In the dimly lit chamber, an oppressive tension smothered the air, punctuated only by Gabriel's ragged breaths. Each exhale was a drawn-out sigh, heavy with dread. Sarah’s been taken.

The chilling realization seeped into Gabriel's bones, causing his fingers to clench into tight fists, the sharp bite of his nails into his skin bringing a grim reality to the forefront.

“Where is Sarah?” The strain was palpable in his mother's voice, wavering between despair and rising fury.

Taking a moment to gather his breath, the guard began, “We secured the princess, my queen. She was in our grasp. But as we left her chambers, we were attacked by five warriors.” The guard's voice wavered with the weight of recollection. “We fought with all that we could, desperately hoping for a way that we could escort the princess here. But their strength was overwhelming. They took down my comrades. I was the only one left standing.”

His mother's voice trembled as she asked, “Was she harmed?”

“No. I heard their orders. They were to keep her unscathed.”

Jamison's gaze, cold, fixed on the guard. “And yet, you fled?”

Dropping his gaze in shame, the guard admitted, “It was four against me, Captain. The odds were grim.”

“A guard’s duty is to never abandon their post,” Jamison rebuked, cold fury evident.

His mother’s voice, usually so regal, wavered with emotion. “He’s alive to bring us this news. That’s all that matters now. Did you recognize the assailants?”

The guard hesitated, fingers twitching nervously. “Aye. The Demon was with them. They were all Accamanians.”

“Raldon was there?” Jamison softly asked, his expression showing uncharacteristic sorrow.

With a simple nod, the guard confirmed the worst.

A collective gasp echoed. Not yet in his third decade, Raldon had built a formidable reputation. He had come to be known as ‘The Demon’, on account of his appearance. It was a name whispered with fear and awe alike. Few, if any, were his equal in combat. Gabriel remembered watching him at the Midsummer Tourney not a year ago. Amidst the thundering applause of the onlookers, he faced a young, promising knight. Raldon disarmed him within a few swift moves. But instead of delivering the finishing blow to earn himself extra points for the tourney, he offered a hand, pulling the young knight to his feet. His voice reverberated in the coliseum as he said, “Train harder and return when you’re ready.”

He was a warrior who respected strength but cherished honor above all. Why then was he aligning himself with traitors?

His mother’s voice broke through his dire contemplation. “We have to find Sarah.”

Jamison interjected, “It's perilous, my queen. We must prioritize Artus’s safety.”

Turning to the uncrowned king, his mother begged, “Artus, help your sister. Please.”

The prince's eyes, once clear and steadfast, now shimmered with anguish. An internal storm seemed to rage within him, a conflict between saving Sarah and ensuring his own safety. He cast a questioning look towards Jamison. “Your counsel?”

Jamison tried to veil his unease. “We don’t know what’s out there. If we leave here we could be ambushed, reinforcements should come any moment now.” He said it convincingly, but the twitch in his eye betrayed him.

The queen, however, wasn’t appeased. “But if our enemies are already on their way here, we'll be cornered without an exit. What if aid doesn't arrive?”

Then we are already dead.

“We must carve our path to the reinforcements. Can you tell where the attackers took Sarah?” Artus sought clarity from the guard.

“They ran in the direction of the Grand Hall. I don’t know where they took her though.”

“What is the likely route of our reinforcements?” Artus asked.

Pausing momentarily, Jamison said, “They’d approach by the North Castle entrance.” His voice tightened, his hands balling into fists. “Our path to potential aid would take us past the Grand Hall.”

Determination returned to Artus’s stance. “I'd sooner face death than cower in fear.” His conviction resonated throughout the chamber, drawing unanimous nods of agreement from the guards.

Gabriel observed his brother, taken aback by this newfound restraint. Artus was typically a tempest, seldom considering repercussions. It was jarring for Gabriel to see this side of him. How did he change so quickly? Maybe he’ll make a good King.

