Eventually, it would grow to a point where Jacques’ incessant pacing would drive him mad.

His cell was suffocating, its walls narrow and looming, pressing closer with each passing day. How long have I been here? he thought. Weeks? Months? Time had unravelled within these grey, unyielding walls, stretching and bending into endless, indistinguishable days. His body was stiff from confinement, each step a reminder of his stolen freedom.

But pacing was all he could do. It kept his thoughts from sinking into despair as he grappled with the bleak truth—he was no closer to proving his innocence. The trial loomed over him, relentless, its presence felt in every silent moment, every echoing creak in the stone. Tomorrow, his fate would be sealed if he couldn’t find something, anything, that might absolve him. But the empty cell offered no secrets, only a crushing silence that made his heartbeat thunder in his ears. Desperation clawed at him, a wild, gnawing thing that no amount of pacing could quieten.

His gaze drifted to the small slit of a window cut high into the wall, his only link to the world outside. He stood on his toes, straining to see through the narrow gap, and for a moment, he caught a view of the famed Eastamerean capital of Palomia. The city stretched below, almost surreal in its beauty—a kingdom in mourning, blanketed in muted shades of grey and white. It seemed impossible, almost cruel, that life could continue so serenely while his own hung by a thread.

Solemn figures filled the streets, moving like a procession of ghosts. Their faces were cast downward, sombre and silent, hands holding white roses as they trailed toward the towering cathedral where King Geraldo’s funeral was being held. The heavy beat of mourning drums thudded faintly in the distance, steady and haunting, like a heartbeat in the belly of the city. The sound grew louder in Jacques’ ears, matching the tempo of his own dread.

The weight of his circumstances bore down on his shoulders like an iron yoke, compressing his breath, his very thoughts, until his pacing became frantic. He strode back and forth, faster and faster, his boots scraping against the rough, unyielding stone, as though movement alone might stave off the despair clawing at his mind. But no matter how swiftly he moved, he couldn’t outrun the thought that gnawed at him: the sword—his sword—the cursed, hallowed blade that had landed him in this dank cell, and which might soon be the undoing of everything he had ever known.

He could still picture it with painful clarity. The sword was beautiful, fierce, and darkly majestic—its ancient steel capable of feats only whispered about in legends. It had been his father’s gift, bestowed upon him in a rare moment of solemnity, a family relic forged in such an unyielding metal that, rumour had it, it could even deflect lightning. Once, it had marked the strength of their bloodline, an emblem of conquest that had endured wars and toppled kings. Now, in the hands of the Eastamereans, it was nothing more than a piece of damning evidence, twisted to implicate him in the assassination of Jacques’ would-be-father-in-law.

Great joke, he thought bitterly.

Here he was, the joke, a victim of his own prized inheritance. If only he’d broken the blade himself rather than let it fall into the hands of those who’d turn it against him. The bitter taste of regret lingered in his mouth as he clenched his fists. What an insidious trap fate had laid, turning something he’d treated with so much indifference into the instrument of his demise.

Outside, the drums thudded in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, each beat resonating like a hammer driving the final nails into Jacques’ coffin. As they buried their king, Palomia also prepared for the trial. He could imagine it—the mourners in black, their faces grave as they passed through white-paved streets to witness the guilty verdict; and no one outside would shed a tear for Jacques if the gallows became his final destination. Some of them would no doubt even cheer and thank the Gods that such evil was finally gone from the world.

Sir Finn Alisser sat with his back against the cell wall, his gaze tracking Jacques’ relentless pacing with a mix of concern and something darker—a faint hint of distrust that clung to the stale air between them.

'What are you doing?' Finn’s voice broke the silence, rough but cautious, as if he feared the question itself might snap Jacques’ tenuous hold on reason.

'Thinking of a way to get us out of here,' Jacques replied curtly, a bitterness threading through his words that was impossible to suppress. He halted his pacing and leaned against the opposite wall, his eyes drifting to the narrow, taunting glimpse of Palomia beyond.

The heat in the cell was stifling, even with the daylight dimming. By day, the stone walls baked like a furnace, and at night, the cold seeped in, merciless and bone-deep. The coarse cotton blanket they’d given him was barely more than a shred of cloth, its fabric rough against his skin, thin as a split potato sack. He’d clutched it in desperation on the bitterest nights, but it was a laughable defence against the damp chill that gripped him to his marrow.

As he stared into the fading light, he felt Finn’s eyes boring into him, unrelenting.

'Did you really do it?' Finn asked, his voice blunt but steady, his gaze fixed like a sword tip aimed at Jacques’ heart.

'Do what?'

Finn didn’t answer. He only continued to watch, his silence a stone in the pit of Jacques’ stomach.

Jacques laughed—a short, bitter sound. 'Oh, so I need to convince you now, hmm?' His words came out harsher than intended, but he didn’t care. 'Fine. I’ll tell you the exact same thing I told the Princess. I had nothing to do with her father’s death.'

Finn’s jaw tightened. 'The deed was done with your blade.'

Jacques’ shoulders tensed at the reminder. 'Look, I can deny it up to the moment they chop my head off. It won’t make a difference. We just have to entertain this mummer’s farce and let Sofia decide.'

