Hans stood in the dimly lit room, the tension thick in the air as he regarded the man before him. He stood by the bed, arms crossed, watching the man with an expression of detached amusement.

After extensively torturing the leader of the kidnappers, the man had divulged who he was working for—this merchant before him. The reason for Hans' visit was simple: to strike a deal.

"So," Hans began, his voice smooth and unhurried, "what is it that you do, exactly?"

The merchant swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously. "I... I'm a merchant."

Hans could see how terrified the man was, but he ignored it and continued calmly. "A merchant, eh? What’s your area of operation?"

"I have bases in different regions. I never meant for this to happen, I swear. I had no other choice..." The man's voice trailed off, fear evident in his tone.

Hans raised an eyebrow, studying the man for a moment. "Well then, let's talk business. Here's the deal: you will lend us all the mercenaries you have in this town, and when we’re short on resources, you’ll help us out. In return, you get to keep your life. And hopefully, your subordinates too, though I can’t guarantee anything on that front."

The merchant’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re serious?”

Though he knew he was in danger, the merchant in him couldn’t accept such an unfair deal without protest.

Hans smiled—a cold, predatory grin. “Deadly serious. It’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”

The man hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He knew he had no real choice. Slowly, he nodded. “We have a deal.”

Hans' smile widened. “Excellent. I knew you’d see reason.” He turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back at the merchant. “Just remember, if you betray us... well, you won’t live to regret it. Scratch our back, and we’ll scratch yours. Easy enough, right?”

With that, Hans exited the room, his mood visibly lifted. He was smiling to himself as he walked down the hall, clearly pleased with how things had gone. Outside the door, two guards stood at attention. When the merchant emerged, still shaken from the encounter, he glanced around in confusion.

“Where did the man in black go?” he asked the guards.

The guards exchanged puzzled looks. “We didn’t see anyone, sir.”

The merchant cursed under his breath, frustration mixing with fear. “You useless pieces of sh*t who can’t even do your job right!” he screamed, leaving the guards at a loss for words, not understanding why their boss was upset.

Resolving to focus on survival, the merchant chose life over whatever fleeting sense of pride he might have clung to.

...

In London:

Meanwhile, in the capital, King Richard III awoke in the royal chambers, the first light of dawn creeping through the curtains. A concubine lay beside him, still asleep, as he slipped out of bed.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

A maid quickly approached, helping him into his royal regalia with practiced efficiency. As she worked, Richard’s mind drifted to the burdens of kingship.

Being king was certainly better than being a grand duke, he mused. The power, the influence, the women—it was all his. Yet, despite all that he had gained, there were loose ends that troubled him.

Chief among them were Edward and Rick. He blamed their mother, his sister, for their continued survival. That cunning witch, he thought bitterly. I should have burned her alive when I had the chance.

As the maid finished dressing him, Richard left the room, barely acknowledging the assistant who followed, reciting the day’s schedule. His thoughts were still occupied with the problem of Edward. The boy had power he didn’t even know he possessed. What good is power if it can’t be used?

This reminded him that even after his death, his brother former king was still making wrong choices. Richard shook his head as he thought of how the former king had sealed the fate of his crown prince by giving him the "Greater Key."

He didn’t hate the boy—not really. In another life, he might have even offered him a position in the kingdom. But now, the boy was an obstacle, one that needed to be removed.

Richard III entered the royal court and took his seat on the throne. One by one, visitors came to pay homage and receive the rewards they were promised for supporting his claim to the throne. Richard, ever a man of his word, gave them what they were owed, though the formalities bored him to no end.

Once the court proceedings concluded, Richard rose, and the chancellor approached him.

“How goes the construction of the Great Circle?” Richard asked.

“It’s nearly complete, Your Majesty. Only a few finishing touches remain,” the chancellor replied.

Richard nodded in satisfaction. “And the message to Holt Castle? Has it been delivered?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The trap is set. The moment Edward and his companions arrive, they will be captured.”

A smirk played on Richard’s lips. “Excellent. Soon, all of this will be behind us.”

The chancellor hesitated for a moment. “Are you certain they’ll go there, Your Majesty?”

Richard’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous certainty. “Oh, they’ll go there. No matter what.”

...

Three days later in St. Albans:

Edward woke early, taking a modest breakfast before heading to the abbey. He had been spending more time in prayer lately, hoping to calm the nightmares that plagued him. Even Rick had begun to follow this routine, finding some peace in the process.

Since this was the last day they would be staying in town, Edward felt that only one task remained. Afterward, he made his way to the mercenaries’ hideout. The house was packed with people, and Derrick was waiting outside with a grim expression on his face.

“How’s it going?” Edward asked, joining Derrick by the entrance.

“It’s time for the next step,” Derrick replied. “Hans did his part. Now, it’s up to us.”

Together, they entered the house. The interior was dark, the air heavy with tension. The mercenaries, all tied up and lying on the floor, watched them with wary eyes.

At the center of the room, a bloodied man sat slumped against the wall—the leader of the mercenaries who had taken Edward days before.

Derrick clapped his hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “Listen up! You’re going to be helping us with some work. And, I’m afraid, it’s going to be free labor.”

The room erupted in protests, insults flying from every direction. Derrick, unfazed, snapped his fingers, and the leader in the center exploded into a gruesome mess of blood and flesh. The room fell deathly silent, the only sound was Edward’s vomiting as he turned away.

Every mercenary had a mark, a method Derrick had devised to control them with minimal effort. This mark allowed him to make them explode at will and track their location with just a thought.

“Great,” Edward muttered, wiping his mouth. “Now my breakfast is ruined.”

Derrick ignored the comment, his focus still on the remaining mercenaries. “Let that be a lesson. Rebel, and you’ll end up just like him.”

The mercenaries, their will broken, nodded silently, the fear in their eyes unmistakable. The room was quiet now, the weight of Derrick’s words sinking in.

Edward looked at Derrick, shaking his head. "You really know how to lighten the mood, don't you?"

Derrick smirked. "Just doing my job, young master."

Edward sighed, glancing around the room. The situation was tense, but he couldn't help but make light of it, even if just to keep himself from crumbling under the pressure. The path they were on was dark and dangerous, but if he had to walk it, he’d do so with a smile on his face—even if it was just for show.

And with that, their trip to St. Albans came to an end.