The serving girl stood frozen near the door to Jacques’ bedroom, her wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she trembled before him. Her hands twisted the hem of her apron, knuckles white. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the golden sheen of the morning light filtering through heavy drapes.

Jacques paced the length of his bedroom, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. Each deliberate step echoed in the almost silent chamber, broken by the girl’s shivering gasps. Her small figure seemed to shrink further into itself with every turn he made.

Jacques stopped abruptly. 'What was your name again?' He tried to make his voice sound calm, almost gentle, but it must have carried an edge as the girl flinched, as if he’d struck her.

'D-D-Dyana, Your Grace,' she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jacques tilted his head slightly, allowing the name to hang between them for a moment before he spoke again.

'And you’re sure that you saw Sir Bryce Howard take my sword from my chambers, Dyana?'

Jacques studied the serving girl carefully, noting every tremor in her slight hands, every flicker of her frightened eyes. She’s absolutely terrified of me. The thought struck him like a dull blow to the face, and he turned away, his pacing resuming.

He couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t come of her own volition. Two of his knights had escorted her here—Sir Osgar Sterling, The Golden Knight, and Sir Robert Bickerton, The Iron Knight, whose grips were as unyielding as stone. They had flanked her like sentinels as they brought her into his chambers, their dark, armoured presence ensuring she could not slip away.

Jacques had tried to offer an apology, a quiet attempt to soothe her nerves, but the girl had barely met his gaze. She had looked at him the way she might have looked at a snarling dog—ready to rip her to pieces.

Would she be so afraid if it were Mirielle’s pretty face questioning her and not my ugly one? The bitter thought gnawed at him, and his jaw tightened. Mirielle had been blessed with a beauty that made many a courtier swoon, a face that put even Sofia to shame. He, on the other hand... Jacques knew all too well the stories whispered in the halls: that he was a devil, born wrong, traded for his mother, the purest of souls. Perhaps Dyana had come to believe those stories as well.

Sir Orchis had been the one to inform Jacques that the girl had information for him. A thread, The Hawk Knight had called it, something to pull at until the truth unravelled. But this thread was frayed, fragile, and Jacques had the uneasy feeling that one wrong pull could snap it entirely.

'Dyana.' Jacques’ voice softened, but his words were slow, each syllable cutting through the tension in the room. 'Tell me everything you saw. Spare no detail.'

Dyana’s wide, tear-brimmed eyes darted frantically around the room, seeking any safe haven from Jacques’ gaze. Her thin shoulders shook, and the tears that dripped onto the floor formed tiny, dark stains on the cold stone beneath her.

'Y-Yes, Your Grace,' she stammered, her voice faltering as she forced herself to speak. 'I saw Sir Bryce enter your chambers late at night. He took the sword and left quickly.'

Her words hung in the room like a storm cloud ready to burst, and a knot tightened in Jacques’ gut. Dyana’s trembling crippled her, her body folding in on itself as though she expected the floor to swallow her whole. The sound of her choked sobs echoed faintly off the walls, cutting through Jacques like a sweeping scythe.

And then it struck him—a sudden, sobering realisation. It isn’t me she’s terrified of.

His pacing stopped abruptly, and he softened his stance, letting his rigid composure ease. He crouched slightly, lowering himself just enough to meet her eye level, keeping his face calm as Mirielle’s smug grin flashed through his mind.

'I promise you,' he whispered, his voice as soothing as he could make it, 'you will not suffer for your bravery.'

The girl’s watery gaze flicked to his, hesitantly at first, as though testing the truth of his words. Jacques held still, refusing to break eye contact, willing her to see that he was no threat. He stayed rooted in place, his breath steady, waiting.

To his relief, the terror in Dyana’s gaze shifted—just a fraction. The trembling slowed, her breathing evened. She looked at him fully now, tears still shining on her cheeks, but her posture began to straighten.

When she spoke, her words carried a tremor but also a surprising amount of strength, as if she’d drawn courage from his reassurance.

'I knew it to be Sir Bryce,' she said quietly, 'because he smelled of peaches, Your Grace.'

Jacques smiled, taking some humour in the detail. He remembered how the fool—a knight, pompous and stoic—tainted himself with that stench, leaving the smell wherever he walked. But Dyana wasn’t done.

'I… I was caught seeing Sir Bryce take your sword,' she continued, her words quickening as though she’d bottled them up for too long, 'and I was threatened. At knife-point. He said if I ever spoke of it, if I even breathed a word, I would never see my family again.'

Her voice cracked at the mention of her family, and Jacques’ jaw tightened. He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to keep his composure. Beneath the rage towards Mirielle beginning to smoulder within him, he recognised the girl’s bravery—how much strength it must have taken for her to confess, knowing what was at stake.

Threatened at knife point. Jacques tried to keep the smile from his face as he imagined who could have done such a thing.

I’ve got you, Mirielle.

'Who was it that threatened you?' Jacques asked, his voice steady, though his chest tightened with anticipation. He already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from her lips.

Dyana’s confidence faltered, her breaths crawling out in jagged, uneven gasps, each one breaking apart into a quiet sob. Her hands trembled as they clutched her dress, her knuckles white. Tears carved paths down her dirt-streaked cheeks, and her whole frame seemed to collapse in on itself as though the weight of the world had finally crushed her.

'Please…' she whispered, the words barely audible, choked by her grief and terror. 'Your Grace… I beg of you…'

Jacques’ heart ached at the sight of her, the raw helplessness, the pleading in her eyes. But he could not relent. The fire of resolve burned within him. Her fear was a dagger pointed at her throat, and if he didn’t act now, the blade would fall.

He took a slow step closer, his voice lowering to a gentleness that felt at odds with the urgency pounding in his chest. 'I will never let anything happen to you,' he said, each word poised, a promise forged in steel. 'You’ve already met The Iron Knight, Sir Robert Bickerton, haven’t you?'

Dyana gave the faintest of nods, her chin trembling as she fought to keep from breaking completely.

'Good. He will escort you home. From there, he will take you and your family somewhere safe, somewhere the Queen Regent—or whatever she likes to call herself—can’t reach you.'

Her eyes rose slowly, hesitantly, meeting his. They were pools of terror and doubt, and Jacques felt the weight of her unspoken questions: Is he deceiving me? Can he really protect me? Can he keep his word?

The door creaked open behind them, and a massive shadow spilled across the room. Dyana flinched, her body stiffening as though expecting an attack. Jacques turned to see Sir Robert Bickerton enter, his hulking frame nearly scraping the door. His black armour caught the light, giving him the appearance of an onyx sentinel, a fortress of flesh and steel. Despite his formidable presence, his face wore a kind, almost fatherly smile, as though using it to shield himself against the knightly burdens he carried.

Dyana twisted around to face him, her fear magnified now in the presence of another dark figure. Her shoulders trembled, the sound of her shuddering breaths filling the silence.

'So,' Jacques said, adding the first hint of a chill into his voice, 'who was it who threatened you?'

Dyana froze, her lips parting wordlessly. Her eyes darted toward Sir Robert, then back to Jacques, searching for something—reassurance, maybe. Absolution? Courage? Finally, her bottom lip quivered, and her voice came out as a fragile whisper, barely carrying across the room.

'Sir… Sir Mandon Jubilee.'

Excitement coursed through Jacques’ veins like a firestorm, warring with the grim weight of his resolve. 'Sir Robert,' he said, 'you have your orders. Take Lady Dyana and her family to safety while I deal with the Jubilees.'

The Iron Knight dipped his head in a formal bow, his massive frame rigid with focus. 'Aye, Your Grace.'