The words felt hollow as he said them, a fragile lie crumbling in his own mouth. He knew full well that there was no justice coming his way. The trial was nothing more than a performative gesture to make Sofia feel better about executing him—a spectacle arranged by someone with power, someone who had decided Jacques was a loose end that needed to be tied up for good. He clenched his fists, trying to stamp out the hopelessness simmering inside him, but it was as untameable as the heat that made the cell walls close in around him.

'They’ve already chosen the ending to this story, Finn. They’ve painted me as the murderer, as the traitor, and no one’s interested in anything I have to say. I might as well stand there in silence and let them have their fun. This isn’t a trial—it’s a fucking waste of time.'

Finn’s face was unreadable, but a flicker of something softened his hard gaze, just for a moment. 'And yet you still hope Sofia will believe you.'

Jacques let out a weary sigh, his chest tight with frustration. 'Hope?' he echoed, the word twisted with self-mockery. 'Maybe. It’s a fool’s hope, Finn. She’s lost her father, her security. The people are demanding justice, and someone out there is more than willing to offer me up like a lamb for slaughter. Sofia may want to believe I’m innocent, but someone has made damn sure there’s enough doubt to seal my fate. Someone wants me dead, Finn, but I don’t know who.'

The thought sent a pang through him, sharp and bitter. He couldn’t deny he’d like to trust Sofia, believe in her fairness, her keen sense of justice. But grief made people see things that weren’t there, made them cling to convenient lies over painful truths. He saw her in his mind’s eye, the Queen seated in the judgement hall, her face pale, her eyes clouded with sorrow as she tried to look at him and see anything other than her father’s blood.

Finn’s gaze softened, but only slightly. 'And if it’s all as you say—if it’s truly hopeless—why not try to escape now?'

Jacques looked back at him, a wry smile touching his lips. 'You think I haven’t considered it? I’ve mapped every inch of this cell, counted the guards’ steps, noted every single shift in their rotation. But the walls are thick as mountain stone, and the guards are armed to the teeth. There’s no way out, Finn—not without a miracle.'

The door to the cell creaked open, and Jacques turned, his gaze hardening as one of the royal servants shuffled inside. It was Carles—a scrawny child, with a mop of greasy brown hair falling into his eyes, a smattering of spots across his pallid skin, and a near-toothless smile that dripped with disdain. Jacques had come to loathe the sight of him, the only Eastamerean he’d seen with any regularity in this dank prison. Carles seemed to savour every moment he spent in Jacques’ cell, relishing the fall of a once-noble prince into these rank depths.

Carles held a bowl in his grimy hands, moving closer with an exaggerated sneer. 'Here’s your last meal,' he jeered, tossing the bowl toward Jacques with a rough flick. Jacques snatched it from the air, the congealed soup inside barely shifting from the impact. The fetid smell wafted upward, thick and sour, making his stomach turn.

Biting back his disgust, Jacques forced a smile, though his voice held a sharp edge. 'Our lives hang in the balance, good sir. The least you can do is get us a leg of lamb.'

Carles threw his head back with a coarse, barking laugh. 'I’m sure you’d like that, Your Grace.' He emphasised the title with a mocking sneer, the twisted grin revealing a few rotten stubs of teeth. Without another word, he backed out of the cell, his laughter echoing down the stone corridor as he pulled the door shut behind him with a heavy thud.

Jacques clenched his teeth, his hand tightening around the bowl until his knuckles turned white. You little shit, he thought, the words swirling inside him like venom. The indignity of it all clawed at him, but he swallowed the urge to lash out. Any misstep, any hint of anger or pride, could be used against him. He’d learned that much. Even a servant could twist his words, turn them into another nail in his coffin.

But Carles’ parting laughter echoed in his mind, feeding the storm of rage and frustration that had been building inside him since the arrest. He had to cling to his last shred of restraint—Sofia. She had to see sense. She had to see that he was no murderer.

He’d once thought her gaze had held something, a hint of interest or intrigue perhaps, when he’d met her at his father’s peace tournament. He remembered the subtle way she’d looked at him from beneath her lashes, her mouth twitching as if stifling a smile at one of his jokes. She’s heard the tales about me, he’d thought back then, even let himself laugh at the thought. She probably believed he was some arrogant prince, some creature incapable of love or loyalty. And maybe, he’d admitted to himself, maybe she was right. But he’d caught a spark of something in her eyes, and that had been enough to make him think he could change, or at least try.

Now he scoffed at his own foolishness. Perhaps I haven’t disappointed her after all, he thought bitterly, but she’s certainly disappointed me. At least when Aubery had left him, she hadn’t locked him up, hadn’t condemned him to rot in this cell. Sofia had not only turned her back—she’d made him her enemy.

Every night, as he lay sleepless on the hard stone floor, the weight of his failure bore down on him. Only weeks ago, he’d been on the verge of something incredible—a union that would bridge two rival nations. He’d let himself imagine a future: his name spoken in the same breath as great kings, a legacy that would last beyond his own lifetime. And Sofia—he’d thought she might be by his side through it all. Instead, here he was, branded a traitor, a murderer, his head set to roll if his betrothed’s court found him guilty.

