The banquet hall pulsed with activity, every detail a careful performance of grandeur. Crimson banners hung heavy on the walls, their gold trim catching the torchlight like flames frozen mid-dance. Servants moved with quiet urgency, weaving through the room with trays of gleaming silverware and platters stacked high with spiced meats and honeyed pastries. Alara stood at the edge of it all, her hands clasped in front of her to still their trembling. The air smelled rich, almost suffocating—wine, roasted herbs, and polished wood—and yet all she could taste was fear.
Her gaze flicked toward Dal’akar. He was speaking in low tones with Du’lan, his ice-blue eyes sweeping the hall like a hawk surveying its prey. Even with his back straight and his expression calm, Alara could see the tension in his jaw, the sharpness in his movements. He’s waiting for something to go wrong, she thought. The poisoned wine had rattled him more than he let on.
She didn’t blame him. The banquet wasn’t just a feast; it was a stage, and Dal’akar knew all too well how thin the line was between power and collapse.
“Double the guards near the entrances,” Dal’akar said, his voice cutting through the hum of activity. “If Garin’s allies are here, they’ll use tonight to make their move.”
Du’lan nodded, his tone measured. “And the kitchens? Shall I increase the watch there as well?”
Dal’akar hesitated, his gaze narrowing. “Do it. Trust no one.” His eyes lingered on the kitchen doors for a moment before he turned back to the dais.
Alara’s pulse quickened. The weight of his words pressed against her chest like an iron brand. Trust no one. She shifted her weight, glancing toward the kitchens. If she didn’t act now, she’d lose her chance to help Rasa. And if Dal’akar suspected her… no. She couldn’t think about that.
Her gaze caught on a familiar figure darting through the kitchen doors. Marta. The young servant’s head was bowed, her arms full of folded linens. She was moving quickly, too quickly. Alara straightened, forcing her steps to stay slow and steady as she followed.
----------------------------------------
The corridor outside the kitchens was dimly lit, the muffled clang of pots and pans filtering through the thick wooden door. Alara quickened her pace, catching up to Marta just as she pushed a bundle of napkins into a cupboard.
“Marta,” Alara called softly.
The girl jumped, the napkins slipping from her hands. She whirled around, her face pale. “Lari!” she hissed, her voice trembling. “What are you doing here?”
Alara stepped closer, keeping her voice low. “I need your help.”
Marta’s brows furrowed. “Help with what? You’re not supposed to be back here.” Her eyes darted toward the kitchen door, and Alara saw the flicker of fear in her expression.
“Are you working with Rufus?” Alara asked, her tone firm but not accusing.
Marta’s eyes widened, and she took a step back. “Why… why would you ask that?” she stammered, clutching the edge of the cupboard like it might anchor her.
“He’s used you before,” Alara pressed. “To deliver that letter to me. Is he asking you to do something again?”
Marta shook her head quickly, too quickly. “No! He’s just—he’s helping me with something personal, that’s all. Please, Lari, don’t ask me more.”
Alara softened her voice. “Marta, I’m not trying to get you in trouble. But I need to get away from the banquet. Can you cover for me?”
Marta’s face twisted in a mix of fear and guilt. “I… I don’t know. If Du’lan finds out—”
“Please,” Alara whispered, stepping closer. “You can say I’m helping in the kitchens. He’ll believe you.”
For a moment, Marta hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then she exhaled sharply and nodded. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But you owe me for this.”
----------------------------------------
Du’lan looked down at Marta, his sharp gray eyes narrowing as she delivered her request. Alara stood behind her, her hands folded neatly in front of her, trying not to meet his gaze.
“You want to take her to the kitchens?” Du’lan repeated, his voice laced with suspicion. “For what purpose?”
Marta fidgeted under his scrutiny. “We’re short-handed, sir,” she said quickly. “The preparations are behind schedule.”
Du’lan’s gaze flicked to Alara, and she stepped forward before he could respond. “I offered to help,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I wanted to say goodbye to the kitchen staff before we return to Valmira. They’ve been kind to me.”
Du’lan’s eyes narrowed further, his silence pressing against her like a physical weight. Then he spoke, his tone cool. “So, you’ve decided to return with us.”
Alara nodded, forcing a faint smile. “Yes. My place is in Valmira.”
For a long moment, Du’lan didn’t move. His gaze lingered on her, unblinking. Then, with a curt nod, he stepped aside. “Very well. Assist Marta. But do not linger. There’s much to be done.”
----------------------------------------
The kitchens were chaos. Steam filled the air, mingling with the scent of simmering stews and freshly baked bread. Servants bustled around the narrow space, their movements precise despite the din of clattering pots and shouted orders. Alara ducked into the shadows near the pantry, her heart still pounding from her exchange with Du’lan.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Lari,” Marta murmured as she set a tray of vegetables on the counter. “If Du’lan finds out—”
“He won’t,” Alara said quickly. “But thank you, Marta. I won’t forget this.”
Marta nodded, though her expression remained uneasy. She turned back to her work, leaving Alara alone.
Alara pressed her back against the cool stone wall, her breath coming in slow, measured pulls. The murmur of voices from the banquet hall reached her ears, blending with the clatter of the kitchen. Her thoughts raced. She had to move quickly, but she couldn’t afford a single mistake.
“Lari?”
The voice froze her. Alara turned, her stomach dropping as a steward approached, his arms crossed and his expression suspicious.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Before she could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and Dal’akar stepped inside. His presence filled the room like a shadow stretching over the walls. His ice-blue eyes swept over the servants before settling on Alara.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, his voice calm but sharp.
