don't have another with you?"
"One last one." He produced it, glancing at me. "But I must tend to Your Majesty."
I glanced at Ophelia.
"The slave can last for another ten minutes, at least."
I didn't want to argue against that. I already have difficulty breathing, and I felt dizzy.
The knight took my silence as a yes then came closer. He came to me, tore the arrow from my chest in one sharp motion, and uncorked the vial. I collected it with my free hand, and downed it immediately.
Warmth spread through me, easing the tightness in my chest. The knight hoisted Ophelia into his arms, and I staggered after him, out of the room. He was not walking with the urgency I thought the situation demanded, but I didn't want to come off as caring too much so I ignored it.
He had the first knight we met feed her a vial, and then took her to my room. He seemed confused on where to drop her, so I pointed to the couch.
"Get me the druid chief" I told him as he was laying Ophelia down.
He bowed and left, and several minutes after, Eowyn came in, with the creature in her arms.
"I want to get a few hours of rest, do you mind watching me?"
She stared at me for awhile. I was too tired to try to read what her face said.
"Very well" she replied.
And I went to bed, hoping for a long sleep, but the bells woke me up almost immediately.