The cobblestones beneath Jacques’ boots grew slick with patches of moss, each step sending faint echoes across the street. The shift from the suffocating stench of Sir Orchis’ brothel to the crisp, brine-tinged city air felt like emerging from a tomb. Jacques inhaled deeply, his lungs filling with the cleaner, cooler air, though the lingering memories of that depraved place still clung to him like a shadow.

Sir Owen walked a pace behind him, silent but watchful, his heavy boots thudding against the cobbles with a steadiness that contrasted with Jacques’ stormy thoughts. The wine merchants awaited them, but Jacques could hardly focus on Mister Hanneburg and the task at hand. The Hawk Knight’s deceit gnawed at him, a festering thorn buried deep in his chest.

Every word Sir Orchis had spoken replayed in Jacques’ mind, each one weighted with poison. A kingdom full of demons, he told me, Jacques thought, and I am the only one who can hold them at bay. Jacques clenched his fists at his sides. The sheer audacity of the man—manipulating his grief, mocking his authority, playing games with secrets—was more than he could bear.

He would not be anyone’s fool. Not Sir Orchis’. Not Mirielle’s. Not anyone's. He was regent king now, whether they accepted it or not. The thought fuelled a fire within him, a defiance that burned hotter with every step away from that den of corruption.

Owen’s presence behind him was a constant reminder of the answers he still lacked. After the wine merchants, Jacques thought grimly, then the inn. Then we’ll see if The Northern Knight’s loyalty is as firm as he claims. He would press Owen for every detail, every secret that had been kept from him, every truth buried beneath lies. The Hawk Knight’s words had planted doubts that now took root, spreading like vines through his thoughts.

He glanced back at Owen, who had maintained his stoic silence. The Northern Knight’s face was as hard as ever, his eyes fixed forward, his jaw set like granite. But Jacques thought he caught something else there—a crack in the armour. Fatigue, perhaps. Or guilt.

Jacques turned his gaze forward again, his pace quickening to get to Mister Hanneburg. The cobblestone streets stretched ahead, winding through the town like veins in stone. Jacques adjusted his jacket against the chill sea breeze as he glanced toward the horizon, where rays of sunshine broke through the clouds, casting shadows. The air carried the mingled scents of brine, damp wood, and the faint, metallic tang of far-off forge fires. For once, the usual cacophony of life—children shouting, carts rumbling over stones, and the endless gulls—didn’t set his teeth on edge. He felt steady. Resilient, even.

But that fleeting peace won’t last, Jacques thought miserably, giving Owen another glance over his shoulder.

At first, Jacques barely registered the sound—just a faint, irregular cracking, too soft and distant to warrant his attention. He dismissed it, filing it away as the harmless noise of the port: a seabird cracking a clam, a loose shutter banging in the wind, perhaps the faint echo of waves slapping against the hulls of anchored ships. But as they pressed farther along the road, the noise grew. It grew louder. Sharper. Rhythmic. Unignorable.

Jacques slowed, his brows knitting together as unease began to trickle back into his veins. He cocked his head, straining to listen over the ambient hum of the street. The sound was unmistakable now—harsh, deliberate, a whip-like crack that carried a brutal finality. His pulse quickened, a cold fear creeping up his spine. He cast a glance at Owen, whose expression betrayed no emotion at first—just the same stony resolve as always. But then, as the sound rose again, clearer and closer, Owen’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing like twin slits of molten steel.

Relief flared deep in Jacques’ soul, fleeting and hollow. So I didn’t imagine it, he thought, At least I’m not losing my mind.

A scream—a child’s scream—split the air, shrill and raw, bursting from the lungs of someone far too young to endure the pain behind it. Jacques froze, the sound slamming into him like a blow. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and a terrible chill flooded his chest. It was the kind of scream that pierced straight through a man, bypassing thought and reason and clawing at something primal inside. It was desperate, unrelenting, unfiltered by fear of who might hear.

The scream came again, this time warbling, fraying at the edges as though the voice behind it was faltering. Then came the sounds of struggle: shallow, laboured gasps punctuated by the dull, sickening thud of flesh striking flesh. The rhythm of the blows was slow but methodical, each one landing with a brutal finality.

Jacques’ mind conjured images he didn’t want to see—images too vivid to dismiss. A small figure sprawled on rough ground, struggling weakly against a towering shadow. A hand raised high, then brought down with a force that stole breath and hope alike. His stomach churned as those imagined scenes clashed with the serene, indifferent backdrop of the street around him.

He turned to Owen. The knight’s expression had darkened, his features hard and cold as granite. His hand was already resting on the hilt of his sword, the leather creaking faintly under his grip. Jacques swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his heart hammering against his ribs.

No words were exchanged; there was no need. The unspoken agreement passed between them as clearly as if it had been shouted. This was real. This was happening. They were close enough to intervene.

Owen started forward, his strides purposeful, his armour clinking softly with each step. Jacques hesitated for the briefest of moments, his body caught between the instinct to flee and the impulse to follow. Then, steeling himself against the rising storm in his gut, he tightened his grip on his own blade and hurried after Owen. The screams echoed louder now, carving a path through the grey haze of the street and pulling them both inexorably toward the unknown.

Turning into a narrow alleyway, Jacques’ stomach twisted as the scene came into focus. Two figures stood stark against the dim light filtering through the narrow gap above: one tall and broad-shouldered, the other smaller, crumpled over herself like a wilted flower. The taller figure moved with brutal rhythm, his arm rising and falling in deliberate arcs, each strike landing with a sickening crack that seemed to echo louder than it should in the confined space. The smaller figure—a girl, no older than ten—jerked with each blow, her body convulsing as if trying to fold in on itself. Her sobs came in broken, gasping bursts, her face hidden beneath a tangled curtain of matted blonde hair.

Jacques’ breath caught in his throat, bile rising as the sight burned itself into his mind. The air in the alley reeked of damp stone and something acrid, something metallic, something wrong. It made his skin crawl.

The light caught the man’s armour, revealing plates of tarnished black steel. The once-proud symbol of the royal guard was barely discernible beneath stains of grime and corrosion. Jacques’ chest tightened as recognition struck. Sir Mandon Jubilee. Theon Balogun’s replacement as captain of the royal guard.

Sir Mandon turned slightly, the dim glow catching his face. It was flushed and glistening with sweat, his brow furrowed in grim determination, his mouth twisted into something that was neither a smile nor a frown but a grotesque hybrid of both.

His hand came down again with a resounding thud, striking the girl’s backside. She let out a piercing scream, her voice raw and hoarse. Her tiny frame trembled violently, her arms clutching her knees as though they could somehow shield her from the next blow. A whimper escaped her lips—a sound so small, so broken, that Jacques felt his heart crack beneath the weight of it.

'What is the meaning of this?' Jacques shouted, his voice crashing through the tense silence like a thunderclap.

Sir Mandon froze mid-strike, his arm suspended in the air as though the words had turned him to stone. His head turned slowly toward Jacques, his expression flickering between irritation and surprise. For a moment, his hand remained poised in the air, the plate of his gauntlet creaking faintly as his fingers tightened into a fist.

'Your Grace,' Sir Mandon finally said, his tone flat but edged with a faint wariness. He lowered his arm slowly, though his grip on the girl’s tattered dress remained firm. His eyes, dark and unfeeling, narrowed as they swept over Jacques and then shifted to the larger figure of Sir Owen Flagg, who had stepped up silently behind Jacques, his hand resting on the ram pommel of his sword.

Jacques took a step forward, his blood boiling. 'What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?' he hissed, his voice low and venomous. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms. The sight of the girl—her fragile body crumpled at Sir Mandon’s feet, her sobs stifled by sheer exhaustion—ignited a fury that burned hotter with each passing second.

Sir Mandon squinted at Owen, his face a mask of twisted emotions—a mixture of shock, anger, and something that might have been fear. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came out, the silence growing heavier with each passing second. Jacques stood his ground, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, each beat hammering against his ribs like a war drum. His eyes darted between the trembling girl and Sir Mandon’s looming figure, his mind racing.

What’s got him so spooked? Jacques thought, his gaze flickering to Owen. The Northern Knight stood motionless, his hulking frame casting a long shadow over the narrow alley, his steely eyes boring into Sir Mandon like the edge of a drawn blade. The tension between the two men was thickening, crackling in the air like a storm on the verge of breaking.

A dark frown spread across Sir Mandon’s face as he clawed back his composure. His lips pressed into a thin line before curling into a sneer. 'The kind who sticks to the letter of the law, Your Grace,' he said, his voice dripping with false reverence. He motioned to the girl with a sharp nod, as though she were nothing more than a piece of filth on the ground. 'She’s being punished.'

'For what crime?' Jacques demanded, his voice sharp, reverberating off the alley’s stone walls. His words sliced through the heavy air, and even Sir Mandon flinched slightly under their weight.

The Coast Knight’s expression hardened further, his shoulders squaring defensively. 'I caught her… stealing an apple.'