For a moment, the room stilled, a heavy silence settling over them like the calm before a storm. Jacques stood as tall as he could, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on Dyana. Sir Robert mirrored his stance, but his expression softened ever so slightly as he looked at the frightened girl. Dyana, however, remained frozen. Her slender frame quaked with hesitation, her feet rooted to the ground as though the air itself had turned to stone. Slowly, she turned back toward Jacques, her wide, tear-brimmed eyes locking onto his.

'Your Grace…' she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible. The fear in her gaze was a knife twisting in Jacques’ chest. There was trust there, fragile as glass, but also a desperate plea. Don’t send me away. Don’t abandon me.

Jacques softened his posture, his tone slipping into one of quiet reassurance. 'I gave you a promise, didn’t I?' he said, taking a step forward. 'Sir Robert will keep you safe now. You must trust him. Please.'

Dyana’s lips parted as if to argue, but she stopped herself, her shoulders sagging in defeat. With a reluctant nod, she finally turned away, her movements slow and hesitant, like a deer venturing into an open clearing. Jacques watched as she crept toward the bedroom door, every step weighted with uncertainty.

The door clicked softly as it closed behind her, and Jacques exhaled, allowing himself a brief moment of relief. His lips curled into a small, satisfied smile, though the expression was tinged with exhaustion. Finally, he had something solid, something tangible to expose Mirielle’s guilt. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, and it was all thanks to The Hawk Knight.

His thoughts darkened as the name echoed in his mind.

Sir Orchis Vortigon, with his sharp wit and sharper blades, had always been his father’s tool of necessity. Jacques disliked the man—loathed him, even—but he could not deny the value of his work. The Hawk Knight had a way of uncovering truths buried beneath layers of lies, and today, that skill had borne fruit.

Jacques clenched his fists behind his back, the fleeting satisfaction hardening into cold resolve. Mirielle. The name tasted bitter, as though her very existence had poisoned the air around him. Her machinations had wormed their way into every corner of his father’s court, every crack of King Rickard’s iron-clad rule. She had already stolen too much—loyalty, trust, lives. He would not let her take anything more.

A sudden knock on the door broke his thoughts.

'Your Grace…' Sir Orchis’ voice carried through the thick wooden door, clipped yet tinged with amusement.

Jacques let out a heavy sigh, the weight of a thousand sleepless nights pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. Could he not have one moment of peace? Just one fleeting moment to breathe, to think, to feel something other than the relentless press of duty and vengeance?

Peace.

The word felt foreign now, a phantom from another life. His mind, unbidden, drifted to a memory he had no business holding onto. The golden dove of the Palomas flashed before him, its wings catching the sunlight like fire. Sofia’s laughter followed, rich and uninhibited, a sound that had made the world seem a tad brighter once. He saw her as she was that night—her cheeks flushed from stolen wine, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her brown eyes dancing with mischief as they traded tales below the deck of a creaking ship.

It had been so easy to believe in something better then, even with danger lurking just beyond the horizon.

Jacques shook his head sharply, as though banishing the thought physically would erase the ache it left in his chest. Foolish. Sofia was a luxury he could not afford. Not now. Not ever again.

Any chance of peace had died with his brother.

Jacques opened his door, only to be met by Sir Orchis’ light brown eyes.

The knight smiled at him. 'Good morning, Your Grace.'

'Good morning,' Jacques said through gritted teeth.

'How did it go with our little informant?'

'Mirielle definitely had my brother killed,' Jacques answered bluntly.

For a moment, the air seemed to still, the gravity of Jacques’ words hanging between them. Then Sir Orchis chuckled—a low, theatrical sound that grated on Jacques’ nerves like nails on stone.

'Very good indeed,' Sir Orchis said, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm, as if they were discussing the weather rather than the confirmation of matricide. His eyes glinted with satisfaction, though whether it was from the revelation or the prospect of further chaos, Jacques couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.

'Well,' Sir Orchis continued, breaking the moment with a dramatic sigh, 'I do apologise for interrupting your triumph, Your Grace. But I came to remind you of your meeting with the wine merchant.'

Jacques blinked, his jaw slackening for a split second before the realisation hit him like a wet fish. 'Fuck me!' he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. 'I’d forgotten about that.'

'I’d gathered you did,' Sir Orchis replied, his tone teetering on the edge of smugness. 'I’ll escort you, but we’ll need to be quick about it. Would you like Sir Osgar to join us?'

Jacques hesitated, his mind flickering to the man in question. Sir Osgar, The Golden Knight—his reputation as valued as his title. As a boy of ten, Sir Osgar had been managing his father’s sprawling estates with a deftness that put seasoned stewards to shame. By twenty, he was a knight of King Rickard’s royal guard, and the sole handler of the crown’s coffers, unearthing lost revenues and turning debts into surplus. His name carried a weight among the nobles, whispered in awe and sometimes resentment: a financial savant, sharp as his blade in matters of coin.

Jacques clenched his jaw. Sir Osgar’s brilliance was undeniable, but it also served as a reminder—a reminder of what Jacques wasn’t. The kingdom wasn’t looking to him for brilliance; they were looking for a lifeline, a rock amid the storm. And yet, doubt lingered in the corners of his mind, whispering the same question that had haunted him since the day his brother fell: Can you be what they need now?

He forced the thought aside. He had to be. There was no other choice.

'No,' Jacques said at last, his voice firm. 'Let’s leave Sir Osgar to his coins. I’ll handle this myself.'

Sir Orchis tilted his head, studying him for a beat longer than Jacques liked, as though weighing the truth of his words. 'As you say,' he replied with a nod, his tone unreadable. The Hawk Knight turned for the door, his steps unnervingly silent, as if the shadows themselves carried him.

Jacques watched him go, his hands clasped behind his back to mask the tension building there. When Sir Orchis reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. Jacques expected a parting remark—some sly jab or half-hidden warning—but Sir Orchis said nothing. Instead, he pulled the door closed behind him with a quiet finality. The click of the latch echoed through the room, louder than it should have been, ringing in the charged silence that followed.

Jacques exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging for a moment before he straightened again, drawing himself up. The weight of the mantle he now bore pressed heavily on him, an invisible but unrelenting burden. He didn’t have the luxury of failure—or weakness. Every decision, every deal, every interaction was another stone in the fragile wall he was building to hold back the tide of chaos.

Jacques stripped off his clothes in silence, as though peeling away the weight of his grief. He poured himself a bath, letting cool water rush into his tub, the sound filling the room like a soothing current. Leaning over the edge, he watched as the water rippled and climbed, its surface shimmering in the soft morning light. Steam wasn’t needed today; the crispness of the air demanded something sharper.

The first touch of the icy water made his muscles seize, a gasp catching in his throat. The cold bit into his skin, chasing away the lingering haze of exhaustion. He hesitated for a moment before easing himself in, the chill washing over him like a sudden shock. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts until his body began to adjust. Slowly, the tension that had knotted his shoulders, his back, his chest, began to unwind. The cold didn’t just numb; it cleansed, drawing out the poison of doubt and frustration.

The sun’s golden rays crept through the window, dappling the surface of the water with streaks of warm light. The contrast was almost jarring—warmth above, chill below. He picked up one of the purple soaps, its scent of lavender thick and heady. Rubbing it across his skin, he watched the lather form, white and fleeting, before dissolving into the water. The fragrance filled the room, mingling with the sunlight in a strange, fragile harmony that felt almost out of place. Too elegant for such a man as me, Jacques thought bitterly, scrubbing harder.