The steward faltered. “No, Your Highness. I was just ensuring everything was in order.”
Dal’akar’s gaze lingered on Alara for a heartbeat longer, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “Carry on.”
As the door closed behind him, Alara let out a shaky breath. Her hands trembled at her sides, but she clenched them into fists, forcing herself to focus. She had come too far to turn back now.
Just as she turned toward the rear exit, her eyes caught on the steward’s sleeve. A faint shimmer of gold. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. It was the same insignia she had seen on Garin’s crates—a crossed dagger and key.
Someone else was involved. Someone else was watching.
----------------------------------------
The cell was as cold and unyielding as the stone that surrounded her. Rasa sat against the wall, her back straight, her wrists resting loosely on her knees. The chains binding her hands and ankles clinked faintly as she shifted, a sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the dungeon. She tilted her head, listening—not for freedom, not yet, but for opportunity. It always came.
Boots scuffed against the stone in the distance, slow and deliberate. The torchlight in the corridor flickered, throwing jagged shadows across her cell. Rasa didn’t move. She didn’t need to see him yet. She already knew the gait, the weight of the steps. She’d been listening since they’d thrown her in this pit.
One of Rufus’s men.
Her jaw tightened, but she kept her breathing steady, her gaze fixed on the far wall. The faint jingle of keys reached her ears as the guard came into view, a tray balanced carelessly in one hand.
“Dinner time,” he said, his voice low and mocking. He crouched and slid the tray through the narrow slot at the base of the cell door. The rich scent of roasted meat and bread wafted upward, but it didn’t make her stomach twist with hunger. It made her angry.
The guard straightened, crossing his arms as he leaned against the bars, his smirk just visible in the dim light. “Lucky you,” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Scraps from the banquet upstairs. Seems a bit too fine for someone like you, though.”
Rasa didn’t flinch. Her eyes flicked to the tray briefly before returning to the far wall. She let the silence stretch, knowing it would bother him more than any retort.
“Not even a ‘thank you’?” the guard pressed, his tone light but his posture tense. He shifted slightly, the keys at his belt jingling faintly. “I suppose it’s hard to be polite when you’re nothing but a traitor.”
Traitor. The word hung in the air like a stone threatening to drop.
Still, Rasa said nothing. Her expression didn’t change, though her thoughts churned. Traitor. As if loyalty meant anything to men like him. She let the silence stretch a beat longer, savoring the flicker of irritation that crossed his face.
Finally, she turned her head, meeting his gaze with a cool, unbothered expression. “You’re right,” she said flatly. “I should be grateful. What would I do without the generosity of men like you?”
Her words were calm, but the edge in her voice cut sharp enough to make the guard straighten. The smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said, his voice low and tight. He stepped closer to the bars, his hand brushing the hilt of his weapon. “Maybe I need to remind you where you are.”
Rasa’s pulse quickened, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she leaned back slightly, her expression shifting into something that almost resembled boredom. “By all means,” she said, her voice laced with dry amusement. “Show me.”
That was all it took. The guard’s face darkened, and he reached for his keys, fumbling slightly as he unlocked the cell door. It swung open with a low groan, and he stepped inside, the tray forgotten on the ground.
“You’ve got a sharp tongue for a prisoner,” he sneered, his voice harsh now. “Let’s see how clever you are on your knees.”
He lunged, reaching for her collar, but Rasa was already moving. Her chain snapped upward, looping around his arm as she twisted, pulling him off balance. The man stumbled, his eyes widening as she used the momentum to yank him forward. In one fluid motion, she drove her knee into his stomach, the sharp impact driving the air from his lungs.
The dagger at his belt gleamed faintly in the torchlight, and she snatched it before he could recover. He stumbled back, gasping, but Rasa didn’t give him the chance to retaliate. She struck again, her movements swift and precise, bringing the hilt of the dagger down against the base of his skull. The guard crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he hit the stone.
Rasa crouched over him, her breaths steady despite the sharp thrum of adrenaline in her veins. She worked quickly, pulling the ring of keys from his belt and tucking the dagger into her waistband. Her gaze flicked to the corridor beyond, her ears straining for any sign of approaching footsteps.
Nothing.
She stood, rolling her shoulders as she took a final glance at the guard’s prone form. “Not so clever now,” she muttered under her breath.
The cell door creaked slightly as she pushed it open wider, stepping into the dimly lit corridor. The torchlight flickered weakly, the shadows stretching and twisting around her. She gripped the keys tightly, her fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger at her side as she moved toward the far end of the hall.
Every step was measured, her senses heightened. The cold air bit at her skin, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed somewhere in the distance. She paused near the corner, pressing herself against the wall as muffled voices reached her ears.
Two guards. Their footsteps were heavy, moving in the opposite direction. Rasa held her breath, waiting until their voices faded into the distance. Then she moved again, her steps quick but silent.
At the end of the corridor, a faint light filtered through a narrow archway, the promise of freedom just beyond. Her heart pounded, but her expression remained calm. Almost there.
She froze as a faint creak echoed behind her. Footsteps—distant, but approaching. Her pulse quickened, and she ducked into the shadows near the exit, her hand tightening around the dagger. The flickering light caught the edge of the archway, stretching the shadow of her hiding place.
Another shadow joined hers on the wall, shifting closer with every step.