The words hung in the air, a grotesque justification that twisted Jacques’ stomach. A tense silence fell, broken only by the girl’s quiet, hiccupping sobs. Jacques turned to Owen, his mouth hanging open, searching for some confirmation that he’d heard correctly. The knight’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle tightening around his jaw, a faint glimmer of disgust in his eyes that mirrored Jacques’ own fury.

Even for a heartless bastard like Sir Mandon Jubilee, this was beyond the pale. A starving child beaten nearly senseless—for an apple. Jacques couldn’t decide what was more infuriating: the act itself or the sickening smugness radiating from this fool of a knight, as though he truly believed he was dispensing justice.

'And you thought that was a fair excuse to beat her?' Jacques’ words were slow, each syllable dripping with contempt. He pointed a shaking finger at the girl, whose frail body still trembled under the weight of her pain and terror. 'Look at her! She’s probably starving, you fool! Don’t you know we’re at war?'

The mention of the war seemed to shift something in Sir Mandon, a fleeting flicker of defensiveness crossing his face before he buried it beneath his stony mask. Jacques pressed on, his voice rising, every word ringing with righteous indignation. 'Our people are dying! Starving! Fighting for their lives, and this is how you serve them? By brutalising a child over a piece of fruit?'

Sir Mandon opened his mouth, his hand twitching at his side as though reaching for a response—or perhaps his weapon. Jacques didn’t give him the chance. He stepped closer, his glare scorching. 'I’ll say this much for you, Coast Knight. You’ve never been more than your sister’s lackey, carrying out her every cruel whim without a second thought. But this?' He gestured at the girl, the sheer injustice of it choking him for a moment. 'This is low. Even for you.'

Sir Mandon stiffened, his jaw working as if grinding his teeth. The girl whimpered, curling tighter into herself, her shoulders shaking. Jacques’ fury deepened, his chest tightening with an overwhelming need to right the wrong in front of him.

'Let her go,' he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. 'Now. Before I have you dragged to the cells and locked away like the fucking coward that you are.'

Owen took a step forward then, his imposing figure looming larger, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. Sir Mandon hesitated, his eyes darting between Jacques and Owen. For the first time, Jacques saw uncertainty in the man’s eyes—a crack in his arrogant façade. It was a small victory, but not enough.

Sir Mandon’s grip on the girl faltered before he finally let her go with a begrudging grunt. She collapsed to the ground, curling into herself with a muffled cry. Jacques’ anger didn’t wane, but for now, his focus shifted.

'It’s all right, you’re not in trouble,' Jacques told the girl, his voice low and soothing as he crouched before her. He extended a hand, palm open, careful not to make any sudden movements. Her wide, tear-streaked eyes darted between his hand and his face, suspicion and fear warring in her expression. The moments stretched painfully long before she finally reached out, her small fingers trembling as they brushed against his. Jacques gently closed his hand around hers and helped her to her feet.

'Th-Thank you… thank you, Your Grace,' she whispered, her voice high-pitched and thin, like a cracked reed in the wind. Her hands still shook, her body quivering as though the fear clung to her like a second skin.

Jacques offered her a soft, reassuring smile, a stark contrast to the storm of fury still boiling beneath his calm exterior. He placed a hand over hers, trying to still her trembling. The girl flinched at the touch, her eyes snapping to his in wide-eyed shock. For a moment, she simply stared, as though the concept of kindness was utterly foreign to her. Jacques’ chest tightened at the realisation—how many others like her have endured this cruelty under my father’s rule, unnoticed and unchallenged?

'Owen,' Jacques said, his voice steady but layered with quiet urgency. He turned slightly toward the knight, though his gaze remained on the girl. 'Go to the wine merchants. I’ll meet you there.'

But Owen didn’t move.

Jacques finally turned, his brows knitting together as he caught sight of the Northman. Owen wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were locked on Sir Mandon, sharp and unrelenting, the kind of frozen gaze that could peel away a man’s skin layer by layer. Jacques followed his gaze, his stomach twisting. Sir Mandon was standing rigid, his mouth slightly agape, his expression flickering between discomfort and alarm.

'Seems very convenient, seeing you here, Sir Mandon,' Owen said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a chill through the alley.

Sir Mandon’s mouth worked silently for a moment before he managed to stammer, 'I… I…'

Owen took a slow step forward, his boots grinding against the cobblestones. 'You knew we’d come here to get to the wine merchants, didn’t you?' he growled, his tone dropping lower, the accusation heavy in the air.

Jacques felt his heart lurch in his chest, a creeping dread settling in. If Mandon was here…

'Sir Mandon, where is your sister?'

The question seemed to suck all the air from the alley. Sir Mandon’s eyes widened, and for the briefest of moments, something like terror flashed across his face. He glanced around desperately, like a cornered animal searching for an escape. 'I don’t know, Your Grace,' he stammered, his voice trembling.

Jacques strode forward, closing the distance between them in a few swift steps. He levelled a piercing glare at the Jubilee boy, his suspicion solidifying into certainty.

This is no coincidence.

'You’re stalling us, aren’t you?' Jacques said, his voice low and sharp, every word crackling with fury. His jaw tightened, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. 'Sir Mandon, where is your sister?'

Sir Mandon’s composure shattered like glass. His eyes flared with panic, his breathing quick and shallow. Jacques saw the exact moment the knight made his decision—a split second before he bolted.

The sheer speed of Sir Mandon’s retreat took Jacques’ breath away. One moment, The Coast Knight was a looming figure of arrogance and panic; the next, he was a blur streaking down the narrow street, his crimson cloak billowing like a bloody banner. Jacques barely had time to register the movement before Sir Mandon was already shrinking into the distance, a speck darting between the darkened shadows of the city.

Jacques’ breath hitched, his body tensing with the instinct to give chase. But he hesitated, his gaze snapping back to Owen. The Northman stood like a sentinel beside the girl, his towering form casting a protective shadow over her. The girl clung to his side, her small frame trembling as she peered up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, clutching her bruised arms to her chest.

'Sir Owen, see that the girl finds safety!' Jacques barked.

Owen’s head whipped toward him, his fiery maple eyes narrowing in protest. 'Your Grace—'

'Just do it!' Jacques cut him off, His tone leaving no room for argument. He met Owen’s gaze for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of trust and expectation passing between them. Jacques didn’t wait for a response.

He turned and broke into a sprint; the urgency driving him forward. The cobblestones beneath his feet blurred into a seamless pattern, the uneven ground jarring his steps as his boots hammered against the street.

Jacques’ chest burned, each breath dragging through his throat like hot coals. His lungs screamed for air, but he ignored them, pushing forward with a single-minded focus that drowned out everything else. Every muscle in his legs felt as if it were tearing with each step, tendons straining as though his body were on the verge of collapse. But stopping wasn’t an option. He was too close.

If Mirielle had reached Mister Hanneburg before him, the consequences could ripple far beyond this single meeting. She was regent too, a rival, and alliances meant everything in their precarious dance for power. Jacques could picture her already, her graceful composure radiating confidence as she leaned toward the merchant, her every word a ballad of charm.

Hanneburg wouldn’t stand a chance.

His heart thundered in his ears, the rhythm merging with his frantic thoughts. How could I let this happen? He cursed himself silently, his jaw tightening as guilt clawed at his chest. He should have anticipated this—known she’d move swiftly and with precision. Now, every moment mattered.

Market stalls flew past like fleeting impressions on a painter’s canvas, the vibrant yellows and reds of spices smearing together with the deep browns of worn wood. Shouts and cries from merchants became a meaningless cacophony, muffled beneath the roaring in his ears. Faces turned as he ran, eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of their Regent King sprinting like a man possessed.

'Move!' Jacques barked, the sharp command breaking from his lips as he shoved past a fruit vendor who had strayed too far into the street. A cascade of small, round berries spilled from the man’s crate, bouncing across the cobblestones like drops of blood. Jacques barely registered the startled yelp behind him, his focus fixed solely ahead.

The city’s familiar scents—of fresh bread, horse sweat, and the faint metallic tang of soot—felt cloying now, oppressive. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw from exertion, the taste of iron lingering on his tongue. Every breath cut through him like a blade, the weight in his chest pressing down harder with each laboured inhale.

His legs screamed for rest, but he pushed them harder. The image of Mirielle at Hanneburg’s side flashed through his mind again—her rich brown hair catching the light, her soft laugh disarming the merchant as she laid the groundwork for her next move. Mirielle’s ambitions were like vines, slow to take root but relentless once they did. If she secured Hanneburg, it wouldn’t stop there. A simple wine merchant could become a lever for something much larger—a foothold in their endless struggle for dominance.

She can’t win, Jacques thought, the words hard and sharp like the stones beneath his feet. The sheer intensity of the idea propelled him forward, his boots slamming against the cobblestones in a relentless rhythm. Pain radiated from his knees with each step, a throbbing reminder of his body’s limits.

