Has the Night Cleaver returned? The terror that caused devastation to this city, to the women, to the families. To me. This nightmare my people are under grows like a thick fog. It's unrelenting and heinous. It's as if the underworld has split open right under our feet, tossing out its servants.

And as I leave home fitted in my sheriff's best dress garb, a blue coat with a badge on the chest, I debate whether the public should be aware of the vile demon. If they're told, the hysteria the news will cause will be tremendous. The residents may just give up and destroy the last vestige of the kingdom. A riot in the Dumps would pale in comparison.

For now I've only told my men and the other lawmen throughout the city. Should I tell the palace too? Is it my duty? But what can they do? Set a stricter curfew? But the curfew now is already hard to enforce.

I take the carriage to the inner city, where lords and lordesses, army officials in their regal uniforms and the city's well-to-do meander through the streets towards the palace.

Entering the main thoroughfare, a wide street lined with statutes of royalty past and present emanating power that they no longer have, the royal residence shoots up at the far end, its many turrets, all taller than the catapult tower, draped with banners for the celebration.

The palace gates sparkle in the dying sunlight, like a gem encrusted crown. And from there, a winding gravel road leads me through the royal grounds to a crowded courtyard. I look for Seamil and Lorma but I don't see them. The lieutenant of the king's guards stands by the main entrance welcoming people inside, announcing names to nobody in particular. Such pomp is too much for me. It grinds my insides, tickling my leg until the bastard appendage spasms and cramps.

Like times before, and once May and my carriage have been taken care of, I take a pathway round the side of the palace and to a narrow servant's door, where four soldiers stand sentry. They allow me through, where I soon find myself face to face with someone I have no desire to see.

'Saw me coming?' I ask.

'More like smelled that donkey of yours,' Sir Blouf replies.

I'd so love to punch this man. It would bring me a sliver of light in all this darkness.

Sir Blouf continues, 'The king would like to see you in his quarters. And right this instant.'

I nod.

Sir Blouf spins around, his long cape whipping like the wings of a dragon, and slithers off.

With a snarl, I follow the snake.

The servants' area is small and cramped, the sound of cooks preparing for tonight's dinner in the kitchens prodding my ears. But through a curtain, we enter the pristine royal area. It's as busy as the courtyard with everyone heading to the Queen's Lounge to mingle and drink before the celebrations in the grand dining hall.

I still don't see Seamil and Lorma. They better not have skipped out. I would not forgive them. I know they have urges but to not even come would just be beyond selfish.

We turn, cross the blue-tiled entrance hall and climb the well-polished grand staircase.

I breathe a sigh of relief when Sir Blouf leads me into the king's lift, a contraption that moves up and down through the walls of the castle. Inside, and while we head up to the king's quarters, we wait in silence. But as soon as we reach the top floor of the highest turret and exit, Sir Blouf speaks.

'You better have some good news for the king regarding the theft,' he says. 'His Majesty is getting impatient.'

'May I ask you a question before we head in?' I ask.

Sir Blouf stops abruptly and I almost walk into him. He turns.

'Speak,' he blurts.

'On the day of the theft, half the soldiers guarding the granary were ordered away by the king. I was just wondering if you advised His Majesty of such counsel.'

'And why would you need to know that?'

'Just so I can cross you off as a suspect,' I say, wanting to get a rise out of him.

And I get it.

Sir Blouf's face reddens, as bright as I've ever seen. 'How dare you. To suspect me, the king's advisor. This is treasonous. It's as if you were suspecting the king himself.'

Treasonous? Who does he think he is?

'My apologies,' I lie.

'I should tell the king. But I won't. He doesn't need to hear this today. On my bri – on the princess' day of birth celebration.' Sir Blouf spins back around and carries on.

Three servants scuttle by, holding a silver-laced gown as big as them.

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

The queen's outfit for tonight I'm sure.

'Slow down,' Sir Blouf barks at them, and they do, almost shrinking in fright.

Suddenly, yelling explodes out of an open door down the hall.

'You are an idiot,' shouts a voice. It's the king. 'I should punish you for that. A good wallop would do the trick. GET OUT! AND BRING MORE POWDER FOR MY FACE!'

A young woman appears in a flurry, tears running down her cheeks. Holding a pile of clothes, she heads our way. But one look at Sir Blouf and she changes direction, eventually disappearing down the hall.

At the open door, the dagger and ax emblem of the king etched large, Sir Blouf peers inside.

'The sheriff is with me, Your Majesty,' he says.

'Finally,' the king growls. 'Enter.'

I traipse in alone, Sir Blouf taking his leave, and I see the king standing over his desk, naked, his fists propping himself up. His curly blonde locks glisten with grease and his face is caked with cosmetics.

'Your Majesty,' I say, bowing as deep as my leg can take me.

'I don't have much time,' the king snaps, not offering me a seat. 'Talk.'

'About the investigation into the theft?'

'What else do you think I want you to talk about?' he yells, spit flying from his mouth. 'My shirt and dress pants that my bitch servant dropped on the floor and wrinkled?'

'My apologies.' I bow deeply again before lying, 'I questioned a very likely suspect today who lives in the Eastern Thatched district.'