Once he had finished, he stood, droplets cascading down his body. He dried himself briskly, wrapped a towel around his waist and crossed to the wardrobe.

As he opened the door, his eyes fell immediately on the familiar brown leather of Rick’s old jacket. It hung there like a ghost, untouched, its folds stiff with disuse. Jacques reached out, his fingers brushing the worn fabric, and a wave of memory crashed over him. He saw Rick lying in the dark, his body slick with blood, his eyes staring into nothing. Jacques’ breath hitched, the weight of it pressing against his ribs, sharp and unyielding.

He shoved the jacket aside, his hand trembling. It swung on its hanger, its presence refusing to be ignored, but Jacques forced his focus elsewhere. A black leather jacket caught his eye—a stark contrast to Rick’s, its polished surface devoid of sentimentality. It was practical, strong, impenetrable.

He pulled it on over a deep red shirt and black trousers, the leather creaking softly as it settled around him. The fit was snug, the jacket heavy but reassuring, as though it were armour. As he fastened the top button, he glanced at himself in the mirror. The black-on-red ensemble gave him the unmistakable look of the royal guard, a detail that brought a faint chuckle to his lips. At least I’ll blend in with the rest of them, he thought. But the humour faded quickly, replaced by the familiar weight of his new station.

His gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where a canvas rested on an easel. Aubery’s unfinished portrait. The brushstrokes were bold yet incomplete, their beauty frozen in time. It was as though the painting, like so much else in his life, had been abandoned midway, suspended in the space between what could have been and what was.

Will I ever get to complete it? The thought struck him with the force of a hammer, regret and determination twisting together in his chest.

He turned away, shaking his head, unwilling to linger too long on things he could no longer change.

This was his first week as regent king and ruler of the capital. Every move he made, every word he uttered, would be scrutinised by the ever-watchful eyes of lords, knights, and commoners alike. Jacques felt the weight of it, an unrelenting pressure coiled around his chest, tightening with each passing moment. He had to prove himself worthy—not just of the title, but of the legacy his father and brother had left behind. Failure wasn’t an option; it would be a declaration of weakness, a chink in the armour his father had spent thirty-five years building.

And today, the wine merchant was the first obstacle in his race to stabilise a city teetering on the brink of chaos.

This man wasn’t just any merchant. Jacques had meticulously prepared for this meeting, pouring over Sir Orchis’ reports late into the night by candlelight. Mister Hanneburg was a name spoken with equal parts respect and wariness in the halls of commerce. Hailing from Reda, a bustling city a few days’ ride east of the capital, he was said to be a titan of trade—a man who had built his empire not with swords, but with silver and shrewd negotiation.

Sir Osgar had examined Hanneburg’s numbers with his typical precision, confirming that the wineries of Reda were unparalleled in their success. They weren’t merely profitable; they dominated the kingdom’s trade routes with rivers of fine vintages flowing into the pockets of nobles and merchants alike. But it wasn’t just wealth that made Hanneburg dangerous—it was power. As head of the Galian Merchant’s Guild, he controlled a web of influence that stretched far beyond the vineyards. His decisions rippled through markets, shaping the fortunes of countless lives.

Now, that man was here, in Jacques’ city, sitting somewhere within the capital’s stone walls, awaiting an audience with its new regent.

Jacques’ aim wasn’t just to negotiate a fair tax rate for the merchant to establish his business here—though that was critical. No, this was about more than mere numbers. Any agreement he brokered had to serve the people, to bolster the city during these turbulent times. The coffers weren’t just his father’s; they were the lifeblood of the capital, strained to their limits by the demands of war. Every coin collected would have to go back toward rebuilding trust, resources, and stability.

And yet, negotiating with a man like Hanneburg wouldn’t be simple. The merchant was reputedly as unyielding as an iron gate, a man who saw every handshake as a battlefield and every coin as a soldier in his army.

Hanneburg won’t bow easily, Jacques thought, not to a ruler like me.

The thought of the challenge sent a surge of determination through him, mingled with the ever-present whisper of doubt. Can I manage this? Can I look a man like Hanneburg in the eye and prove that I’m more than a placeholder for my father?

Jacques straightened his jacket, his fingers brushing over the worn leather. He didn’t need to be his father, nor his brother. He needed to be himself. Every decision he made would carry his own mark.

Jacques opened his cupboard to reveal the sword his father had given him before departing the capital. The sight of it stirred a mixture of emotions in his chest: pride, duty, and a fear he would never admit aloud.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the intricately etched hilt. The Rue family crest—a snarling sheepdog—engraved just below the pommel, a stark reminder of the bloodline he now carried alone. His hand hesitated for a moment before grasping the weapon. The cold weight of the sword filled his palm, grounding him, but it felt heavier than it had any right to.

Tying the belt around his waist, Jacques straightened, squaring his shoulders as he faced the mirror.

The man looking back at him was young, younger than he felt. His white hair framed a face marked by sleepless nights and the burden of decisions beyond his years. His eyes, once bright with mischief, now carried a shadow of uncertainty he couldn’t quite shake. But there was something else there too—something fierce, like his father.

Jacques tilted his chin upward, forcing himself to see not just the man, but the legacy he was expected to uphold. The sheepdog didn’t bend, didn’t falter. His father, King Rickard, was the most feared man in the land—both by his enemies and by those who served him. His brother, Rick, had been a warrior in both spirit and steel, a leader who inspired loyalty and wonder in equal measure.

And now, there was Jacques.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. He knew what the nobles whispered when they thought he wasn’t listening. The doubts they shared in dark corners of the court, the sideways glances that spoke louder than words. They thought him untested, unworthy—a devil playing king in an angel’s world.

They couldn’t change who he was. He was Jacques Rue. Son of King Rickard. That meant something.

His chest rose as he took a slow, deliberate breath.

'I am the King.'

Once Jacques reached the throne room, the heavy double doors loomed before him, framed by a shadowy figure. The Hawk Knight stood tall, his darkness stretching long across the cold stone floor like a demon. The polished steel of his armour caught the dim torchlight, flickering with a restless energy that matched the war between confidence and unease stirring in Jacques’ chest.

'Your Grace,' Sir Orchis said, bowing his head.

Jacques offered a thin smile, masking the storm inside. 'Very good, Sir Orchis,' he replied, his tone carrying a deliberate lightness. 'Let’s not keep our tax-evading wine merchant waiting any longer.'

Sir Orchis gave a curt nod, stepping aside as the doors opened. They groaned as they swung outward, the sound reverberating through the corridor like a warning bell.

The air outside hit Jacques like a slap—fresh and crisp, carrying the tang of the city’s chaos. Overhead, the sky was a bright, almost unnervingly cheerful blue, in stark contrast to the thick, mucky brown smoke curling toward the heavens from countless chimneys and forges. It clung to the air, a grim reminder of the city’s growing hunger for fuel, labour, and survival.

The streets bustled with life, an ever-moving tide of bodies and voices. Merchants called out their wares, their cries mingling with the clang of hammers from the blacksmiths’ forges and the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels on cobblestones. Yellow bundles of fragrant herbs hung from awnings, swaying gently in the breeze, while piles of red spices glowed like embers against dull wood.

Jacques’ gaze swept over the people behind the stalls. Most of the merchants were gaunt, their faces pinched from long hours and scarce meals. Only those selling food seemed to escape this fate, their fuller figures a testament to their trade.

I’d never trust a skinny cook anyhow.

The smallest of smiles touched his lips.