Finally, the sign came into view. It swayed gently in the breeze, a splash of crimson against the muted tones of the street. ‘Hanneburg’s Redan Wine Merchants,’ the white letters proclaimed in an elegant script, standing proudly above the dark red double doors. They loomed before him like a threshold to victory—or failure.

Jacques staggered to a halt just short of the doors, his chest heaving as he bent forward, clutching his knees to steady himself. A sharp stitch tore at his side, each breath like a dagger twisting deeper. Sweat clung to him, soaking through his clothes and plastering stray strands of white hair to his forehead. He swiped at his face with a trembling hand, trying to steady his pounding heart and failing.

'Miri,' he heard Sir Mandon pant, his voice a rasp of alarm as Jacques shoved against the heavy door.

The hinges groaned in protest, and daylight sprayed into Mister Hanneburg’s office, cutting through the dim glow of the room. The sweet scent of honey candles wafted into Jacques’ nostrils, their warm fragrance cloying, mixing with the deeper, richer aroma of aged wine that hung thick in the air. It was an inviting smell, meant to disarm—a deliberate effort, no doubt, to foster comfort and ease for the deals struck here.

Jacques’ eyes swept the space in an instant. A thin red curtain hung over the window at the back of the cramped office, its fabric frayed at the edges. The faint glow of sunlight filtered through it, casting streaks of muted crimson across the worn wooden floor. Mister Hanneburg sat behind a solid oak desk, his thick fingers curled around the armrests of his chair. Square-lens glasses perched precariously on his nose, reflecting the light in sharp glints that obscured his eyes. Beside him sat an open bottle of wine, the deep red liquid gleaming like blood in the glass decanter.

Two wine glasses stood before him, filled almost to the brim. They were pristine, untouched, their contents shimmering faintly with the promise of a toast that Jacques had been too late to interrupt.

In front of the desk sat a single red chair, its position calculated to force any visitor into a submissive tilt, eyes inevitably drawn upward to meet Mister Hanneburg’s gaze—a power tactic King Rickard himself had wielded many times.

And then his heart sank, plummeting into a cold, hollow ache in his chest.

Mister Hanneburg’s hand was outstretched, his thick fingers clasping those of Princess Mirielle Jubilee. Her petite hand rested in his with poised elegance, her posture perfect as ever. Her head tilted slightly as if to offer deference, but Jacques knew better. Her large, captivating brown eyes glimmered with feigned innocence, the edges of her lips curling into a serene smile that hid a predator’s satisfaction.

Between them lay a sheet of paper on the desk, the bold scrawl of Mister Hanneburg’s signature glaring back at Jacques like a death knell. The ink glistened, not yet dry, its permanence a cruel testament to Mirielle’s triumph.

'Ah, Your Grace,' Mister Hanneburg said, his voice warm, tinged with smug amusement. He leaned back in his chair, his thick frame settling comfortably as if savouring the moment. 'Nice of you to join us. Myself and the Queen Regent here were just sealing a deal for me to set up shop here in the capital.'

Jacques’ jaw tightened, the sharp pressure sending a dull ache up to his temples. His teeth ground together with a near-audible scrape, his body stiffening as the weight of the scene pressed down on him. Queen Regent. She’d claimed the title, wielded it effortlessly, and twisted it into her advantage as if the title had always belonged to her.

His gaze flicked back to Mirielle, who met his eyes with a calm, unbothered expression. Jacques knew that look. Oh, how he knew it. It was the same calculated veneer she’d worn on her wedding day, when she’d married Rick.

'She has, has she?' Jacques said, his voice a razor’s edge, each word trembling under the weight of his fury.

Mirielle’s laugh was a light, chiming sound, but it grated like nails across stone. Her lips curled into a smile, her expression as effortless as a breeze, and yet it carried the precision of a dagger aimed straight at his pride. 'As I was saying to Mister Hanneburg,' she began, her tone silk-smooth despite her nasally Coastman’s accent, 'his reputation precedes him as the finest winemaker in Galia.'

She glanced at Mister Hanneburg, her gaze warm and honeyed, like a summer sun shining solely for him. 'So, with that in mind,' she continued, 'I have negotiated fifteen gold coins a bottle at retail price.'

Jacques’ fists tightened at his sides as her words sank in, but Mirielle wasn’t finished.

'And,' she added, 'I must warn you, Your Grace, I did negotiate that if Mister Hanneburg’s profits triple, he can take the price up to twenty—twenty-five if it quadruples. We’ve also agreed to give ten per cent of the profits back to the people. We feel it’s especially important with the war going on.'

Jacques’ breath hitched, his chest tightening like a vice. That was my idea!

The thought hit him like a slap, leaving a sting of humiliation in its wake. It was a proposal he’d been mulling over for weeks, a strategy to win the hearts of the common folk while bolstering the crown’s legitimacy. And now, here it was, spilling from Mirielle’s lips as if it had always been hers.

Mirielle’s gaze flicked back to him, her brown eyes sparkling with what Jacques could only describe as satisfaction. The faint upward curl of her lips was barely perceptible, but he caught it—a predator’s grin, concealed beneath a veil of civility. She knew exactly what she was doing.

'Always happy to give back to the community,' Mister Hanneburg chimed in, his voice rich with approval. His broad grin stretched ear to ear, his teeth gleaming almost unnaturally bright in the light. He leaned back in his chair, his thick frame radiating self-satisfaction, and mirrored Mirielle’s insipid grin as though they were partners in some grand, virtuous scheme. 'An excellent deal, I say. I shall inform the Merchant’s Guild of our support for the crown.'

Jacques felt his heart hammering against his ribs, each beat like a war drum, signalling his defeat. The light that glinted off Mister Hanneburg’s teeth seemed to deflect directly onto Mirielle, casting her in an almost angelic glow.

How could I let this happen?

The thought screamed through Jacques’ mind, drowning out every other noise in the room. His chest tightened further, a coil of rage winding tighter and tighter until it felt as though it might snap. His breaths were shallow, rapid, as though each one struggled to claw its way out of his lungs.

I should’ve been here sooner, he berated himself, his fury now turning inward. I should’ve used my brain for once in my life.

But instead, here he stood—an intruder in a room that should have been his domain—watching his rival bask in her triumph. Mirielle’s gaze flicked over him again, casual, dismissive, yet searing. The weight of it bore down on him like a silent taunt: You lost. Again.

'It does make me wonder why you don’t let Her Grace negotiate more often,' Hanneburg said, his tone light and conversational but undercut with a hint of amusement that felt like salt on an open wound.

Jacques felt his eye twitch. Because Her Grace is a murderous hag, that’s why, he thought bitterly.

Mirielle’s gaze darted toward him, her expression a study in sweet composure. 'Oh, I’m sure The Regent King has his talents,' she said, her voice smooth as velvet but dripping with veiled condescension. Her damned smile remained, fixed and unshakeable. 'However, I think a woman’s touch can always help in times of turmoil like these.'

Her words hung in the air, deceptively light. The comment hit Jacques like a hammer to the face, each syllable fanning the flames of his simmering rage.

Hanneburg chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh. 'Well said, Your Grace,' he replied, raising his glass in a mock toast.

It’s all coming true. The thought burned in Jacques’ mind like a brand, searing into him with cruel clarity. All of my fears.

They weren’t abstract anymore; they weren’t hypothetical scenarios he could stave off with careful planning. They were standing right in front of him, as tangible as the polished desk separating him from his brother’s widow.

Mirielle had done it. She had secured the perfect deal, her victory etched in every infuriatingly poised line of her face. And worse—she had beckoned the Merchant’s Guild to her side, not his.

Damn her! Damn her smile, damn her beauty, damn her cunning! How did I let this happen?

The question thundered in his mind, a relentless echo of his failures.

The door creaked open again. Owen entered, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, his boots thudding against the wooden floor like the tolling of a bell. His sharp eyes landed on Mirielle first, then darted briefly to Jacques, a flicker of unease crossing his scarred face. Jacques’ chest tightened, and a desperate ember of hope ignited deep in his gut.

Perhaps I can salvage this.

The thought wrapped itself around him like a lifeline, a fragile tether to possibility. His mind whirred, grasping at straw. If I can outmanoeuvre her, if I can offer Hanneburg a deal that not only benefits the crown but makes him wealthier than he ever dreamed, I might still win. Jacques imagined the moment of triumph: Hanneburg shaking his hand, Mirielle’s smirk wiped clean from her face, the court whispering of his success. He would be the one they praised, the one who had brought prosperity to the people.

But reality clawed at him like an iron chain, dragging him back to the here and now.

The red curtains swayed gently in the faint breeze from the open door, the late-afternoon sunlight catching the gleam of the polished desk and the ruby sheen of the wineglasses. Hanneburg sat there, his posture casual, yet his every move calculated—his fingers drumming lightly on the wood, his grin as smug as a cat that had cornered a mouse.

Jacques’ fists curled at his sides. All I have to do is tell Owen to grab Hanneburg’s smug face and slam it into that desk.