“To your command, my king,” Jamison intoned.

They commenced their march: twelve guards moved through the doors with disciplined determination, followed by Artus and his mother, with Gabriel and Janus bringing up the rear.

“Stay close,” Janus instructed firmly, eyes scanning every corner. They bypassed the corpses of guards and traitors alike. Gabriel did not count the number of bodies they passed. Who is behind this? How many are dead so that one man can sit on the Ash forsaken throne?

Gabriel saw a group of attackers running towards them. The enemy was disorganized and limited in numbers, but they were fervent in their mission. The guards, holding a united line, were able to quickly dispatch them. As they trekked forward through the corridors, they were met by further attacks. The hallway echoed with the clang of steel meeting steel. Clashes erupted between guards loyal to the throne and the assailants. Gabriel, positioned behind the line of defense, watched with mounting horror. The blue and gold banners adorning the corridors now bore witness to the bloodshed of their own people.

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His mother's grip, once so assuring, felt frail and cold. Every so often, her gaze flickered with fear Gabriel had never seen before. As they neared an ornate archway, an enemy leapt at them. Before Gabriel could react, Janus was there, his blade flashing. He deflected the attack with a graceful parry and struck the assailant down without missing a beat.

Gabriel's heart pounded in his ears. Every step they took seemed to carry the weight of an hour. The tolling bells, which had been a background to their escape, fell silent, amplifying the stifling urgency. As they passed the library, he yearned for the sanctuary it provided. My life was so simple back then.

Suddenly, a voice shrieked from the distance, “They are over here!” The warning acted as a clarion call, and a fresh wave of attackers surged forth, the largest yet.

The ensuing conflict was brutal. Guardsmen Gabriel had known since childhood were felled, and what hurt even more was recognizing familiar faces among the attackers. The realization made bile rise in Gabriel's throat, but there was nothing to expel. The weight of betrayal bore down on him. Please let it stop.

Overwhelmed by the sheer brutality, Gabriel could only watch in horror. The three men he had learned the names of—Dorel, Drax, and Albert—were felled by the blade, their bodies sprawled on the cold, merciless floor. Lifeless. the vibrant spark in their eyes dimming to a vacant stare, like the last rays of sunset swallowed by an encroaching night. These men weren't just guards or protectors; I knew them, knew their names.

Even as these men met their end, the world marched on, unfazed. Death and bloodshed perpetuated their cruel dance. Accamanians, once bound by kinship, now battled as if they were age-old foes. The ferocity of their blows, unlike anything Gabriel had ever seen, seemed to pulsate with raw hatred.

Amidst the chaos, he spotted Artus, flanked by Jamison and another guard, fervently defending himself, his blade dancing against the onslaught. Gabriel realized he had underestimated Artus; his brother fought not just as an equal to his protectors, but perhaps even surpassed them.

It looked as if the bloodshed would never end when a resounding voice cut through the mayhem. “Stop!” All eyes turned to the source — Raldon. He stood tall and menacing, his very aura commanding immediate attention.

“We don't have to kill you all,” he declared, eyes scanning the remaining seven guards, weighing them.

Several guards exchanged wary glances. Raldon's smirk was amplified by a distinctive scar that ran from his brow, sliced across his nose, and ended at the edge of his lip. His sneer merging with the mark. His visage radiated not just arrogance, but an air of malevolence. There's a reason he’s called ‘The Demon’.

Jamison, jaw set and eyes aflame, stepped forward. “Raldon.”

“Captain,” Raldon acknowledged with a nod.

“What are you doing?”

“It is time for a new King.”

“The king is already dead. We already have a successor,” Jamison countered, pointing to Artus.

“He’s no different.”

“He will make a good King.”

Raldon's scoff held a chilling finality. “It’s irrelevant now.”

Jamison drew himself up, unyielding. “No more blood needs to be shed. Lay down your sword. I don’t want to see you dead when our reinforcements come.”