'Fresh fruit, Your Grace, fresh fruit!' A small boy’s voice cut through the din. Jacques turned to see the lad, his clothes worn and patched, but his eyes alight with the zeal of a young vendor. In his hands, he held up peculiar white fruits, their pale skins glistening faintly in the sunlight. The boy’s accent was foreign, his voice carrying the lilting cadence of somewhere far from home.

Jacques gave the boy a brief nod of acknowledgement, and the boy froze in complete shock. Another smile touched Jacques’ lips.

The deeper they moved into the marketplace, the louder the clamour became. The noise of an immense crowd drowned out the sharper sounds, the roar swelling like a restless tide. Jacques instinctively straightened his posture, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword as a precaution.

Ahead, an elevated platform loomed above the throng, its edges draped in tattered crimson banners that fluttered weakly in the breeze. A bald man stood atop it, his robes a deep, blood-red that marked him as someone of significance—or someone who wished to appear as such. His arms were raised, commanding the focus of the crowd below.

'Where are we to go now, my brothers and sisters?' the bald man cried, his voice slicing through the cacophony of the market like a blade. His words carried the raw edge of desperation, yet they rang with a practised cadence that stirred the restless crowd. Thin arms lifted skyward as if beseeching the heavens themselves.

The audience groaned and cheered, their voices a chaotic mix of agreement and anger. Some waved their hands in fervent approval; others clutched their cloaks tighter, muttering curses under their breath.

'The old king has abandoned us, leaving us with nothing!' the man continued, his tone sharpening into a rallying cry. 'We have children starving, young girls selling themselves for a roof over their heads! How can this be our future? Can we even see a future?'

A wave of shouts surged in response, and Jacques felt the air around him grow thick with tension, as if the collective fury of the crowd had become a palpable force.

'Those of you who lived through the days of King Jacob Ayasem know those days were prosperous—the best years Galia has ever seen! But now, we face turmoil and desperation, which can only be a recipe for our destruction!'

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The crowd roared louder; the sound reverberating off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. The bald man’s confidence swelled with their fervour, his strides becoming more purposeful as he paced the platform. His fists shook as though he could channel the rage of the people through sheer will.

'And what’s worse,' he continued, his voice dropping into a venomous hiss that still carried across the square, 'our king is but a puppet—his strings pulled by a master puppeteer, a demon stealing the face of another!'

Jacques arched an eyebrow, the man’s words burrowing into his mind despite himself. The image was uncomfortably vivid: King Rickard, proud and unyielding, reduced to a lifeless figure, yanked along by invisible strings.

'You have to admit,' Jacques muttered, his voice tinged with sardonic amusement, 'he creates quite a visceral image.'

Sir Orchis, standing close enough that Jacques could feel the knight’s steady presence, leaned in and whispered, 'He’s talking about you, you know.'

Jacques turned sharply to his escort, his frown deepening. 'What? Master Puppeteer?'

Sir Orchis nodded, his expression betraying a flicker of unease, and more than a flicker of amusement. 'They think you orchestrated your brother’s murder and used your silver tongue to convince your father to make you regent king.'

Jacques’ jaw tightened, a flare of indignation rising in his chest. 'That’s nonsense!' he hissed under his breath, though the denial felt weak against the roar of the crowd and the weight of the accusation.

If the people of this city can fabricate that sort of story, Jacques thought grimly, what else have they concocted in their endless whispers?

The crowd seemed to swell and sway, their anger growing with every word the speaker hurled from the platform. Jacques felt a chill creep down his spine, despite the sunlit warmth of the marketplace. It wasn’t just the man’s rhetoric that unsettled him; it was the way the crowd responded, as though every word fed a fire already smouldering in their hearts.

'If it’s worth anything, Your Grace,' Sir Orchis said, his tone softening as his bony fingers clasped Jacques’ shoulder, 'you don’t need to convince me.'

Jacques turned his gaze back to the platform, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t respond, but the words did little to ease the gnawing doubt burrowing deeper into his thoughts.

'Now, come on,' Sir Orchis added, his hand lingering on Jacques’ shoulder for a moment longer before dropping away. 'We’ve got a wine supplier to meet.'

As Sir Orchis moved to pass the edge of the crowd, Jacques cast one last glance at the bald man, whose voice still rang out above the noise like a preacher delivering the final sermon of a condemned world. Jacques tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He might be the regent king in title, but here, in the city’s heart, he was just another player in a dangerous game.

A sudden chill crawled over his skin like the touch of icy fingers. He brushed it off at first, but the sensation lingered, crawling up his spine and settling at the nape of his neck. The fine hairs there stood to attention, a primal alarm he couldn’t silence.

Then it came—the voice. Low and insidious, whispering from the corners of his mind.

There are enemies everywhere. You must beware.

The words coiled around his thoughts like a serpent, tightening their grip. Jacques froze mid-step, his pulse quickening, as if his body already knew what his mind refused to admit. His head spun, the street tilting unnaturally as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

His limbs felt brittle, like they might shatter under the weight of unseen pressure. Fragile as glass, his father’s voice in his head echoed, and just as easily broken.

Jacques’ eyes darted nervously along the bustling street, every face suddenly a potential threat. The vibrant market, so full of life and colour moments ago, now seemed suffocating, oppressive. Every laugh felt like mockery, every glance a veiled accusation. His chest tightened with each shallow breath, as though the very air had thickened to the consistency of tar.

He forced himself to look upward, seeking solace in the cloudless expanse of sky. Its serene blue stretched endlessly above, an indifferent witness to the chaos below. For a fleeting moment, Jacques’ thoughts slipped away from the crowded streets, back to the quiet of his chambers.

He could almost feel the cool touch of his paintbrush between his fingers, the soft bristles gliding across canvas as Aubery’s features took shape beneath his hand. He could picture the gentle play of sunlight through the window, casting golden light over the unfinished portrait. There, he could lose himself in her face, in the way her ocean-blue eyes seemed to hold secrets he would never fully understand.

He longed for that calm, for the tranquillity of creation—for the escape it offered. Surrounded by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people, he had never felt more alone.

'Your Grace!'

The voice, low and rumbling, cut through the fog of Jacques’ thoughts like thunder, yanking him back into the chaos of the street. Jacques turned sharply, his eyes darting over the busy marketplace. Something wasn’t right. The crowd was too dense, the air too charged.

'Get away from him!'

The words roared through the marketplace, freezing Jacques in place. A chill spread through his chest, thick and numbing, clouding his thoughts as he finally spotted the source.

A tall figure in a light brown cloak was striding toward him, the hem of the fabric snapping with each determined step. Fiery maple eyes burned beneath the shadow of a hood, their intensity cutting through the crowd like a blade. Rugged scars stretched across pale skin, a map of duels won and battles lost.

'Sir Owen?' Jacques stammered, his voice betraying his confusion at the sight of him. 'What are—'

Before Jacques could finish, The Northern Knight surged past him with the force of a storm, his eyes glaring into the distance. Jacques could only watch as Owen closed the distance between himself and Sir Orchis, who was standing only a few paces away.

Owen’s hand shot out, grabbing Sir Orchis by the throat and lifting him almost effortlessly.

'Thought you could get rid of me, did you?' Sir Owen growled, his northern accent low and guttural, vibrating with raw, unbridled hatred.

Jacques staggered back, his heart slamming against his ribs. Sir Orchis’ usually impassive face contorted, his hands clawing desperately at the iron grip around his neck. His breath came in short, wheezing gasps, each one weaker than the last.