The image was vivid, visceral. He could see it as clearly as if it were happening: Owen’s strong hands seizing Hanneburg by the collar, the crash of his face against the mahogany, the splatter of wine staining the papers and pooling on the floor. Jacques’ pulse quickened at the thought, a dark thrill coursing through him.

I won’t let him go until he signs a deal of my liking, he thought, his jaw clenching so tightly it ached. Hanneburg’s signature would be smeared with blood and ink, his defiance crushed under Jacques’ will. Mirielle would stand there, horrified, powerless to stop him. No one—no one—would dare laugh at him then.

But the fantasy unravelled as quickly as it had formed. His father’s voice, cold and cutting, whispered in the back of his mind: Fool. Do you want to prove them right? Do you want to confirm every disgraceful rumour, every accusation that you are nothing but a demon, a murderer?

Jacques’ breath hitched, and he forced himself to exhale slowly, his chest heaving with the effort of restraint. The muscles in his arms trembled as he unclenched his fists, his nails leaving half-moon crescents in his palms.

If he gave in to violence, if he allowed his anger to dictate his actions, it would be the end of him—not just as Regent, but as a leader worth following. The people already murmured in darkened alleys and shadowed courtyards, their words laced with suspicion: Did you hear? Prince Jacques killed his own brother.

No matter how unjust the rumour, no matter how badly he wanted to deny it, it clung to him like smoke. If he attacked Hanneburg now, if he spilled blood in a petty show of dominance, the story would write itself. A king who could not win with words could not allow himself to resort to force.

Think, Jacques, he told himself, even as his vision blurred with rage. Think, damn you.

His gaze flicked to Owen, who stood at attention, his expression unreadable. Jacques could order him to act, and The Northern Knight would obey—loyal as ever. But Owen’s eyes, cool and piercing, seemed to ask a silent question: Is this how you want to be remembered?

Jacques swallowed hard, his throat dry and rough.

The truth was undeniable now, glaring at him from across the desk. Mirielle had played the game better this time. She had charmed Hanneburg, secured his loyalty, and woven her web with a precision that left Jacques stumbling.

The proof lay there, plain as day: the signed contract on the desk, Hanneburg’s complacent grin, and Mirielle’s infuriatingly calm demeanour. She had won.

'Mister Hanneburg,' Jacques began, his words measured, 'it seems you have made a most... favourable arrangement with the Queen Regent. I trust it will benefit the people greatly.'

'Indeed, Your Grace,' Hanneburg replied, his tone oblivious, or perhaps intentionally so. He lounged in his chair, entirely too comfortable for a man who had just become the unwitting pawn in a game far larger than he understood.

Jacques forced a tight-lipped smile. 'Very well,' he said, though the words scraped like shards of glass against his pride. He cast a final glance at Mirielle, her expression so serene it made his teeth grind.

Next time, he vowed silently, next time, I’ll be the one with the upper hand.

'But now,' Jacques continued, his tone brisk, 'forgive me, good sir, but the Princess and I have an urgent matter to attend to.' Jacques turned his gaze to Mirielle, his gaze hardening into flint. 'My Lady, if you would join me outside?'

Mirielle rose from her seat with an infuriatingly calm elegance, her movements as smooth as the flow of her green silk dress. She flashed Hanneburg a final, dazzling smile, her voice dripping with sweetened civility.

'I’d like to thank you for your time, good sir,' she said, 'And please know this is just the beginning of what I hope will be a fruitful partnership.'

Jacques watched her, his skin crawling with every syllable. The way she carried herself, the slight tilt of her chin, the effortless flutter of her lashes as she turned her gaze briefly toward him—it was all calculated. Every movement, every word was a dagger dipped in honey, designed to disarm, to manipulate, to win.

Over my dead body, he thought, his rage boiling.

Mirielle moved past him, her faint perfume lingering in the air. The scent was floral, light, deceptively innocent, and it clawed at his senses. She didn’t look back as she and her brother, Sir Mandon, made their way to the exit, their steps unhurried, as though they knew Jacques would follow like a dog loyal to its master.

Jacques’ fingers twitched at his side, itching to grab Mirielle’s contract and tear it to shreds, to shatter the image of her triumph.

But no. Not here. Not now.

The two knights, Sir Owen and Sir Mandon, flanked Jacques and Mirielle as they stepped through the heavy wooden doors. Sir Mandon lingered briefly, holding it open with a relaxed arm until they all emerged into the blinding white daylight. The sun gleamed against the limestone facades of the capital’s towering buildings, their pale surfaces reflecting the light like cruel mirrors. Jacques squinted, his eyes burning as they adjusted to the brilliance, but the brightness did little to chase away the shadows of humiliation clinging to him.

The weight of failure pressed against his chest like an iron boulder, each shallow breath doing little to relieve the constriction in his lungs. His palms itched, his fingers flexing unconsciously, desperate to grab hold of something—anything—to reclaim the power that had so thoroughly slipped through his grasp.

'I appreciate the assistance, Princess—' Jacques began, his voice tight, like a string pulled too taut.

'Queen Regent,' Sir Mandon growled, his voice sharp as a sword’s edge.

Jacques froze mid-step, turning his head slowly toward the young knight. The audacity of it hit him like a slap to the face. His eyes locked onto Sir Mandon, trying to imagine what his head would look like at the end of a spike. The knight’s posture was rigid, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, as if daring Jacques to test him.

A beat of silence passed, heavy and bubbling.

Jacques imagined the smooth cadence of his command—'Owen, cut him down.' The image unfurled in his mind like a bloody tapestry: the flash of steel, the startled look on Sir Mandon’s face, the slump of his body crumpling to the cobblestones. It would be so easy. Sir Mandon Jubilee was nothing, a pebble beneath Jacques’ boot, and yet he dared test his Regent King with such insolence?

But Jacques knew the consequences. Cutting down a knight, especially the captain of his father’s royal guard, in broad daylight would spark a scandal that would consume what little goodwill he still possessed. The whispers already swirling about him—the conspiracies, the accusations of fratricide—would flare into an inferno, and the capital would burn with outrage. Just like with Mister Hanneburg.

'Steady now, Mandon,' Mirielle interjected smoothly. She placed a delicate hand lightly on her brother’s armoured shoulder, her touch as calming as it was calculated.

Her brown eyes glimmered with amusement as she turned to Jacques. 'I’d like to hear what the Regent King has to say.'

Jacques squared his shoulders, his expression hardening as he tried to channel the scowl his father had worn so often, a face that had once cowed nobles and warriors alike. 'I would appreciate it,' he said, his voice clipped and taut, 'if you didn’t intervene in my business.'

Mirielle’s lips twitched, her smile fading into an exaggerated frown. She turned her head slightly, exchanging an innocent, almost pitying look with Sir Mandon. 'I’m begging your pardon, Your Grace,' she said, her tone feather-light, the perfect balance of contrition and sarcasm. 'I only wanted to help.'

Liar. Jacques clenched his jaw so tightly it felt as if his teeth might crack. The words he wanted to hurl at her stuck in his throat, clawing for release. Instead, he forced himself to speak with measured calm. 'And I value your help,' he said, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. 'But please… stay out of my way.'

Mirielle’s expression shifted again, her lips curling into a small, smug grin that made his skin crawl. Her brown eyes reflected her delight, as though his frustration were a fine wine she was savouring. 'Please accept my apologies,' she said sweetly, dipping her head in mock deference. 'From now on, I shall leave the negotiating to you.'

Her gaze flicked over Jacques’ shoulder, landing on Sir Owen. The change in her demeanour was immediate, her features sharpening into something cold and formal, the recognition as distant as it was pointed. 'Sir Owen,' she said with a faint nod, her voice taking on a regal edge, 'it’s nice to see you back.'

Owen didn’t flinch. His face remained a stoic mask, his posture stiff as a drawn bowstring. He didn’t respond, his maple eyes locked onto hers in silence.

Mirielle’s smile deepened, but the chill in it remained. She turned with a sweep of her pretty green dress, beckoning Sir Mandon with a flick of her fingers. The Coast Knight moved to her side without hesitation, his black shadow merging with hers as they walked away.

Jacques stood frozen, his gaze following Mirielle’s retreating figure as she sauntered through the bustling street, weaving through merchants and passersby like she was some sort of goddess, receiving reverent bows and gawks from every pair of eyes that fell her way. Even as she disappeared into the throng of the capital, her presence lingered like a bitter aftertaste, heavy and cloying.

The heat of Jacques’ anger burned in his chest, rising until it felt like it might burst free. He wanted to shout, to unleash every ounce of rage and frustration churning inside him, but he knew it would be a hollow gesture. No amount of yelling would change the fact that she had bested him. Again.

His shoulders slumped, the weight of his father’s legacy pressing down on him like iron chains. Oh, Father, he thought bitterly, what have you dropped me into?