You fucking idiot! He thought.

Jacques’ mind raced, piecing together the clues like fragments of a shattered mirror. He clenched his fists, the rough stone wall pressing against his back as he leaned into it, his mind clawing for clarity. Finn’s right—she has my sword. His father’s sword, kept in his quarters under lock and key or, on lazier days, tossed on the floor beside his bed. Yet, somehow, it had ended up in the hands of Sir Eduardo Jeffro, the assassin. The only way that could have happened was if someone had taken it from his quarters, as a deliberate attempt to frame him.

But who would go through such lengths to stage this?

Jacques’ head throbbed as he went over the faces in his mind—members of the court, those whose eyes lingered a little too long when he spoke, those whose whispers fell silent when he entered the room. He forced himself to take a steady breath, knowing he needed to stay sharp.

The prime suspect had to be Lord Serben, the shadow on Sofia’s shoulder, a man so entrenched in Eastamere’s power structure that the kingdom itself seemed woven around him. His history with Sofia’s father was well-documented: they’d been close once, closer than brothers. But while Geraldo had always been loved by the people—a hero whose name would live on in ballads—Serben’s legacy was of a darker, more insidious nature. He was a man of whispers, secrets, and dealings in shadows. Jacques knew that if Serben had taken it upon himself to orchestrate a plot, it would be ruthless, merciless, and calculated down to the finest detail.

Maybe Serben had wanted Geraldo dead, Jacques thought. He could almost picture it: Serben, simmering with resentment, watching as Geraldo basked in the love of the people, overshadowed by his friend’s fame. But if Serben harboured jealousy or hatred toward his friend, why implicate me? Why ruin the life of a foreign prince who had done nothing to him?

The easiest way to start a war was to kill a king, and the thought allowed Jacques’ mind to turn to Lord Keylor Gallo, the old warhorse, the king’s steadfast general, a man who had built his reputation on the blood-soaked battlefields of Eastamere and the border. Gallo had once commanded entire armies with ease, his voice bellowing over the clamour of war as he led troops into slaughter. But as the years wore on, so had Gallo’s glory. For years now, he had been sidelined, growing bitter and stagnant under Geraldo’s peace-first rule. Jacques could picture it: Gallo, seething under the king’s obsession with treaties and alliances, watching his years of battlefield victories rust as peace infected his once-mighty kingdom.

Now, with Sofia—a girl and the sole heir—inheriting the throne, it would have only added salt to Gallo's wounds. He would loathe the idea of bending the knee to a young queen raised to value peace over conquest. Perhaps Gallo believed that, by removing Geraldo, he could take back what he believed was rightfully his: a kingdom once again primed for war, one where his expertise would shine. Gallo was a relic, but a dangerous one, ready to ignite a conflict to prove he was still a force to be reckoned with.

But it didn’t make sense for Gallo to target Jacques if the aim was to draw Galia into a war. Father would never fight for me, he thought bitterly, even if there was no other choice. Father had two sons, and Rick was the prized one—the favoured son, the heir whose head their father would gladly go to war to protect. Rick was the golden son, with a face as fair as a knight out of a bard’s tale, his virtue so well-established that any accusation of murder would be laughed off as a cruel jest.

But Jacques—he wasn’t so lucky. He had never been viewed as the honourable one. He knew how his rough edges and dark looks cast him in shadows even when he stood under the brightest of lights. He looked the part of the rogue, the misfit who might turn to crime out of envy or desperation. If Gallo, or anyone, wanted to pin this on someone, I’m the perfect target, Jacques realised grimly.

But Jacques forced himself to consider the most obvious suspect of all, King Rickard himself. The very notion clawed at his insides, cold and merciless, but he couldn’t shake it. He knew his father’s ruthless streak all too well, knew how he looked at him with those eyes that could slice a man apart. A disgraceful son like Jacques? Father might indeed see him as little more than a pawn to be sacrificed.

Father was nothing if not pragmatic, and war had always been his favoured language. Under King Rickard’s rule, conflict wasn’t just a necessity but a tactic to assert dominance, to draw entire kingdoms under his heel. And what better excuse than the murder of one’s own son? Jacques’s stomach twisted at the thought. His death could be the spark, a move to fan the flames of hatred and galvanise the people into action against Eastamere. And with Sofia on the throne—a queen who would be no Geraldo when it came to fighting a war—Father could see her as a weakness he’d exploit without a second thought. She would be no match for a kingdom built on years of calculated violence, trained under King Rickard’s iron rule.

Even the possibility that his father could scheme this made Jacques’ blood curdle. Could you do that to me, Father? Could you let them kill me in cold blood and twist my death into a justification for slaughter— It was evil, even for a man as hard-hearted as King Rickard Rue, but Jacques couldn’t bring himself to deny it.

'My own father,' he muttered, the words searing his throat. Saying it aloud was like breathing in smoke, bitter and stifling. It was a betrayal more profound than he’d ever imagined, a betrayal that bled him from the inside out.