Now with an evil calmness and grin, the king replies, 'My dear brother, the late king, made you sheriff. Was that a mistake? Was me keeping you on as the top lawman of the city a mistake?'

That's a likelihood, but I reply, 'No, Your Majesty, it was not a mistake.'

'I look like a jester because my sheriff can't find the culprit.'

You look like a jester with all that powder on your face, I want to say.

'Sheriff,' the king continues, 'I want someone caught. Thrown in jail. No, beheaded. I don't care if the person did it or not. Find someone on their deathbed and arrest them.'

I will never put an innocent person to death but I reply, 'Yes, Your Majesty.'

'That will be it.' The king waves at me to get out.

I linger for a moment, wondering if I should tell him that the Night Cleaver may have returned, when the king eyes me ever so menacingly, 'Do you like what you see, sheriff? I wouldn't have thought you the type.'

I decide not to share the news and possibly never. If I get a hiding for it, so be it.

I bow and leave.

I can't get to the Queen's Lounge fast enough, firewater the elixir to my woes. And as I wade through the sea of people, all deafening in their chatter, I make my way to the glorious drink's table. There, I pour myself a tall glass of the palace's own stock. I'm about to take a sip when a hand slaps me on my back.

Briefly forgetting where I am, a loud curse almost escapes my lips. I turn around to confront the perpetrator, to show that I'm not amused by the friendliness.

'Good. You've found the drinks. You look like you need it.'

My irritation subsidies.

It's Seamil with Lorma locked in his arms.

'You clean up well, Seamil,' I say. He's wearing black pants and his gold button laden army coat. 'And you look beautiful, Lorma.'

In a purple gown, she curtsies in jest.

'Glad you two showed up,' I continue in a whisper. 'I couldn't have done this alone.'

'Did you hear there's a rumor going around?' says Lorma, clearly eager to tell.

'A rumour?'

More fucking rumours.

'Yes. It seems the king will be making an important announcement at dinner,' Lorma replies.

'Where did you hear that, dear?' asks Seamil.

'Lady Dee told me,' says Lorma. 'I was just talking to her.'

'You know Lady Dee likes to make things up.' Seamil pats his coat pocket. 'You two, I must leave for a moment. I need to go outside.'

'To smoke berry weed?' asks Lorma, scowling. 'Please don't. You smell something awful when you do and it irritates me ever so.'

Seamil huffs. 'Fine I won't.' He then mumbles in my ear but loud enough for Lorma to hear, 'I can't wait to get back to the wall.'

Lorma's not amused but Seamil and I chuckle.

The three of us talk for some time after that. Despite my thoughts on the Night Cleaver, I appreciate the moment. And I will not ruin their night by telling them. A few more laughs are exchanged until Seamil and Lorma are yanked away to meet Lord Gray's new mistress.

Soon in their place waddles a man I have never seen before. He has pitch black hair, sports a trim and kept beard, and has a strange medal pinned to his tailed jacket.

'You are the sheriff, yes?' he says keenly with an accent.

It's an accent I haven't heard in five years and my hand moves towards my sword on instinct.

'Sheriff Harg, yes,' I respond.

'It is a great honor to meet you,' the man continues with a grin. 'You are respected deeply amongst my people. Your time in the army is looked upon greatly.'

Why is this man petting my ego? Surely it's not sincere.

'And who are you?' I ask.

'I am King Jabora's emissary, Sir Aguina. I was sent to pay my respects on this day.'

What foolish, hollow-hearted theatrics enemies play. It grates me to no end. It always has.

'Is that why your king has come to the siege line? To send you? Or has he come to fight himself? Fight the war he started?'

'Let's not talk about the battle at hand. How about the battles from the past?' The emissary pours himself a drink.

I have no desire for that.

'You know, the Battle of Waymore is talked about with reverie,' he continues.

'Waymore? But you lost,' I reply.

'Battles aren't lost or won, sheriff. Wars are.' There's a sparkle in his eye.

He has some gall saying that.

'Battles are to be dissected,' the emissary adds. 'And your movements at Waymore are studied at length at our army university. You killed many of us.'

'Hmm,' I acknowledge.

'Many of our greatest fighters.'

All of your great fighters, I ache to say.

'I was sorry to hear of your injury. Not sorry that you weren't able to kill more of us but sorry you aren't able to die on the battlefield.'

'If your army invades, this city will become a battlefield and I'll take as many of you with me to the afterlife.'

'Let's hope it doesn't come to that.'

'So you'll continue the siege until there's no food left and we all starve.'

'Like I said, let's not talk about the battle at hand.'

'Let's not talk at all, shall we?' I growl.

I thought he'd be offended by that but he doesn't seem to be.

'As you wish,' he replied. 'But I'll depart with one last word.'

'Be quick with it.'

The emissary inches towards me, craning his head. 'If you ever want to leave this city, there is a choice.'

'A choice? I have no choice.'

'King Jabora would be welcoming. He's very eager to meet you and will give you peace if you wish for it.'

Is this man trying to turn me? Is he trying to make me some sort of trophy?

'Do you respect me like many of your people?'

'I do.'

I inch closer to him this time. 'Then show me some and get the fuck out of my face.'

Still showing no offence to my words, the emissary bows and leaves. Sadly, the talking that night is not done there.