He exhaled sharply, turning to Owen, who remained by his side like a silent sentinel. 'That was no mere deal for wine, was it?' He looked up at Owen, his gaze searching for some kind of reassurance. 'That was a declaration of war.'

Owen’s jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his otherwise impassive face. His eyes, fiery and unyielding, stayed fixed on the street where Mirielle had vanished. His silence was louder than any affirmation he could have given.

The distant clamour of the capital filled the air—the bark of merchants hawking their wares, the rattle of carts over cobblestones, the murmur of voices in the crowd. It all faded into a dull roar as the truth settled over Jacques’ head like a shroud.

This wasn’t just a game of politics or a skirmish for influence. This was something far greater, far more dangerous.

And Mirielle had just made the first move.

By the time Jacques and Owen reached the Boot and Slipper, the city streets had succumbed to the cloak of night. Lanterns flickered in the darkness, their feeble flames barely illuminating the cobblestones slick with spilled ale and filth. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the ground, merging into the corners where beggars and thieves alike lingered unseen. The air was thick with life and vice—a pungent mixture of sweat, beer, and the acrid tang of smoke from makeshift street braziers.

Punters spilled from taverns, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, voices raised in drunken song or boisterous argument. Raucous laughter echoed off the stone buildings, punctuated by the clatter of tankards meeting cobblestones and the occasional retching of someone who had overindulged. Jacques wrinkled his nose as a sour wave of bile stench wafted his way, and Owen had to snatch him aside as a staggering man swayed dangerously close to his path.

The Boot and Slipper loomed ahead, its crooked wooden sign swinging in the breeze, the faded paint depicting a pair of mismatched shoes beside a frothing mug. Warm light spilled from its narrow windows, the glow cutting through the night like a beacon, drawing revellers like moths to a flame. The din of its interior—a medley of music, laughter, and heated debates—rose above the general noise of the street.

Jacques’ gaze flicked over the faces in the crowd, his shoulders tightening with each step. He couldn’t shake the creeping sensation that eyes were tracking his every movement. A group of cloaked figures loitered at a street corner, their murmured conversation stopping abruptly as he and Owen passed. Across the street, a hunched man leaned against a wall, his face obscured by the brim of a tattered hat. For all Jacques knew, he could be one of Mirielle’s spies—or worse, one of The Hawk Knight’s elusive operatives.

Am I imagining this? Jacques’ mind whispered, but the unease dug deeper. He tried to dismiss the thought, but the paranoia stuck like a thorn in his flesh. His breathing quickened, his boots striking the cobblestones in rhythmic, nervous beats.

Was King Jacob this paranoid when he went mad? He pictured the old king in his final days, before his father had cut him down; a frail figure hunched over his throne, muttering to himself as the court watched in silent dread. Jacques could almost see the wild gleam in the late king’s eyes, the erratic sparks that danced across his trembling hands. The image of him unleashing his lightning powers in a fit of fury played vividly in Jacques’ mind: knights and lords alike struck down for imagined slights, their piles of ash a warning to anyone who dared approach.

Jacques shook his head, trying to dislodge the grim image, but his tension only deepened. His fists clenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking as he glanced over his shoulder yet again. The crowd behind them seemed ordinary enough—drunken men singing off-key, a pretty girl hawking roasted chestnuts to a group of gawking sailors—but Jacques couldn’t stop his mind from weaving conspiracy.

The tavern door opened with a creak as Jacques and Owen entered, the world outside fading behind them as they stepped into the pulsing heart of the Boot and Slipper. The atmosphere within was a whirlwind of sound and movement, the air thick with the scent of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the faint acrid tang of a smouldering hearth. Round tables and straight benches filled the open space, their scarred surfaces bearing the marks of countless nights of revelry. Patrons crowded around them, their voices blending into a cacophony that competed with the bard’s melody—a lively tune that danced above the chaos like a ribbon caught in the wind.

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At one table, a group of burly men slapped each other on the back, roaring with laughter as they recounted a tale one of them was animatedly gesturing through. At another, a pair of cloaked figures leaned close, their hushed conversation lost in the din, but their furtive glances suggesting secrets too delicate for the noise surrounding them. A serving girl wove her way through the crowd with practised agility, her tray laden with mugs of frothy ale and steaming plates of food, her smile fixed despite the occasional grope or jeer from the patrons.

The bard, a wiry man with a weathered face and nimble fingers, moved fluidly from table to table, the strings of his guitar vibrating with a gentle insistence that seemed to command attention. Each note resonated through Jacques’ chest, the sound oddly grounding despite the weight pressing down on his shoulders. The singer’s voice, smooth and slightly gravelly, rose above the chatter as he launched into a jaunty ballad, eliciting a few cheers and drunken attempts to join in.

But for Jacques, the music and revelry were mere distractions, fleeting and inconsequential. His eyes scanned the room, flitting from face to face, searching for any sign of danger—or worse, recognition. He clenched his jaw as his gaze caught on a hooded figure in the far corner, sitting alone with a tankard in one hand and the other resting idly on the table. The figure’s face was obscured, their posture relaxed, but Jacques didn’t trust the stillness. His gut twisted, a silent alarm sounding in the back of his mind.

A broad-shouldered woman with thick arms and a face weathered by years of tavern work wiped down a battered flagon behind the bar. Her sharp eyes scanned the room with the practised vigilance of someone who had seen one too many brawls erupt over spilled drinks or ill-timed jokes. Her gaze landed on Owen’s side, where the sword with a white ram engraved on the pommel hung prominently. Her lips tightened, her grip on the flagon halting mid-swipe.

'Oi!' she bellowed, her voice slicing through the rowdy din like a cleaver. Conversations died instantly, heads snapping toward her. 'If you ‘ave an issue with one o’ my punters, good sir,' she continued, her words thick with the accent of the lower districts, 'name ‘im and take it outside! I don’t fancy cleanin’ up your mess!'

For a moment, the entire tavern seemed to hold its breath, the charged silence crackling like a lightning storm.

'We’re just here for some grub, my lady,' Owen replied smoothly, his voice warm and disarming. He flashed a grin that could have melted stone. 'No trouble, I promise. Have you got room for two more?'

The landlady regarded him for a beat longer, her eyes narrowing as if testing the sincerity of his words. Then, with a jerk of her chin toward the back of the room, she relented. 'Booth down there’s free, but you’ve got to order at the bar.'

'Much obliged,' Owen said with a nod.

The tension snapped like a taut string breaking, the noise of the tavern exploding back to life. Conversations resumed, mugs clinked together, and someone near the fireplace let out a cheer, spilling ale as they shouted the chorus of a bawdy song.

Owen stepped forward, weaving his way through the dense crowd with the fluid ease of a soldier used to manoeuvring through chaos. Jacques followed close behind, his jaw clenched as he brushed against the sea of patrons. The air was thick and stifling, the mingled scents of sweat, ale, and roasted meat nearly choking.

Every movement around him felt exaggerated, every face a potential threat. Black cloaks swished against him as patrons shifted in their seats or pushed past. Too many of them seemed to linger as he passed, their gazes flickering to him briefly before darting away, their expressions guarded.

Which one of them is watching me? Jacques thought, his heart beating faster. Which one will slip away the moment my back is turned? Which one will whisper to Mirielle or Sir Orchis?

The fear gnawed at him, each glance or casual murmur in his direction feeding the pit in his stomach. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, even as his fingers twitched at his sides, itching to grab the hilt of his own blade.

Finally, they reached the booth. Jacques sank into the plush red leather seat with a small exhale of relief, the cushions softer than he’d expected. The torchlight overhead flickered, casting shadows that danced along the scuffed wooden walls. A small, unlit candle stood in the centre of the round table, its wax dripped and hardened from countless nights of use. The uneven surface of the table bore the marks of years of revelry—knife scratches, stains, and the occasional crude carving.

Owen eased himself into the seat across from Jacques, pulling a folded sheet of parchment from the table, its edges curling slightly against the wood. The subtle scrape of paper against the table seemed deafening to Jacques, a sharp contrast to the muffled chaos of the tavern around them.

'I was thinking of having some cheese and bread with a bit of wine,' Owen said, his tone conversational, almost lighthearted.

Jacques stiffened, his fingers curling involuntarily against the worn leather of the booth. Wine. The word alone sent a fresh surge of humiliation coursing through him, dragging his thoughts back to the smug grin on Mirielle’s face and Hanneburg’s oblivious laughter.

'Not wine,' Jacques said sharply, the words spilling out before he could temper them. He forced a deep breath and tried again, his tone softer this time. 'A good ale for me.'

Owen’s eyes flicked up, his gaze sharpening momentarily as if he were gauging Jacques’ mood. Then, with a small nod, he replied, 'Very well, Your Grace. I think I’ll join you. Two ales it is.'

Owen rose, his heavy boots making muted thuds against the floorboards as he weaved through the crowd toward the bar. Jacques remained behind, sinking deeper into the worn leather seat. He pressed his fingers against his temples, kneading away the tension that refused to ease, and let out a slow, measured sigh. The hum of the tavern buzzed around him, but in his mind, he was elsewhere—back in his father’s council chamber, under the suffocating weight of the old bastard’s glare.