For the first time, Jacques saw something in Sir Orchis’ eyes that unnerved him—a crack in The Hawk Knight’s cool facade. It wasn’t defiance or calculated cunning that stared back at him, but something cold and primal: fear.

'L-let… me…' Sir Orchis choked out, his words barely audible as his face darkened, veins bulging against his pale skin. His once-controlled demeanour dissolved into panicked thrashing, his hands grasping for purchase on Owen’s arm.

But Owen’s grip didn’t falter. His eyes blazed with a hatred so fierce it seemed to consume him entirely. His teeth bared in a snarl, a ram bearing down on a predator that had dared to choose the wrong prey.

Jacques’ mind raced. This wasn’t just a clash of tempers—it was a spark in a room full of powder. Whatever this was, whatever Owen believed Sir Orchis had done, it could not play out here, not in the open, not before the eyes of the people.

'Sir Owen, let your brother-in-arms go,' Jacques commanded, his voice dropping to project the quiet authority of a ruler. He kept every word measured, deliberate, imbued with a regal gravity that could brook no argument.

Owen’s fiery eyes flicked to Jacques, his jaw slackening as the command pierced through his rage. His grip on Sir Orchis’ throat loosened, but only slightly, enough for The Hawk Knight to gasp and sputter, each breath ragged and desperate.

'Your Grace—' Owen began, his tone caught between defiance and knightly respect.

'Not here, Owen,' Jacques snapped, steel edging his voice. 'This isn’t the place. There are too many eyes and there are too many ears. We’ll talk, but not here.'

Owen’s gaze darted to the growing crowd. The realisation must have hit him like a slap—every face turning their way, every pair of eyes wide with shock and curiosity. Reluctantly, his hand dropped, releasing Sir Orchis entirely. The Hawk Knight staggered, clutching at his bruised neck, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

'I…' Sir Orchis wheezed, 'I have an establishment… not far from here. It’s private. We can talk there.'

'No!' Owen’s voice boomed, rough and sharp as he stepped protectively in front of Jacques, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. 'His Grace won’t be going to any of your ‘establishments.’' The disdain in his voice was palpable, each word dripping with suspicion.

Jacques’ eyes narrowed, his curiosity stoked by the interaction. Something truly wasn’t right. He thought back to the reports Sir Theon had shared about The Northern Knight’s disappearance. Where had Sir Owen Flagg been all this time? Why was he so convinced that Sir Orchis was behind it? And how—if at all—did this tangled mess tie back to Mirielle, to King Geraldo’s assassination, to Rick’s untimely death?

His mind churned with possibilities, each more sinister than the last. Jacques clenched his fists at his sides, his resolve hardening. He was done with shadows and half-truths. The time for answers was now.

'No,' Jacques said firmly. Both knights turned to him, their expressions a mix of shock, apprehension and opportunity. 'I want to see these ‘establishments’ you speak of, Sir Orchis, for myself. Take me there. Now.'

As the market stalls faded, the city’s once vibrant energy gave way to an unnerving stillness. The cheerful cries of merchants and the scent of roasting meat had vanished, replaced by a silence that clung to the narrow streets. The cobblestones, worn smooth by countless feet, seemed unnaturally quiet beneath Jacques' boots. Each step echoed faintly, as if even the stones themselves were reluctant to break the hush.

The empty streets stretched on endlessly, their shadows long and foreboding. Every window above seemed shuttered, every door firmly closed. Jacques' gaze flicked from side to side, scanning for movement, his unease growing with each passing moment. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

His mind churned, the question gnawing at him: What sort of establishment could Sir Orchis possibly mean? Sir Orchis had served the crown for years, yet this was the first Jacques had ever heard of such a place. The thought turned over in his mind, bringing with it a wave of suspicion that made his pulse quicken.

The Hawk Knight has secrets of his own, it would seem, Jacques thought, a chill creeping through him as they ventured further down the desolate street. The buildings loomed overhead, their darkened facades almost conspiratorial in their silence. He pictured their destination—a crumbling tower on the city’s edge? A shadowy alcove in the harbour? Or perhaps a nondescript house, tucked into some forgotten corner, hiding its true purpose behind an ordinary face? Each possibility seemed more ominous than the last.

Beside him, Owen’s heavy footfalls broke the quiet like distant thunder. Jacques cast a glance toward The Northman and noted the fire still smouldering in his eyes, his posture tense and predatory.

'I understand you knew my brother, Lyndon, Sir Orchis,' he said, his voice calm but laced with something darker. A dangerous smile crept onto his face, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

Sir Orchis slowed slightly, as though weighing his response. He finally turned his head toward Owen, meeting his challenge with a grin. 'All too well, Lord Flagg,' Sir Orchis replied smoothly, gesturing with one gloved hand toward his scarred cheek. The jagged line ran from his temple to just shy of his mouth, its length stark against his pale skin. 'I still carry a token of his esteem. Your brother was a… formidable opponent.'

The words dripped with mockery, his smile curling further as he added, 'I was so sorry to hear of his passing. Such a shame… especially under your watch.'

Owen’s smirk evaporated, replaced by a stormy glower. His hand fell instinctively to the white ram pommel of his sword, the leather of his gloves squealing as his fingers clenched tightly.

Jacques stiffened, sensing the volatility building between the two knights. 'Enough,' he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip. 'We have more pressing matters than revisiting old wounds.'

Owen’s lips parted as if to argue, but he stopped himself, his jaw tightening instead. His glare lingered on Sir Orchis for a long moment before he grudgingly straightened, though his hand never left his sword.

'Of course, Your Grace,' Owen said, his words measured but brimming with barely restrained fury.

Sir Orchis merely chuckled under his breath, turning his attention back to the road ahead. The scar on his cheek seemed to glisten in the dim light, a mocking reminder of duels fought—and wounds that still festered.

Jacques could feel it pressing against his back, the tension, heavy and stifling, like the threat of a storm about to break. Whatever lay at the end of this journey, he could only hope it was worth the price of dragging these two hungry wolves into the same cage.

As they ventured further from the market streets, the oppressive silence was broken by the steady clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. The rhythmic sound should have been comforting, but it wasn’t alone. Another noise crept into Jacques' awareness, low and guttural, rising and falling like the tide. The unmistakable, raw moans of brothel business. Jacques felt his stomach twist, the vulgarity of it striking like a slap in the face.

The street they turned onto seemed to retreat into darkness, a stark contrast to the open brightness of the market. Shadows clung to the walls, broken only by dim lantern light spilling from cracks in shutters. The deeper they ventured, the louder the sounds became—harsh cries of pleasure and muffled voices that echoed hauntingly off the grimy stonework. The air grew heavy with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and stale alcohol, mingling with the rot of the gutters.

At the end of the street loomed a building that could only be described as grotesque. Its exterior was the sickly brown of dried filth, its surface mottled and streaked as though years of grime had soaked into the walls. Five jagged punctures marred its face: four empty sockets where windows should have been, and a crooked doorway that sagged under its own weight. The wood was splintered and greasy with use, its surface stained with things Jacques didn’t care to identify.

The closer they drew, the more the sounds stabbed at Jacques’ nerves. He could make out individual cries now—some high and breathless, others guttural and pained. His ears burned, and his instincts screamed for him to turn back. But his feet carried him forward, each step heavier than the last.

Jacques stole a glance at Owen, walking just behind him. The Northman’s face was a mask of barely restrained fury, his jaw clenched so tightly that Jacques swore he could hear the grind of his teeth. Owen’s fiery maple eyes burned with disgust, darting toward the door with a look that promised retribution.