Jacques’s gaze lingered on the crimson message across the wall opposite him: Save me. The letters, painted in desperate, erratic strokes, were slowly fading with age, but in this stifling heat, they seemed to glisten, vibrant and fresh. Flies clung to it, drawn to the dried blood that marked a plea he couldn’t help but feel deep in his own bones.

Jacques tried to push the thought aside, but it gnawed at him. Who had they been? A disgraced noble, an unfortunate thief, or some other political scapegoat, caught in the crosshairs of some powerful fuckery? Had they faced their own grim judgement day, waiting on the mercy of a ruler who held their life in their hands? Jacques forced himself to look away. He would not let that desperate scrawl become a spectre haunting his mind when he stepped into the hearing chamber. He’d face the court and his fate with as much defiance as he could muster.

Yet as much as he tried to stay resolute, his mind kept wandering back to how the execution might unfold here in Eastamere. He’d witnessed it enough back home. His father had ordered a handful of executions in his time, though far fewer than his infamous predecessor, King Jacob Ayasem, who’d turned executions into a near-weekly sparky spectacle, or so the books said. Jacques had seen the condemned led up to the high wooden platform outside the royal palace, the air simmering with the crowd’s anticipation. The prisoners would be offered their last words—a final act of dignity in a moment devoid of mercy.

He remembered Sir Theon Balogun standing beside the condemned with his hand steady on his sword, his face a mask of stoic duty. The Silver Knight’s voice would boom out as he asked if they had any final words, and there was always a horrible stillness, a terrible hush, as the condemned took one last look at the faces of the crowd, then at the distant gaze of the King himself. With a final nod, Sir Theon would raise his blade, and with one swift, practised stroke, it would be over. The head would fall, and Theon, with all the solemnity of a soldier completing a sacred rite, would lift it to the crowd, bellowing, 'Gods save the king!'

Then, as if the world had merely paused for an instant, the crowd would scatter, the citizens of the capital returning to their daily lives, the severed head and lifeless body swiftly cleared away as if they’d been nothing more than props in a grim play.

Would Sofia be the one to do it here? Would she really step forward, her father’s halberd in hand, and carry out her supposed vengeance? He nearly laughed at the thought, the image so absurd that it almost seemed a comfort. But his chuckle died as he realised the bitter truth: even if she didn’t swing the blade herself, she’d be there. She would watch, just as his father had watched, distant and detached, the way royalty were supposed to be.

A chill ran through him, sharp and stinging. He could almost picture her eyes, steely and unreadable, fixed on him as judgement fell.

The cell door creaked open, and light spilled into the dim room in a narrow stripe. A figure stepped into the doorway, blocking the light. Jacques’ stomach twisted, an involuntary reflex he’d reserved especially for Carles.

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So, his time had come. This was either his escort to the trial chamber or one last humiliation, courtesy of that toothless wonder. He shot a glare toward the doorway, just catching the shift of Carles’s figure as he addressed a shadow outside.

'They’re in there,' Carles said, his tone frantic.

Jacques sneered, unable to bite back his words. 'Oh, get on with it, you son of a bitch!' His voice was rougher than he’d intended, cracking on the last word. The taste of bile was sharp in his mouth as he tried to swallow his bitterness, but it was no use. The very air reeked of contempt and stale regret. And the words that had slipped from his mouth lay between them, sharp as any sword.

A chuckle, deep and familiar, filled the space as the shadow took a step forward, revealing himself.

'Now, is that any way to speak to your brother?'

Jacques squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light, the afterimage of his brother’s form still floating in his vision.

'Rick?'

He blinked, trying to clear his head, but the figure before him remained steady. It was no illusion—Rick was truly here, standing tall and battle-ready, the polished black of his armour casting a dull gleam in the cell’s half-light. His black and white cloak was nowhere in sight, an ominous sign. Rick never abandoned it unless he was preparing for a fight. Behind him, Sir Theon Balogun and Sir Orchis Vortigon loomed like silent shadows, their swords unsheathed, each man’s stance taut with the tension of imminent danger. Their eyes flickered around the cramped cell as if expecting an ambush to spring from the very shadows.

Jacques could only stare, his mouth hanging open in shock as his mind scrambled to comprehend the sight of them. 'What are you—'

Before he could finish, Rick lunged forward, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat and enveloping Jacques in a fierce embrace. The force of it nearly knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, Jacques found himself stiff, frozen with confusion as his brother’s arms encircled him. This wasn’t a mere formality or a show of power; Rick’s grip was tight, almost desperate, as if his very life depended on it.

'I thought I was too late,' Rick breathed, his voice thick with relief. His breath came out in shaky gasps, the façade of the stoic prince cracking as he held Jacques like a man who’d just been pulled from the edge of an abyss.

As Rick’s arms wrapped around him, Jacques felt a warmth he’d nearly forgotten, a small flicker of solace amid the unrelenting darkness he’d been drowning in. For what felt like an eternity, he’d known nothing but cold gazes, every set of eyes that met his swimming with suspicion and thinly veiled contempt. The guards, the servants—they all looked at him like he was something unclean, a black stain in a court that prided itself on golden honour. Their silent judgement had burrowed deep, each glance carving out any remaining shred of dignity he’d clung to. And yet, here was Rick, embracing him as if Jacques were no criminal but his flesh and blood, someone still worth saving.