The image was painfully vivid. His father’s face, weathered yet stern, loomed large in his mind’s eye, with the family crest—the proud, vigilant sheepdog—etched on the wall behind him. The hound’s keen eyes and poised stance seemed to stare straight at Jacques, as if silently judging his every move. Guidance and leadership. That’s what the emblem was supposed to represent. Yet Jacques couldn’t help but wonder if he was even fit to lead, or if he was destined to stumble after others like the many sheep the hound was meant to protect.

What would the mighty King Rickard say? Jacques thought bitterly. His imagination conjured the harsh words: 'Weak. Incompetent. A stain on my legacy.' They cut into him like a blade, sharper because they weren’t far from his own fears.

The sharp scrape of a chair being pulled out snapped Jacques back to the present. He blinked, startled, to find Owen standing before him with a faint frown etched on his face. His broad shoulders seemed to block out the chaotic tavern behind him, his shadow cast long over the table.

'Orders have been placed,' Owen said, his voice steady yet low enough to keep their conversation private. 'They’ll be here in a few minutes.' His sharp eyes scanned Jacques’ face. 'Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.'

Jacques met his gaze but said nothing at first, his mind racing with doubts. Can I even trust Owen? The Northern Knight had proven loyal time and again, but Jacques knew better than to let his guard down. Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford—not even with someone as steadfast as Owen. What if Mirielle or Sir Orchis could find a way to sway him? Everyone had their price, and Owen was no different.

Jacques studied The Northern Knight’s face, searching for any hint of duplicity. The knight’s expression remained steady, his concern genuine—or so it seemed. Am I imagining threats where there are none? Or is my paranoia the only thing keeping me alive?

'Sit down, Owen,' Jacques said finally, nodding toward the empty seat across from him. His tone was sharp, but not unkind.

Owen leaned back as he relaxed into the booth, the leather seat groaning slightly under his weight. The flickering torchlight above their table cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the hard lines of his jaw and the faint scars along his skin. For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes darting toward the bard at the far end of the tavern. The lively melody of the guitar drifted over the clamour of drunken patrons, a stark contrast to the heavy air between them.

Jacques took a deep breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders even as it coiled tightly in his chest. The day’s failure gnawed at him like a dog worrying a bone, its implications far-reaching. This wasn’t just a personal humiliation—it was a wound to his authority, a crack he could no longer afford. Every whisper, every sideways glance from his court, would latch onto this stumble like vultures to a carcass.

They need to see that I’m strong, not broken, Jacques thought, clenching his jaw.

'I need you to tell me everything, Owen,' he said, his voice low but resolute, each word laced with the sharp edge of command. 'Don’t leave anything out.'

Owen nodded earnestly, leaning forward slightly. 'What was said in Sir Orchis’ cesspit of a brothel,' he began, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before locking onto Jacques with an intensity that made the room feel smaller, 'was the truth, Your Grace. The part about the Jubilees, anyway. Sir Orchis and I... we saw her. The princess. We saw her hand the weapon that killed Eastamere’s king, right into the hands of his killer.'

He leaned in closer, as the very shadows might intercept his words. 'I tried to take the sword. I swear, I tried. But before I could—before I could even draw my own blade—it was Sir Bryce. He was there, so fast, so damn fast. He subdued me—right there in the corridor, like I was nothing.' His fists clenched, his knuckles white. The memory must have been still fresh, the pain of betrayal still raw in his chest.

'Sir Bryce?' Jacques repeated.

'I could smell peaches.'

The faintest hint of that same sickly sweet fragrance seemed to linger in the air, and Jacques involuntarily breathed it in, his stomach turning.

'Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the dark, cold water, miles from shore. My lungs burning, gasping for air. Someone had dumped me in the ocean, Your Grace. Left me to die. Left me to drown.'

Owen’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his words, his breath coming in shallow, erratic gasps. The room felt colder, the silence between them thick and suffocating. Jacques' mouth went dry as the full weight of Owen’s words sank in. The look in The Northman’s eyes—the deep, hollow fear that had settled in—was unmistakable. He wasn’t just telling a story; he was reliving it, all over again.

Yet Jacques frowned, his fingers drumming absently against the smooth wood of the table as his chin rested heavily in his palm. It certainly sounded like an unnecessarily complicated way to kill someone, unless, of course, those who wished Owen dead had motives beyond mere efficiency. Perhaps they didn’t want blood spilled in the palace halls. Or perhaps they wanted his death to seem like fate—merciless and impersonal.

'What did you do?' Jacques asked at last, his voice quiet but laden with curiosity. The furrow of his brow deepened, his tone carrying a thread of urgency he couldn’t quite conceal.

'I swam,' he said, his voice low but steady. 'Despite the cold, I swam. My brother and I...' He paused, a flicker of something—nostalgia, pain, or perhaps a faint spark of pride—lighting his features for the briefest moment. 'We grew up swimming in the frozen rivers near Flagmere. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t impossible, either. Not for me.'

His voice faltered, and his shoulders sagged slightly. 'But when I reached the shore...' His jaw tightened, and the light in his eyes dimmed. 'I was too late.'

The words hung in the air, heavy and final, like the toll of a distant bell. Jacques leaned back in his chair, his fingers curling around the armrests as he absorbed Owen’s story. He felt the weight of it pressing against his chest, the steady thrum of unanswered questions growing louder in his mind. Mirielle’s intentions were beginning to crystallise, and yet Owen’s survival—miraculous as it seemed—added a perplexing new layer to the mystery.

'If Mirielle knew you knew of her plan,' Jacques began carefully, his voice even but probing, 'why didn’t she just kill you when she had the chance? Why leave you to swim to shore and risk surviving?' His head tilted slightly, the question lingering in the tense air between them.

'I’m not sure,' Owen admitted, his gaze dropping to the table. His hands fidgeted, fingers tracing the grooves in the wood as though searching for answers hidden there. 'I can’t make sense of it myself. I should be dead, by all accounts. But I’m not.' His voice darkened, his tone taking on an edge of unease. 'Someone is playing a game here, Your Grace, and I know Sir Orchis has a hand in it. He doesn’t even hide it! It’s like he wants us to know.'

Jacques fixed his gaze on Owen, his sharp eyes scanning every twitch, every flicker of emotion on The Northman’s face. He searched for a crack, some telltale sign of deceit. Instead, what he saw unsettled him even more: sincerity. The kind of sincerity born of confusion and desperation, unclouded by guile. Yet there was also something else—naivety. A fool’s sincerity, Jacques thought grimly, the kind of belief that could lead a knight like Sir Owen Flagg to his own ruin.

And yet, that sincerity struck a chord in him. For the first time in weeks, Jacques felt a faint flicker of kinship—a subtle, unwanted comfort. If Owen was to be believed, then perhaps they were both caught in this web, both unwilling players in a game that neither understood nor controlled.

That thought, oddly enough, made Jacques feel a sliver of relief. He wasn’t alone, not entirely. If they were stuck in this together, at least it meant someone else was sharing the weight of it. For a fleeting moment, his solitude felt a little less suffocating.

Sir Orchis’ sincerity, however, was a mask—a hollow veneer that bore no resemblance to the honour that clung to Sir Owen like a second skin. Sir Orchis didn’t hide behind lofty ideals or noble promises. No, he thrived in the murk of his own reputation, twisting the truth to serve his every whim. He bathed in shadows, using the light of truth to weave lies, and a thick web of deceit to hide anything resembling honesty. In his world, there was no room for righteousness—only manipulation and control.

Who am I to truly trust? The hawk, the silent observer, or the ram, steady and loyal, yet stubborn and blind?

As Jacques pondered the weight of his dilemma, Owen lifted his mug, his movements slow, deliberate, as though he too was caught between conflicting truths. The sound of the tavern around him—the low hum of conversation, the clink of mugs, the crackling of the fire—faded into a blur as Jacques’ thoughts thickened with uncertainty. His focus shifted without warning, drawn to the far corner of the room where a figure stirred. At first, he could make out nothing more than a shadow, a shifting shape, but as it grew clearer, a sense of tension tightened in his chest.

A man. Broad-shouldered, imposing, his face carved from stone, his movements sharp and deliberate. The light of the flickering torches caught the glint of a bald head, the faint sheen of sweat making it gleam under the warmth of the fire. Jacques’ hand tightened around his own mug, instinctively bracing himself for whatever storm was coming. He could feel the man’s gaze on him, like a heavy weight pressing against his ribs.

As the figure drew closer, the crowd seemed to quiet, the very air in the tavern shifting. The man’s footsteps rang louder, each one like the tolling of a bell, echoing in Jacques’ chest. His face was a thundercloud, brow furrowed in grim determination, lips drawn tight into a snarl. The sword at his hip seemed almost too heavy for him, as if it weighed not just in iron, but in the promise of violence.