'Welcome to my humble establishment,' Sir Orchis said, his voice dripping with mockery. He gestured grandly toward the door, his hand sweeping low in a flourish. 'A sanctuary for the weary. A temple for the hungry.' He chuckled, his tone bright with artificial cheer, as though he hadn’t just led them into a den of sin.

Jacques’ lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze flicked toward the door. The sounds of the building washed over him in an unrelenting tide. He could hear the shuffle of footsteps inside, the rhythmic creak of floorboards, the occasional slap of skin against skin. The air was suffocating, thick with the weight of secrets and desperation.

'You expect His Grace to enter that?' Owen said, his voice sharp, laced with incredulity.

Sir Orchis’ grin only widened. 'It’s where business thrives, Sir Owen,' he said, leaning in slightly. 'And where truths often come to light. Shall we?'

Jacques hesitated, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as his eyes narrowed at Sir Orchis. Owen shifted beside him, his glare boring into The Hawk Knight like a blade.

'Lyndon was too kind to you,' Owen muttered under his breath. He looked Jacques directly in the eye, his gaze full of fierce unease. 'It’s up to you, Your Grace.'

Jacques nodded, steeling himself. He stepped toward the door.

With every inch closer, the noise grew louder, the stench fouler, and his sense of unease heavier. The grotesque facade of the building seemed to leer at him, daring him to cross its threshold. Whatever answers lay within, Jacques had the sinking feeling they would come at a cost.

The dark halls of the brothel stretched out like a labyrinth, narrow and suffocating under the dim glow of flickering lanterns. Shadows danced on the stained walls, their shifting shapes almost alive, mocking him with grotesque silhouettes. The air was thick, chokingly so, with the mingling stench of sweat, alcohol, and the unmistakable, acrid tang of dried semen. Jacques fought the urge to gag as the oppressive scent assaulted him, clinging to his nostrils like an unshakeable curse. His jaw tightened, forcing himself to breathe shallowly through his mouth.

Closed doors lined the corridor, each a portal to unseen depravity. From behind them came muffled noises—whispered promises, guttural groans, the rhythmic slap of flesh—that seeped into the hall like an unwelcome mist. Jacques' shoulders stiffened with each step, the cacophony crawling under his skin. He couldn't tell if the floorboards groaned beneath his feet or if the faint creaks were the weight of bodies shifting behind the walls.

The spiral staircase at the end of the hall loomed like the twisted spine of some monstrous beast, its curling steps disappearing into a shadowy abyss above. It seemed less like a route upward and more like a descent into some pit of unspoken horrors. Yet Jacques pressed on, his boots making soft, deliberate thuds against the warped wood. Every noise amplified, a reminder that he was deep within the belly of something vile, far from the regal halls of the palace.

Behind him, the awkward stomping of Sir Owen’s boots contrasted sharply with the muted steps of the others. Owen’s heavy breathing was an audible struggle, his discomfort in this place nearly as palpable as Jacques' own. He had been a fortress of stoicism outside, but here his tension radiated like heat from a forge. The Northman’s hand still rested heavily on the pommel of his sword, his fingers curled tight.

Sir Orchis, however, glided through the scene as if he were born to it. With an almost jaunty pace, he darted past them, taking the lead and ascending the staircase with a practised ease that made Jacques’ stomach turn.

'Just another day for you, isn’t it?' Jacques muttered under his breath, watching The Hawk Knight flutter to his perch above.

Reaching the top floor, Jacques was met with an unsettling stillness. The noise from below didn’t vanish but seemed to dull, retreating into the background as if the air here had absorbed years of depravity and now exhaled it as a hushed, haunting presence. The hall was no less grimy, but the scent was thicker, carrying an oppressive musk of smoke and perfume. The closed doors here seemed heavier, more deliberate, as if they guarded secrets too dangerous to let loose.

Jacques found himself almost accustomed to the noise by now, though it still grated on his nerves, a relentless reminder of where he was. His eyes lingered on the dark wood of the walls, tracing the deep grooves and scratches etched into them like scars on a battlefield.

Sir Orchis pushed open the heavy wooden door to the only open room in the building, its creak splitting the oppressive silence. Jacques hesitated for a moment on the threshold, the thick, perfumed air rushing out to meet him like a physical barrier. Sir Owen’s imposing form loomed just behind him, his shadow stretching across the narrow corridor and merging with Jacques’ own. With a steeling breath, Jacques stepped inside.

The contrast was startling. Where the rest of the establishment had been a decrepit warren of vice, this room stood as a testament to opulence and control. A plush red carpet covered the floor, its rich hue almost glowing under the flickering light of an ornate chandelier that hung above. The air carried a faint trace of lavender, a sharp departure from the sordid scents that had dominated the lower floors.

Jacques’ eyes were immediately drawn to the large bay window on the far side of the room, its crystal-clear panes offering a breathtaking view of the harbour. The silver-blue waves danced beneath the morning sun, their serenity a stark juxtaposition to the tense atmosphere in the room. Beyond the docks, the city sprawled out in layers of stone and shadow, every rooftop and spire gilded by the golden light.

To his right, a modest rounded table sat, its polished surface gleaming. An inkpot and quill rested atop it, as well as a sheaf of blank parchment. A simple wooden chair, its backrest carved with delicate swirls, completed the setup. Beyond that, a hearth with blackened logs and ashes stood cold and empty, its grate twisted slightly as if it had seen frequent use. Jacques noted the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air, almost hidden beneath the lavender.

But the true centrepieces of the room were the two cushioned benches positioned near the middle, adorned with velvet throws. Sitting on them were two young women, their presence both alluring and unnerving. They turned their attention to Sir Orchis the moment he entered, their glistening smiles brightening their faces like practised masks.

Their attire—or lack thereof—left little to the imagination. Fine silk robes clung loosely to their figures, one in a deep shade of violet and the other in a soft salmon pink. The fabric shimmered with every subtle shift of their bodies, catching the light and teasing what it concealed. Gold clamps secured their ponytails, the metallic shine stressing the pale, lustrous beauty of their blonde hair. Their eyes sparkled with a knowing charm, though Jacques couldn’t help but notice the faint hollowness beneath their performative expressions.

'My lord,' one of them purred, her delicate fingers brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from her face. 'Have you come to entertain us again?'

Jacques’ stomach churned at her tone, at the unspoken implication behind the words. He noticed how her eyes glimmered, not with genuine warmth, but with a hollow mimicry of charm. He fought to keep his expression neutral, though the tension in his chest grew.

'Not today, ladies,' Sir Orchis replied, his voice light, almost dismissive. 'I have urgent business. I’ll entertain you both later.'

The women exchanged a glance before rising from their cushioned seats with an elegance that seemed almost rehearsed. Their silken robes whispered softly as they moved, and Jacques couldn’t help but notice their smiles—delicate, inviting, but deeply unsettling. They turned those smiles toward him, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something that stopped him cold: not just their practised allure, but the ghost of something genuine—fear, exhaustion, resignation.

The sight stirred memories Jacques would have rather left buried. He remembered the way girls used to look at Rick, the charm that had drawn people to him like moths to a flame. He remembered how Aubery had once looked at him; her smile brimming with warmth and possibility. Now, that memory ached, sharp and raw, leaving him hollow.

'Unless,' Sir Orchis interjected, his voice cutting through Jacques’ thoughts. The women froze mid-step, turning back toward The Hawk Knight like marionettes awaiting their strings to be pulled. 'Sir Owen,' Sir Orchis said with an exaggerated flourish, 'would you like to partake in these fine ladies while His Grace and I discuss matters of state?'