For weeks, Jacques had been haunted by the faces of those who condemned him. The disapproval he imagined in his father’s expression was particularly vivid, that familiar scowl of disappointment etched into his memory from countless childhood transgressions. But it was Sofia’s face that tortured him most, her eyes filled with furious grief. He’d let himself believe, foolishly, that Sofia might see past the rumours and court gossip—that the girl he’d comforted in the palace gardens and confessed his past heartbreaks to would somehow believe him. He’d seen vulnerability in her eyes, a flicker of understanding when he told her about Aubery, the lost love he’d never spoken of before. For a moment, he’d dared to hope that Sofia would stand by him.

Like a door slamming shut, Jacques felt himself plummeting, alone, cast out of whatever fragile connection they might have had. That look had hurt more than any insult or sneer from the courtiers ever could. She didn’t just believe he was guilty; she saw him as something monstrous, a reflection of all the worst parts of his father. The memory of that look lingered, festering, as if every glance since had only confirmed what he feared most: that everyone, even Sofia, saw him as no better than the ruthless man who’d raised him.

But Rick—Rick had never looked at him like that. Not once, not even now.

'Theon, get Sir Finn to his feet,' Rick said, his voice taut with urgency. Sir Theon strode forward, hoisting The Fish Knight up to his feet. Each creak of armour, each echo of a step, felt like a drumbeat of doom in the stifling stone walls.

Rick’s embrace was suffocating, a cruel reminder of how little hope Jacques had left. His brother’s presence brought warmth, but it only fed the growing dread clawing inside him. Rick had doomed them all if the Eastamereans discovered he was here, if they caught him.

Jacques shoved him back, his voice breaking with a mixture of terror and anger. 'Are you mad? What are you doing here?' His words rang sharp against the thick air, cutting through the tense silence.

Rick staggered, caught off guard by the force of Jacques’ shove. When he finally steadied himself, he stared at Jacques, speechless and wide-eyed, his face a map of anguish and resolve. Jacques wanted to shake him, to make him understand the utter fucking madness of his actions, but he held back, fury simmering just beneath the surface. Doesn’t he realise this so-called rescue is a death sentence for us all? Jacques couldn’t bear the thought of his brother dying for his sake, of all his foolish bravery amounting to nothing.

Sofia’s case against Jacques was as brittle as old parchment, reliant on a single damning piece of evidence: his sword. That alone was enough to set the vultures circling, and Rick’s interference would only confirm the worst of suspicions, sealing Jacques’s fate beyond question.

Rick’s face twisted with a strange, unshakeable determination, his jaw tightening, eyes growing wide with unbreakable resolve. 'I know you didn’t do it,' he said fiercely. 'I couldn’t just stand by and let them kill you.'

'They’ll kill you as well,' Jacques hissed, the desperation thickening his voice. He glanced at the looming stone walls around them, their silence an oppressive reminder of the watchful eyes that could be anywhere, everywhere. 'All of you, if they catch you here.'

'Your brother’s right, Your Grace,' Sir Orchis said in a low, clipped tone, his gaze darting to the shadows cast by flickering torches along the damp, narrow corridor. 'It won’t be long before the Eastamereans find out we’re here. We must hurry.'

Rick’s face darkened, defiant, a flicker of reckless bravery hardening his features. His hands clenched into fists, his breath quickening as he took a step toward Jacques, almost as if he could fight the weight of their reality with sheer will alone. 'I won’t let them touch you,' he said, voice quivering with intensity. 'I promise.'

'That’s not the point, you idiot!' Jacques’s voice rose, his heart hammering against his ribs as he fought to keep his voice steady, to make Rick understand the full horror of what lay ahead if they stayed here a second longer. He took a step forward, frustration clawing at him, ready to spill over into anger. But Rick must have seen something in his face, some glimpse of the despair Jacques tried to keep buried. His expression softened, and he seemed to shrink back, his resolve flickering like the unsteady torchlight.

A long, shaky breath escaped Rick as he reached for Jacques’s shoulder, a pleading, almost childlike hope lighting his eyes. 'We’ll prove to Queen Sofia that you’re no murderer. We’ll find a way to show her… show everyone. Together.' He paused, his voice breaking. 'Please, Jacques, don’t let them kill you for something we both know you didn’t do. I can’t—' He swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. 'I can’t let you die.'

If you want to find who was behind this, then you might not have to look that hard, Jacques thought bitterly, the image of his father’s cold, satisfied smile flickering in his mind like a spectre he could never shake. He could almost hear the cruel pleasure in his father’s voice, the scorn lacing every word as he imagined Jacques brought to ruin, humiliated, his head raised on the block.

His gaze met Rick’s, and the weight of his situation pressed down like iron chains on his chest. In the dim, flickering torchlight, his brother’s eyes were fierce, filled with a mix of resolve and pleading. Rick wanted to save him, believed he could—but he didn’t understand the depth of betrayal that lurked in their bloodline, the lengths to which their father would go to gain more power.