'Oi,' the man barked, his voice rough as gravel, 'Are you Prince Jacques?'

Jacques didn’t flinch—at least, not outwardly—but a flicker of unease prickled down his spine. The man’s tone was like the crack of a whip, sharp and demanding, and Jacques’ gaze hardened at the sound of it.

Owen, however, reacted instantly. The change in his posture was immediate—stiffening like a man preparing for a fight. 'Careful, sir,' Owen snapped. His eyes locked with the stranger's, a protective edge to his words. 'This is the Regent King.'

The man didn’t blink. He didn’t hesitate. His lips twisted into a bitter smile, the kind of smile that promised no joy, no victory, only cold intent. 'Then I have the right man,' he sneered, drawing his sword with a swift motion that seemed to steal the air from the room.

The blade gleamed menacingly, catching the torchlight in its cold, unforgiving shine.

The atmosphere in the tavern thickened. The chatter stopped, as if the very walls had stopped breathing. Every eye turned to the man, who now stood at the centre of the room, the weight of his presence choking the space.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the fire seemed to quiet its crackling, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The man was looking right at Jacques, like a beast sizing up its prey.

'You will listen to me.'

A shadow passed over Jacques’ eyes, an inexplicable chill creeping down his spine. Before he could process it, Owen was on his feet, his movements a blur of instinct and precision. The knight’s sword flashed from its sheath, the steel catching the dim light of the tavern’s flickering torches. His blade was held steady, its edge aimed directly at the man’s chest, the very tip hovering inches from his ribs. The threat was immediate, undeniable—one wrong move, and the stranger would find himself gasping for air, his life spilling out onto the floor.

Murmurs of idle chatter died away, replaced by the low, uncertain whispers of patrons unsure whether they were watching the beginning of a brawl or a slaughter. Chairs scraped hurriedly against the wooden floor, as some tried to inch back, to put distance between themselves and the impending conflict, while others simply sat frozen, eyes wide, lips parted in stunned silence.

Owen’s voice rang out, low and cold. 'You lay a hand on His Grace, and you lose the hand,' he growled, his words edged with the kind of menace that only someone who had seen too many men fall could carry. His gaze was fixed on the man before him, unwavering, as if daring the stranger to test him.

Jacques blinked, momentarily taken aback by the ferocity in Owen’s tone. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or unsettled. The knight’s brashness was unmistakable, yet there was no question in Jacques' mind that Owen wasn’t bluffing. There was something dangerous in his stance, something lethal in the way he held that sword. A man accustomed to violence, who had perhaps been too long in service to care much about the cost.

His mind flickered back to the stories he’d heard, the rumours that swirled among the common folk like dust in a windstorm. The black knights of the royal guard—the king’s dogs, they called them, loyal to the throne but feared as much as they were revered. He had never seen a king’s dog up close, not like this. They were a breed apart, men who served with unswerving devotion but who were as brutal as the war dogs they were named after. They were loyal, yes, but violent when cornered. And right now, Owen stood between the tavern and this man, a barrier of steel and cold resolve.

'Put the sword down, Owen. He just wants to talk,' Jacques instructed calmly, his voice steady but with an edge of authority that brooked no argument. He rose from the booth, each movement measured, deliberate, as if he was carefully weighing every step. His gaze never wavered from the stranger, studying the man’s posture, the way he gripped his sword, the sheer size and weight of the blade.

At least, I hope that’s all he wants.

Inside, a sharp unease pricked at Jacques' mind. He couldn’t afford this confrontation to escalate into bloodshed—not with the fragile alliances already hanging by a thread in the capital, not with every whisper and glance thrown his way laden with suspicion and distrust. The balance of power was as delicate as glass, and Jacques knew all too well that one misstep, one outburst, could shatter it. He had learned the hard way that the slightest ripple could send tremors through everything. This had to end without blood on the floor, no matter how tempting it might be to let Owen’s blade do the talking.

'Your Grace,' Owen protested, his voice tinged with disbelief. 'The man’s just—'

'That’s an order, Sir Owen!' Jacques interjected sharply, his voice slicing through the knight's words with the force of a command. He locked eyes with Owen, his gaze sharp and unwavering, before shifting it to the stranger once more. 'Let’s hear what the man has to say.'

The words hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken tension. Jacques could feel the heat of the moment pressing down on him, the silence of the tavern suddenly suffocating. His eyes remained fixed on Owen, searching for any flicker of hesitation, any sign that the knight might defy him. Owen had been loyal, true—but loyalty didn’t always guarantee obedience when emotions ran high.

For a brief moment, Jacques wondered if he had pushed too hard, if the sharpness in his voice had been too much. Would Rick have spoken to him like that? His brother’s voice echoed in his memory, always calm, always understanding, guiding with gentleness rather than command. Jacques’ stomach twisted slightly at the thought. I have to be decisive—but is this the right way? Can I afford to show weakness now, even in my own mind?

He kept his gaze hard and steady, willing himself not to show doubt, not to show any crack in his resolve. Finally, Owen’s face softened—though it was reluctant, it was real. His eyes flicked between Jacques and the stranger, the silent conversation between them more telling than any words could be. Jacques could almost hear the tension in Owen’s breath as he weighed the choice, as if wrestling with the decision to follow his orders or to challenge them.

After a long moment, Owen gave a reluctant nod. With a heavy sigh, he sheathed his sword with a movement that seemed almost painful, as if the weight of his own weapon had become too much to bear. He sank back into his seat, his posture stiff but defeated.

The air in the tavern seemed to loosen, as if the collective breath of the patrons had been held too long and was finally released.

'Explain your issue with me, good sir,' Jacques said, his tone measured as he held the blacksmith’s gaze. The man’s face was flushed a deep red, and Jacques didn’t miss the twitch of his free hand, clenched and trembling by his side. His knuckles whitened against the hilt of his sword, the grip tightening with each word Jacques spoke, as though barely holding back an urge to lash out.

'My issue with you, Your Grace,' the man spat, his voice raw, 'is that some vandals destroyed my blacksmith’s shop. That’s my livelihood, gone!' His words cracked like a hammer on steel, trembling with an anger threatened to spill over into violence.

Owen scoffed from his seat. 'And you thought attacking His Grace was going to bring that back?'

Jacques turned his head sharply. 'Owen, be quiet.'

The knight’s mouth pressed into a hard line, but he obeyed, his shoulders stiff as he leaned back in his chair. Jacques felt the weight of the moment settle heavier on his chest, the silence in the tavern now thick enough to choke on. The blacksmith’s face darkened from red to crimson, the veins in his neck bulging like cords ready to snap. His breath came in ragged bursts, his anger like a furnace roaring just beneath the surface.

Every eye in this tavern is watching me, judging me, Jacques thought. He could feel their stares pressing into him from every corner of the room, their murmurs slithering through the air like venomous serpents. They were waiting, hanging on his every word, every movement, eager to see if their new Regent King could hold himself together—or if he would crumble like so many believed he would.

He forced himself to stay calm, even as the sword hovered too close for comfort, its point a gleaming threat in the dim light. 'How was it destroyed?' Jacques asked.

The blacksmith’s nostrils flared, his fury momentarily faltering as pain overtook his features. 'The fuckers burnt it down,' he said, his voice breaking, the words dragging themselves out of his throat. 'The whole bloody lot. Gone. My tools, my forge, my work for the season, everything!' He paused, swallowing hard, but it didn’t stop the tears that gathered in his eyes. 'My kids...' His voice cracked, the words cutting deeper than any blade. 'My kids won’t eat for weeks now!'

The room seemed to hold its breath, the man’s raw desperation carving a silence so heavy it felt like it would crush Jacques where he stood. A pang of guilt pierced his chest, twisting with every syllable. Children suffering because of me, he thought. His mind painted a vivid, painful image: small, soot-streaked faces, their cheeks hollow, their tiny bodies curled together in some cold, dank corner of a burned-out ruin. One child clutching the other, their tears streaking the dirt on their faces as they whispered fears no child should ever have to voice.

Jacques swallowed hard. 'You have my condolences.'

The blacksmith’s gaze snapped to him, his eyes blazing with fury. 'I don’t need your condolences!' he roared, his voice echoing off the wooden walls. The sword trembled in his grip as he stepped forward, the raw emotion in his face unrelenting. 'I need compensation!'

Jacques’ body tensed, his muscles coiling as the point of the man’s sword caught the flickering torchlight. The glint of steel was sharp and cruel, a physical reminder of just how precarious his position was—not just here, in this room, but in the kingdom at large. The tavern was a cauldron of unease, every pair of eyes fixed squarely on their Regent King. They were watching, waiting, weighing his every word and move as though it could tip the balance of their judgement. He could feel the pressure of their expectations, their distrust, heavy as an iron mantle around his shoulders.