Raldon chuckled, a sound devoid of any mirth. “Jamison, there are no reinforcements coming. Any aid you might have expected has already been dealt with.”

As the implications of Raldon's words sank in, Gabriel tightened his grip on his hidden dagger. Then, with a swift turn, Raldon gestured and commanded, “Bring out the former Princess.”

No, please no.

A guard pushed her forward to stand beside Raldon. Her dress was in tatters, tears streaked down her face. “Ma!” she called out.

His mother approached the front. Gabriel behind her. Seeing his sister like this broke his heart.

As The Demon pulled the sword and held it against Sarah’s throat, he said, “Surrender.” Her body was shaking violently. Gabriel wanted nothing more than to run to his sister, squeeze her hand two times and tell her everything would be alright.

“I’m here Sarah… I’m here,” his mother sobbed.

Gabriel stepped forward. “You coward, you hold a sword against a little girl. Where is the honor in that?”

“I’ll hold it against a little boy, too. Don’t test me.”

“In the name of your father, Raldon, stop this. He would turn in his grave if he saw you now,” Jamison said. The Demon appeared as though physically struck, a stunned expression crossing his features. Slowly, he lowered his sword, the chilling steel glinting momentarily in the dim light. With a deliberate movement, he nudged Sarah towards his comrade, his gaze never leaving Raldon's face.

“I wouldn’t have done this, Master, if it didn’t need to be done. I won’t harm the girl, but there’s no winning this fight. Just hand us Artus and Gabriel. Then we can rebuild the kingdom to its former glory.”

Gabriel stood still. They want to kill me. I can’t let my protectors die for me. I won’t.

His mother must have realized his thoughts. She tightened her grip on his arm, her fingers pressing urgently into his flesh. In a hushed, desperate tone, she whispered, "No, you must live."

Gabriel's attention was drawn to Jamison. A certain determination, a steely resolve, passed over his features. Methodically, he met the gaze of each of his soldiers. In unified resolve, they thumped their fists over their hearts in silent allegiance. These brave foolish men.

Jamison adopted a defensive stance, his sword raised and poised before him. “I won't back down, nor will any member of the guard. Honor and duty are one. I thought I had taught you that.” He paused, drawing a long breath as though sensing it might be one of his last. “I challenge you, Raldon, son of Abalor, to a duel.”

Saxtus pivoted to face Artus, Gabriel, and the queen. "You must escape."

Artus's voice was firm, unwavering. "I've vowed before; I'd rather die than flee."

Then, locking eyes with Gabriel, he placed a hand on his younger brother's shoulder and gave a solemn nod. “Run brother, I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

Doubts swirled in Gabriel's mind. No, this can’t be happening. Why is he protecting me? He hates me. Doesn’t he? I can’t say goodbye to Artus. I can’t lose anyone else.

"Go!" Artus's voice rang out, fierce and desperate.

His mother's voice was panicked. “Gabriel, come on.”

“But... Sarah.”

"They won't touch her, nor me. We're valuable alive. But you... they see you as a threat they must eliminate."

Gabriel's confusion was clear. “But I don't want the throne. "

“It's not about what you want, my son.”

In that heart-wrenching moment, for the first time in his life, Gabriel embraced Artus—his tormentor, his protector, his brother.

Casting a lingering glance at the guards, those ready to lay down their lives for him, he sought to memorize each face. I won’t forget you. And I’ll remember you brother.

Gabriel saw the gleaming steel from Raldon’s sword as he said, "This brings me no pleasure, Master," before adding, “Fight valiantly, die with honor.”

Jamison echoed the words.

Janus took Gabriel’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Janus gripped Gabriel's arm. "Time to leave."

The two men, master and former apprentice, clashed in a dance of deadly skill. Their prowess spellbound the onlookers. But Gabriel did not watch. Instead, he ran. With every step, he distanced himself, fleeing from the shadows of a crumbling dynasty.