Jacques took a deep, unsteady breath, drawing in the stale air of the cell, bracing himself for what was to come. The hollow ache inside him only deepened. I’m sorry, Sofia, he thought, and the thought of her face—smiling, happy—flashed in his mind. He wished he could hold that image, but the harsh reality awaited them both. The next time he’d see her, it would likely be across the battlefield as bitter enemies. She would have to stand by her crown, and he… he would have to face her. One day.

With one last, measured breath, Jacques nodded, accepting Rick’s help and his own fate.

A grappling hook—a slender, sharp glint of salvation—hung from an open window at the far end of the shadowed prison hall. The rope stretched taut and inviting, swaying gently as if beckoning them toward freedom. A gust of wind howled through the hall, cold and biting, seeming to scorn Jacques’ escape. He could almost hear it, the mocking whispers accusing him, calling him a coward for slipping away from justice.

As they ran, Jacques glanced sideways, meaning to question Rick about how he had broken into the palace so effortlessly. But his gaze found the boy, Carles, sprinting alongside them, keeping pace with surprising ease. Jacques blinked, his mind racing to piece together the boy’s role in all this. You were on our side the whole time? He thought of Carles as he’d known him—a little shit, a royal pain in his arse. Clearly, the boy had been given a part to play and had played it flawlessly.

He turned his gaze to Rick, the flickering torchlight casting a solemn glow over his brother’s handsome face. Does Father know you’re here, brother? he wanted to ask, but he kept silent. The small size of their rescue party told him all he needed to know. If their father had known, Rick would’ve come with an army, with banners flying, all the weight of the Rue name and power. Jacques could only imagine the bitter argument, Rick’s plea against their father’s cold refusal, and the way his brother had gone against him, anyway. As usual, Rick’s sense of loyalty had won out, reckless and unwavering.

Rick had chosen his companions well. Sir Orchis, whose shrewd, dark eyes seemed to pierce through any plot or mystery, and who knew the ins and outs of a palace better than any enemy spy. And Sir Theon, the finest blade in the kingdom, his swordsmanship unmatched. These men could bring an army to its knees on their own if they had to. However, Jacques had little doubt that, had they both refused to come, Rick would have stormed the palace by himself, single-minded in his purpose.

As they neared a staircase leading toward the upper halls, Carles came to a halt, glancing back with a determined glint in his eye. 'I’ll create a distraction,' he said, his tone filled with the courage of someone far beyond his years.

'Are you sure?' Rick asked, breathless. 'You could come with us.'

Carles shook his head. 'You’ll still need a man on the inside.' He gave them one last, steady look. 'I wish you all luck.'

Jacques felt a strange pang watching him go. Here was a boy, barely old enough to wield a blade, risking everything for their cause. Jacques wanted to call out, to warn him of the danger, to ask if the fool understood the weight of what he was choosing. But Carles had already turned, his footsteps vanishing down the spiral staircase, his figure swallowed by shadows. In his wake, the dark, silent halls of the royal cells loomed around them like the stone jaws of a beast.

Jacques’ gaze swept over the remaining men—his brother, Sir Orchis, Sir Theon, Sir Finn—and felt the weight of their mission settle on his shoulders. There was no turning back now. Carles’ sacrifice, Rick’s defiance, and the loyalty of their knights—they had all placed their lives on the line for him. A rush of guilt and grim determination stirred within him. They had to make it count.

They ran through the dark hall, their footsteps pounding against stone, the relentless clink of armour echoing louder with each desperate stride. The small, grimy window at the end of the corridor grew closer, an aperture of hope against the oppressive weight of stone and shadow. Jacques forced himself to keep his eyes forward, to focus on escape. Though the thought of the perilous descent waiting on the other side sent a chill through him, the promise of a day in which his life wouldn’t end—not yet—felt like a fragile miracle. With that thought in mind, he surged forward, his strides quickening.

Then, suddenly, a sharp cry tore through the darkness. 'Over there!'

Jacques’ heart leapt into his throat as he squinted into the blinding flash of gold. From down the hall, Prince Luis and the Eastamerean royal guard sprinted into view, their faces hard, their swords drawn, flashing menacingly in the dim light. The sight sent a jolt of pure adrenaline coursing through Jacques’ veins, propelling him forward at a speed he didn’t think himself capable of. He could hear Rick and the others keeping pace, their breaths laboured, but their resolve unwavering.

The window was so close now—mere paces away—when Jacques heard the scraping halt of footsteps behind him. He skidded to a stop and spun around, just in time to see Rick turn to face the oncoming guards, his stance braced, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword. His gaze met his brother’s, and the flicker of calm determination in Rick’s eyes sent a spike of fear into Jacques’ heart.

'Rick, what are you doing?' Jacques cried, his voice raw with panic.

Rick’s jaw clenched, a steely resolve hardening his face. 'Orchis, get my brother and Sir Finn out of here now!' His command cut through the tension like a blade, his tone brooking no argument. He looked at Jacques then, his expression softer but no less resolute. 'Go,' he said. 'I’ll hold them off.'

Jacques’ throat tightened. 'No! You can’t—'

'We need to go, Your Grace!' Sir Orchis hissed, his grip like iron as he seized Jacques’ arm and hauled him toward the open window. Sir Finn was close behind, his face set with grim determination. Ahead, Sir Theon had planted himself firmly beside Rick, his blade glinting like a warning in the dim torchlight.