The room fell deathly silent, the air charged with tension. Jacques turned sharply to Owen, whose entire frame seemed to bristle like a taut bowstring.

'Piss off,' Owen growled, his voice low and dangerous, like distant thunder promising a storm.

Sir Orchis smirked, unfazed by the venom in The Northman’s tone. With a slight nod of his head, he dismissed the girls. They left without a word, their movements as graceful as their entrance.

'How old are they, anyway?' Owen asked, his voice sharp and unrelenting. 'Seventeen?'

Sir Orchis leaned casually against the back of one of the benches, his expression infuriatingly nonchalant. 'Fifteen and sixteen, I believe,' he said, as though commenting on a horse.

A palpable disgust spread across Owen’s face, his lips curling into a snarl. 'There’s no honour in selling girls like livestock.'

Jacques’ stomach twisted at the words, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. The raw truth of Owen’s statement hung heavy in the air, but Sir Orchis only shrugged, his smirk never faltering.

'True enough,' Sir Orchis said, as though conceding a minor point in a harmless debate. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping into a sly, almost conspiratorial tone. 'But tell me, good sir, how deep are your pockets compared to mine?'

The challenge in his words was unmistakable, a taunt as sharp as any blade. Owen’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword, his gloves tightening as he gripped it tightly. For a moment, Jacques thought he might draw the blade and take Sir Orchis’ head right there.

'You’re a disgrace,' Owen spat, his voice seething with barely contained fury.

Sir Orchis winked. 'Noted.'

Heat prickled across Jacques’ skin as his patience thinned to a thread. The tension in the room was unbearable, each word exchanged a spark threatening to ignite a volatile fire. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, forcing himself to maintain composure despite the urge to scream.

'Now,' he said, his voice steady but laced with warning, 'I want to hear the truth. All of it.'

Sir Orchis smirked. With a theatrical flourish, The Hawk Knight retrieved a jug of wine from a cabinet and placed it on the round table. The sound of its weight meeting the wood echoed in the otherwise silent room. He swept the ink and papers aside with a casual flick of his wrist; the gesture brimming with disdain.

'First,' Sir Orchis said smoothly, uncorking the jug, 'you need to have a glass of wine, Your Grace.'

Jacques didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as Sir Orchis poured the deep red liquid into a glass. The wine fell in a steady cascade, its rich, crimson colour glinting in the firelight like fresh blood. The room’s heavy atmosphere seemed to thicken further as the aroma of spiced berries filled the air. Sir Orchis slid the glass toward Jacques, his movements calculated.

Jacques hesitated, his hand hovering over the glass. Across the room, Jacques noticed Owen’s eyes narrowing as he watched their exchange, his fists clenched at his sides. Sir Orchis looked at Owen with a knowing glint in his eye, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint, infuriating smile.

'Is there someone in the royal palace you trust entirely, Your Grace?' Sir Orchis asked suddenly. The words dripped with venom, each syllable a needle probing Jacques’ already frazzled nerves.

Jacques glanced at Owen, his unease mirrored in The Northman’s hardened expression. The question lingered in the air, heavy with implication. For years, Jacques had tried to believe in the unwavering loyalty of the royal guard, in the steadfastness of the knights who surrounded his father’s throne. But now, doubt gnawed at him, a shadow creeping into every corner of his prospects.

'I’m not so sure now,' Jacques admitted finally, his voice low and laden with unease. The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth, far worse than the wine he refused to touch.

Sir Orchis chuckled, a low, predatory sound that sent a shiver down Jacques’ spine. 'You should’ve said no,' he said, leaning forward, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. 'The entire royal palace is full of demons, Your Grace. The only thing that kept them in check was your father. Now that he’s gone...'

Jacques’ glare pierced through Sir Orchis, frustration and suspicion boiling like molten iron in his gut. 'I know that already,' he said sharply, his voice low. 'What I want to know is what’s happening between you and Sir Owen.'

Sir Owen shifted, his arms folding tightly across his broad chest. His jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. 'Sir Orchis says the royal palace is full of demons,' he said, his voice a growl. 'He’s the biggest one of them all. On the night of the feast, Your Grace, Sir Orchis and I saw Princess Mirielle handing a sword to some Eastamerean knight.'

Jacques froze, the image of Sofia thrusting her blade toward him flooding his mind with startling clarity. The glint of the steel, the thick, fiery grief in her eyes—it all came rushing back, making his stomach twist. His breathing quickened as he struggled to stay present, to process the words spilling from Owen’s mouth.

'He told me,' Owen continued, his voice hardening, 'that if I reported what I saw to the king, I’d have Sir Theon’s place as captain of the royal guard handed to me on a silver platter.'

Jacques rounded on Sir Orchis. 'What is he talking about?'

'And yet you took the opportunity, didn’t you, Sir Owen?' Sir Orchis said smoothly, a smug smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 'I wonder why. Perhaps because you were eager to do your sworn duty as a knight? Or is it the more likely answer that you’re not as honourable as you pretend to be?'

Owen’s hand shot to the hilt of his sword, his face contorting with fury. Jacques raised a hand, silencing The Northman before he could speak or act. 'Stand down, Owen,' he commanded, his voice cutting through the rising tension. He turned to Sir Orchis, his eyes narrowing. 'What else do you know, Sir Orchis?'

Sir Orchis leaned forward, the smirk fading into a grim expression. 'Sir Eduardo Jeffro acted on Mirielle’s orders, Your Grace,' he said, his voice dark and steady. 'He was one of her pawns, as are many others—more than you’d like to believe. Sir Mandon, Sir Bryce, Sir Edrick, knights within your inner circle. But her closest ally?' He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. 'Lord Serben Diae.'

Jacques felt the air leave his lungs. His body went cold, as though someone had poured ice water down his back. 'Serben Diae?' he echoed. The name reverberated in his mind like the tolling of a death knell.

Sir Orchis nodded solemnly.

'The Shadow-on-your-shoulder,' Jacques muttered under his breath, his tone as heavy as the words themselves.

His thoughts raced, the pieces of a terrible puzzle falling into place with chilling clarity. Mirielle, always so composed, so cunning—her alliance with Serben Diae could not be a coincidence. Together, they had the power and influence to infiltrate every corner of the continent. The whispers in the court, the tension between Galia and Eastamere, the deaths of King Geraldo and Rick—it was all connected.

'Bryce Howard stole that sword from your chambers and got it to Lord Serben,' Sir Orchis said, his voice measured but sharp, 'who handed it off to Eduardo Jeffro to assassinate the Eastamerean king. Then Princess Sofia finds out it’s yours and orders your arrest. Your brother hears about it and—'

'Through your spies, no doubt,' Owen cut in, his tone bristling with contempt. He took a deliberate step forward, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the table.

Sir Orchis met Owen’s accusation with a withering glare, his mouth curling into a faint sneer before his features softened, adopting an air of mock contrition. 'Yes,' he admitted. 'I suppose you could say I failed him in my knightly vows. Perhaps I failed in your precious sense of honour too, Sir Owen.' He straightened, fixing his sharp gaze on Jacques. 'But I swear to you, Your Grace, I will do everything I can to protect you. I am on your side.'

Jacques’ anger writhed, his chest tightening with the weight of it. He clenched his fists under the table, feeling his nails bite into his palms. On my side? The phrase felt hollow, a veil covering The Hawk Knight’s obvious self-interest. Images of Rick’s lifeless body flashed in his mind—the blood, the steel, the unbearable distance. He had sat beside Rick’s empty bed, praying, why not me? A pang of guilt twisted his gut. And now he was here, playing a game where the stakes afforded him no mistakes.