Suddenly, gold and black clashed in a blinding storm of metal. The Eastamerean knights charged, but Rick and Sir Theon met them in a seamless dance of deadly precision, each movement a calculated step in the song of swords that erupted around them. Rick's blade flashed through the air, striking with practised ruthlessness, while Sir Theon moved like a shadow, his every cut a lethal promise. With each brutal swing, they reduced their enemies’ numbers, the air thick with the scent of iron and blood. Nine knights became seven, then five—a flurry of crimson and the metallic stench of death.

'Your Grace, we need to go, now!' Sir Orchis yanked Jacques harder, pulling him toward the waiting window. The cold wind hit him like a slap, rushing through his white hair, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the heat of the battle raging behind him. His heart hammered as he peered down, catching a glimpse of the dizzying drop below. The ground looked impossibly far, and for a moment, his mind betrayed him, imagining his body shattered like glass on the stones below.

Jacques stole a glance at Sir Finn, whose sea-green eyes betrayed a momentary flicker of fear. 'Perhaps Sir Finn should go first,' Jacques suggested, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

The Fish Knight nodded, a look of quiet resolve crossing his face. Without hesitation, he positioned himself at the window, gripping the rope. Muscles taut with focus, he climbed through, his legs bracing against the wall as he began the perilous descent. Jacques held his breath, watching as Finn’s figure slowly shrank, silhouetted against the yawning darkness below.

A shout rang out, and Jacques whipped around just in time to see one of the golden-armoured knights break through the fray, his sword raised and aimed directly at the window. Jacques tensed, but before he could react, Sir Orchis stepped forward, intercepting the attacker with deadly calm. Their swords clashed in a frenzy of sparks and steel, a brutal dance that ended almost as quickly as it began. Sir Orchis twisted, his blade finding its mark with a sickening finality as he sliced through the knight's throat.

Sir Orchis grabbed the dying knight before he could collapse, his expression unflinching as he dragged the body toward the window and, with a fierce heave, threw it out. Jacques leaned out, just long enough to see the golden knight’s body tumbling, twisting helplessly as it plummeted toward the ground. In an instant, it became a distant speck, then a terrible crimson smear against the stone.

The sounds of battle raged louder, growing closer. Jacques turned back to his brother, his heart clenching. Rick was locked in a deadly rhythm with Prince Luis, each jab and slash a desperate attempt to push each other back. Rick’s feet moved instinctively—left, then right, his blade snapping up to deflect each of Luis’ strikes. But Luis was faster, his movements sharp and precise, exploiting each half-second Rick lost. Still, Rick pressed forward, a relentless force bullying Luis backward along the shadowed hall. Jacques edged closer to the window, his heart pounding in time with the clashing steel, wincing each time their blades connected with a shattering ring.

Just kill him, Rick, Jacques thought, desperation curling through him. But even as the thought took form, a pang of guilt cut through his chest. The man sparring with his brother wasn’t some faceless enemy—it was Sofia’s own blood. If Rick beat Luis here, it would not end with an arena’s applause. If Luis fell, he would not rise; he would bleed out alone in these dark, cold cells, leaving Sofia with yet another loss to bear. Would she even survive it, he wondered, after losing her father as well?

Luis stumbled, and for a moment, Rick loomed over him like a shadow. He raised his blade high, his face a mask of grim resolve.

'Rick!' Jacques shouted, his voice taut with urgency. 'Forget him! Run!'

Rick half-turned at the sound, his gaze meeting Jacques’. For an instant, it looked as if he might obey, that he might let Luis live and escape. But in that split second, Luis lunged, his blade thrusting low along Rick’s leg.

A flash of agony crossed Rick’s face as he screamed, crumpling to one knee. His sword clattered to the floor, helplessly out of reach. Before Jacques could react, Luis drove his blade down into Rick’s back, deep and merciless. Rick gasped, his body arching in pain before slumping to the cold stone.

The world stopped.

'Rick!' Jacques screamed, the sound tearing from his throat in a mix of horror and despair. His legs rooted in place, his vision tunnelling to his brother’s collapsed form. Time slowed, every second stretching endlessly as Luis pulled his blood-slicked blade free, the dark glint of it a sickening reminder of the brutal finality of what had just happened.

Rick lay motionless on the ground, his blood pooling beneath him, staining the prison hall in a dark, spreading red. Jacques’ heart hammered, his body trembling as panic and guilt crashed over him.

'You’ve got to go, Your Grace!' Sir Orchis’ voice cut through Jacques’ dazed horror, his urgent tone sharp enough to wrench Jacques back into the present. Sir Orchis gripped him hard by the arm, pulling him toward the open window where the rope dangled like a lifeline to a world beyond this nightmare. Vision blurry with tears, Jacques resisted, a storm of grief and rage surging within him, threatening to drown him.

'Theon! Help him!' he cried, his voice raw, pleading.

Ahead, Sir Theon was locked in a fierce struggle, holding back Luis and two golden-armoured knights at once. His blade flashed as he twisted and parried, his stance unwavering as he fought like a man possessed, buying them precious seconds. Each swing was precise, each step calculated, but Jacques knew that even the legendary Silver Knight couldn’t hold the line forever.

'Sir Orchis, for the final time, get him out of here!' Sir Theon roared over his shoulder, the desperation breaking through his command, his voice ragged with strain.

'MOVE, YOUR GRACE!' Sir Orchis shouted, his fingers digging into Jacques' arm as he pulled him with renewed force.

Jacques met Sir Orchis’ gaze, struck by the fierceness in The Hawk Knight’s sharp brown eyes, their dark depths grim and determined. But Jacques couldn't bring himself to obey, couldn’t turn his back on Rick, his brother, who lay wounded, dying, in the shadows of this cursed hall. He was frozen, his body unwilling to leave the brother who’d risked everything to save him.

'I’m not leaving him!' Jacques choked out, defiance mixed with desperation, his heart splitting with the impossible choice he faced.

Sir Orchis’ jaw tightened, his tone turning ruthless. 'Your brother is lost, Your Grace!' he shouted. 'We came here to rescue you, and that’s what we’re doing. Please, we need to go!'

Jacques looked down the hall and saw Rick's motionless form, blood pooling darkly around him, painting the cold stone floor in a stark, terrible red. Jacques' heart twisted as he realised the depth of his brother’s sacrifice, the price he was paying for his own freedom. Rick had risked everything, defied their father’s orders, and now… now he was lying there, the life draining from him. The guilt was suffocating, a crushing weight on his chest, binding him to this place even as every second left him closer to capture.

Sir Orchis’ fingers slithered along Jacques’ back, forcing him closer to the window.

'Rick needs me!' Jacques cried, his voice a broken plea.

'He needs you alive!'

With a last surge of strength, Sir Orchis' grip tightened, his fingers pushing against Jacques' back, forcing him to the ledge. Jacques stumbled, his body fighting the pull toward the rope, every fibre of him wanting to run back to Rick, to refuse to leave him here alone. But Sir Orchis’ resolve was unyielding, his strength pressing Jacques forward until he had no choice but to grip the rope.

Jacques felt his descent in every strained muscle as the wind clawed at him, wailing in his ears as if mourning Rick’s sacrifice. The bright blue of the heavens seemed cruel above him, their vast expanse a bitter contrast to the dark halls he’d just escaped. He dared a glance upward and could almost swear he saw his father’s disapproving scowl etched into the clouds, staring down with that familiar blend of judgement and disappointment.

'I’m sorry,' Jacques whispered, his voice swallowed by the wind as he slid lower, inch by inch, toward the unforgiving ground.

Far above, Sir Orchis began his descent as well, The Hawk Knight moving with practised ease as he caught up with Jacques, glancing down at him with a silent urgency. Jacques kept his eyes fixed upward, waiting, praying to see Sir Theon appear at the window with Rick at his side, even if Rick was wounded—even if he isn’t well. He just needed him alive. He needed that one, fragile assurance.

But when Sir Theon finally emerged, he was alone. There was no sign of Rick.

Jacques’ heart sank, and when his feet finally touched solid ground, his entire body felt as if it had shattered. His legs wobbled beneath him, and he might have collapsed right there if Sir Orchis and Sir Theon hadn’t flanked him, each gripping an arm, practically lifting him onto a waiting horse. They were speaking—urgent words, instructions he was meant to follow—but Jacques barely registered them. The world around him blurred, the only sound in his ears the faint, ceaseless echo of Rick’s scream. All he could see, over and over, was the image of his brother falling in the dark hall, blood pooling beneath him.

The streets of Palomia whipped by in a blur, buildings and voices blending into a meaningless cacophony as their horses thundered through. Jacques caught brief glimpses of faces turning in shock, of watchmen shouting as they galloped past, but he chose not to hear any of it. He could only see his brother’s face, imagine his dying breaths in that cold, merciless prison.

Before he even realised what was happening, Jacques found himself being rushed onto a ship, his legs and mind numb as he was hurried into the dim cabin below deck. Sir Theon crouched beside him, his face etched with exhaustion and solemn grief.

'Rick…' Jacques’ voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, as he looked up at Sir Theon. He clenched his hands into fists, his knuckles white with the fear and desperate hope clawing at his heart.

Sir Theon’s head dropped, and for a moment, he seemed unable to meet Jacques’ eyes. 'I… I’m sorry, Your Grace.' His voice trembled, barely holding. 'But your brother is dead.'

The words hit Jacques like a dagger, carving into him with a ruthless precision that left him breathless. His mind went blank, his throat closing up as the world spun around him, distant and muffled. He was aware of Sir Theon saying something more—perhaps words of comfort, perhaps a silent apology—but Jacques couldn’t hear it. It was as if a dark curtain had fallen over everything, trapping him in this hollow, echoing emptiness.

Back in his cell, a thousand questions had filled his mind: plans of what he would say to defend himself, to prove his innocence, and identify the real killer of King Geraldo. But now, with nothing left but the sound of waves against the hull and the darkness before him, only one question remained, growing louder and more terrifying with each passing second.

How am I going to explain this to my father?