'You’re saying that’s why I should trust you?' Jacques asked, his voice cold, the faintest trace of a bitter smile curling his lips. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. 'Because you’re on my side?'

The question hung heavy in the air, each word laced with quiet disdain. For a moment, Jacques thought he saw a flicker of discomfort in Sir Orchis’ eyes, but it was gone before he could be certain.

Sir Orchis leaned forward, his previously casual demeanour replaced by something darker, more calculating. His hands rested on the table, but his body radiated tension, like a coiled viper ready to strike. 'You would much prefer me as an ally than an enemy, let me tell you,' he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that crawled under Jacques’ skin. 'Otherwise you will soon end up like your brother—dead in some pit in Eastamere.'

Owen erupted forward with such a force that he nearly toppled the entire table over. His fists slammed onto the surface, the sharp crack of impact reverberating through the room. The veins in his neck bulged as his gloves stretched, gripping the edge of the polished wood as though he might rip it apart.

'How dare you wear that armour and threaten the prince!' Owen bellowed, his voice rough with fury, the air in the room thickening with his presence. 'Have you a shred of honour?'

Sir Orchis, unfazed, leaned back in his chair, his expression as calm as still water. He raised his hands in mock innocence, a sly grin curling at his lips. 'I just know my talents, Sir Owen,' he said, his tone light and unbothered, as though addressing a temperamental child. 'I am here to help, but I cannot—will not—aid those who refuse to help themselves.' He turned his piercing gaze to Jacques, the smirk on his face settling into something colder, sharper. 'I am sorry, Your Grace, if you feel that I have deceived you. But if we are going to do this—if you are going to survive this game—you must trust me entirely. I need your full cooperation. Do we have an accord?'

The room fell into a suffocating silence, the only sound the faint echoes of the brothel. Jacques leaned back, the weight of Sir Orchis’ proposition pressing on him like the jagged stones of a crumbling wall. The shadows danced across the ceiling, their shapes shifting like the tumult of his thoughts.

For a fleeting moment, he yearned for comfort—for Rick’s broad grin that had once filled him with courage, for the melody of Aubery’s laughter, for the warmth in Sofia’s curious gaze. Yet all of those were distant now, echoes of a life he could no longer reach. Here, he faced only the cold, predatory scrutiny of Sir Orchis Vortigon.

Sir Orchis’ fingers, long and skeletal, rested on the edge of the desk. His nails tapped softly against the wood, a rhythm that felt deliberate calculated—each tap leading to annihilation. A reminder: time was running out.

At that moment, Jacques stood at a crossroads. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to lash out, to yell, to demand justice for Rick, for King Geraldo, for Sir Theon, and every other victim of this relentless game of politics and power. But his instincts whispered a different truth: power was not claimed by raw emotion alone. It required precision, a sharp mind honed by fire. The world thought him a pawn, a fragile man destined to be bent and broken by stronger wills.

He would prove them wrong.

I am the King.

Jacques straightened in his chair, his shoulders squaring with a newfound resolve. A flicker of a smile—a defiant, daring grin—played on his lips as he met Sir Orchis’ hawk-like gaze head-on.

'I appreciate your information, Sir Orchis,' he began, his voice steady, each word meticulously chosen. 'But I will not be taking up your offer.'

Sir Orchis' face fell, disbelief morphing into simmering frustration as the mask of his confidence cracked. 'Why not?' he demanded, his voice almost a growl.

Jacques’ eyes narrowed as a mocking smile tugged at his lips. 'Well, you said it yourself,' he replied, his tone laced with an edge of sarcasm. 'I should not trust you. So I won’t. I will deal with the Jubilees myself.' He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a stone in the suffocating silence. 'Good day, Sir Orchis.'

Before the knight could muster a retort, Jacques rose to his feet. The room seemed to shrink under the force of his departure. Sir Owen, his shadow, fell in step behind him, his heavy boots thudding against the polished wood floor.

But as they made their way toward the staircase, the cacophony of Sir Orchis’ wretched domain bled through the thin walls. The moans of forced ecstasy, the syrupy giggles, the occasional desperate, hollow laughter—all of it grated against Jacques’ senses, making his stomach churn. Each sound was a glaring testament to the corruption festering within these walls, and Jacques felt a cold anger coil tighter in his chest. This wasn’t just a moral failing; it was an affront to the very principles of the royal guard’s vows.

Jacques’ feet stilled on the top step, and he turned sharply, facing the seething knight once more. Sir Orchis sat stiffly, his angular face shadowed by the dim light of the room, his glare sharp enough to cut glass.

'One more thing,' Jacques said, his voice dropping into a tone that was not entirely his own. It carried the weight of his father’s authority, a cold, commanding resonance that left little argument. 'I will see this establishment closed, its doors barred, and every coin earned within its walls given to the poor. Is that understood?'

The air in the room seemed to thin as Sir Orchis remained silent, his jaw tightening visibly. His bony fingers flexed at his sides, his nails scraping faintly against the plate of his armour as though itching to lash out. The Hawk Knight didn’t speak. His glare, venomous and unyielding, was his only response.

Jacques met his silence with a smirk—a defiant, victorious grin that sent a ripple of satisfaction through his chest. The temptation to press further—to twist the knife, to tell Sir Orchis exactly where he could shove his self-serving ‘talents’—burned within him. But Jacques knew better. He had already made his point, and they were finished here.

'Come, Owen,' Jacques said, his tone calm, final. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and descended the stairs, the creak of the worn wood punctuating each step.

Owen followed closely, casting a dark, imposing shadow across the stairs leading downwards. 'You did well, Your Grace,' The Northman said, his tone measured but carrying the faintest patronising edge, as if he were speaking to a child learning how to read.

A sharp flare of indignation shot through Jacques’ chest. He stopped mid-step, his hand gripping the banister with white-knuckled force. Slowly, he turned, his glare boring into Owen like a dagger poised for the kill. The Northern Knight froze under Jacques’ gaze, the bravado in his demeanour faltering.

'Just because I don’t trust Sir Orchis,' Jacques began, his voice low but laced with simmering fury, 'does not mean I trust you.'

The words hung in the stale air between them, as sharp and precise as a sword’s edge. Jacques took a step closer, watching as a flicker of uncertainty crossed Owen’s normally unflappable expression. The faintest tremor in the knight’s jaw betrayed the fear Jacques had struck—a reminder of who held the regency and who wielded the power.

'After I am done with Mister Hanneburg,' Jacques continued, his tone like cold iron, 'you and I are going to The Boot and Slipper Inn. And there, Sir Owen, you are going to tell me everything.'

Owen’s lips parted as though to protest, but no words came. The bravado drained from his face like wine spilling from a cracked goblet. His towering presence seemed to shrink, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. His eyes darted to the floor before returning to Jacques’, and with the reluctant obedience of a chastened hound, he nodded.

'Yes, Your Grace.'

Satisfied, Jacques spun on his heel and resumed his descent. His heart hammered against his ribs, the rage and determination swirling together in a potent storm of emotion. He needed clarity, answers, and, above all, control. The web of lies and betrayals tightened around him, and the thought of Owen—or anyone—keeping more secrets made his blood boil.

'Why are we going to an inn, Your Grace?' Owen asked, his voice uncertain, almost hesitant, like a child asking a question he already feared the answer to.

Jacques let out a long, heavy sigh, the weight of the day pressing harder against him. He glanced over his shoulder, fixing Owen with a wry, weary smile. 'Because I need a drink.'