The murmurs started as soft whispers, like the rustling of dead leaves, before swelling into a quiet storm of conspiratorial tones. Jacques’ ears caught fragments—unspoken accusations, scornful remarks—though the words were drowned by the blood pounding in his head. Every clink of a glass, every shuffle of a footstep, grated against his composure, each sound dragging him closer to the precipice of shouting them all into silence and fleeing this den of venomous scrutiny. He could almost feel the warmth of his chambers calling him back, the stillness of his paintings offering solace from the suffocating expectations of kingship.

They think you orchestrated your brother’s murder, Sir Orchis’ voice hissed, cold and mocking. And used your silver tongue to convince your father to name you Regent King. They don’t trust you, Jacques. They never will.

The thought twisted inside his gut, but he forced it down. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the faint tremor in his fingers barely restrained. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. He couldn’t afford to falter now, not when his every breath was under scrutiny, not when his rule was already teetering on the edge of credibility.

His mind turned to Mirielle, her sly smile and sharp eyes cutting through his thoughts like the edge of a dagger. She had worked her way into favour with Mister Hanneburg and the Merchant’s Guild, binding them to her schemes with promises Jacques could only guess at. Her cunning had secured her powerful allies, and now Jacques stood at the crossroads of his own battle. This wasn’t about one man’s burned-down shop or even the sword pointed at his chest. It was about perception. About proving, not just to the common man, but to the entire kingdom, that Jacques Rue was a ruler who cared. A ruler who could be trusted.

'House Rue has always had the people’s best interest at heart,' Jacques announced, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. His words echoed in the tense silence of the tavern, where every patron seemed to lean closer, their curiosity or scepticism painted on their faces. He forced himself to stand tall, meeting their eyes one by one, as though daring them to doubt him. 'My father, King Rickard, defeated a tyrant so that you would all live in a realm where you wouldn’t fear being turned to ash for so much as speaking a bad word about the king.'

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, letting the weight of his words settle. The air was heavy, still charged with the remnants of the blacksmith’s anger, but now mingling with an almost tangible anticipation. Jacques' next words would determine if the people in this room saw him as their king—or just another noble hiding behind promises.

'Too long have the wealthy spat down on those they deem lesser,' Jacques continued, his voice rising with conviction. 'Too long have men like you borne the brunt of their greed and disregard. Today, I pledge to change that.' His eyes locked onto the blacksmith’s, the raw emotion in the man’s face like an open wound. 'I will pay double what this good man has lost.'

A murmur rippled through the tavern, a wave of disbelief and curiosity. Jacques allowed himself the faintest of smiles, the kind he hoped conveyed both warmth and strength. 'That will be enough for you to rebuild your life and your business,' he said, his tone softening. 'You have my word.'

The blacksmith blinked, his frown deepening as his eyes darted around the room, perhaps searching for a trick, some hidden snare in Jacques’ words. His sword lowered ever so slightly, the deadly tension of his stance beginning to waver. 'What?' he asked, his voice hoarse, as though he didn’t trust his ears.

'You heard me,' Jacques said, stepping closer, his tone calm but firm. 'However much you lost, I’ll double it.'

The silence that followed was deafening. The blacksmith’s sword arm dropped fully to his side, the blade no longer a threat, but a forgotten weight in his hand. His lips parted, but no words came at first. His face, so red with fury moments ago, now seemed to crumble under the weight of a different emotion entirely. He stared at Jacques with wide eyes, his disbelief giving way to something softer, something fragile. 'What is this?' he asked finally, his voice shaking. 'Some trick?'

Jacques shook his head. 'It is no trick, good sir. You have my solemn oath.'

The man’s breath hitched, and his shoulders sagged as though the fury holding him upright had melted away. His calloused hand loosened its grip on the sword, and for a moment, Jacques thought the man might collapse entirely. 'Thank you, Your Grace,' the blacksmith said, his voice breaking. 'I don’t... I don’t know what to say.'

'You don’t need to say anything,' Jacques replied, his own voice carrying a gentleness that surprised even him. He placed a hand lightly on the man’s shoulder, the gesture steady and reassuring. 'Now get yourself a drink. It’s on me.'

The blacksmith’s face broke into a smile so radiant it seemed to soften the hard lines carved by years of toil and hardship. A single tear traced a shimmering path down his weathered cheek, its journey a testament to the rawness of his gratitude. Jacques felt a warmth bloom in his chest, an unfamiliar but welcome sensation that spread outward like the rays of the sun breaking through storm clouds. He imagined the blacksmith’s children, their faces lighting up as they saw their father return not in despair but with hope in his eyes. The thought steadied Jacques, anchoring him amidst the whirlwind of emotions in the room.

'And that goes for everyone here!' Jacques proclaimed, his voice ringing with newfound vigour, rising above the din of the tavern. Confidence surged through his veins, ignited by the spark of connection he now felt with these people. He turned, his gaze landing on the landlady as she scrubbed another flagon behind the bar. 'My good woman! A pint of ale for everyone here today!'

For a moment, the tavern stood in stunned silence, as though the weight of his words needed time to settle. Then, like a storm breaking, a resounding cheer erupted, shaking the walls with its fervour. The punters leapt to their feet, their mugs raised high in celebration, a chorus of voices shouting their joy. The once-tense room transformed into a cacophony of jubilant camaraderie, the shadow of unease and distrust swept away like it had never existed.

'To the King!' a drunken man bellowed, sloshing his ale onto the floor as he staggered to his feet. Others took his cry up, their voices weaving together in a raucous toast. 'To the King!'

Jacques couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at his lips. The sound of the bard striking up a bawdy tune on his lute filled the room, the lively melody urging patrons to clap and sing along. Even the most sceptical faces now softened, their guarded expressions giving way to mirth.

A few men approached Jacques, clapping him on the back with a familiarity that startled him at first but soon warmed him. They thanked him for the ales as if he were an old friend treating them to a round rather than their Regent King extending a gesture of goodwill. The casual camaraderie was disarming, even humbling. This wasn’t the reverent awe of courtiers bowing stiffly in a throne room; this was raw, genuine gratitude from people who saw him not as an untouchable figurehead but as an equal who understood their struggles.

Still, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered of the challenges to come. Sir Osgar Sterling would be livid, his hand clutching at the treasury ledgers as he worked to align Jacques’ promises with the kingdom’s budget. Jacques could already picture the man’s scowl deepening as he muttered about fiscal irresponsibility. It would take finesse—no, cunning—to navigate that conversation. Yet as Jacques looked around at the sea of jubilant faces, the grins and cheers of men and women who had moments ago regarded him with suspicion, he knew this display was worth every silver coin it would cost.

These weren’t just subjects anymore; they were his people, and in this moment, Jacques felt they were one step closer to belonging to him as he belonged to them.

Let Mirielle keep her bloody Merchant’s Guild and their silken whispers. Jacques Rue didn’t need gilded allies who played games behind closed doors. The pulse of the common man—their cheers, their trust, their belief—was worth more than all the wealth in the realm.

A barmaid breezed past Jacques, her apron dusted with flour and ale stains, balancing a wooden board laden with bread, cheese, and a frothy mug. She moved with practised ease; her steps swift yet careful, like a bird navigating a crowded sky. She set the meal down on the table with a polite dip of her head. 'Your food and drink, Your Grace,' she said, her voice tinged with both respect and the hurried efficiency of someone too busy to linger.

Jacques reached for a hunk of cheese, its edges crumbly and golden, and bit into it. The sharp, mature flavour blossomed on his tongue, earthy and rich, grounding him in the present moment. He chewed slowly, savouring the taste as he leaned back into his chair, letting out a small, almost inaudible sigh. It was a fleeting luxury, this semblance of peace, and he allowed himself to bask in it for just a moment longer.

'Thank you,' he said to the barmaid, his tone warm but restrained. She nodded briskly, already moving to attend to another table.

Jacques glanced at the table, at the bread and ale before him, then around the room. The lively hum of the tavern’s patrons filled his ears—laughter, shouts, the rhythmic tapping of a bard’s lute. It was a cacophony, but somehow, it was soothing. He felt a flicker of hope, the sense that perhaps, in these small moments, he might find solace from the unrelenting weight of the crown.

But as his gaze wandered, the flicker dimmed, his thoughts veering into darker territory. His eyes lingered on the crowd, on the faces turned away in celebration, and he wondered how long this fragile harmony could last. Jacques had learned as well as anyone that peace was as fleeting as the first bite of good cheese—rich but gone too soon, leaving behind the hunger for more.

Mirielle’s face rose unbidden in his imagination, the curve of her lips a veil for the daggers she concealed in her words. She was always there, lurking like a shadow at the edge of his plans, watching, waiting, scheming. Jacques could almost hear her voice, coarse and calculating, reminding him that every step he took toward his people was another step closer to the edge of her blade.

Relaxing like this—leaning back in a tavern booth, the weight on his shoulders momentarily eased—felt like a dangerous indulgence. A weakness. He knew it wouldn’t last. The crown demanded vigilance, an unceasing awareness of the knives glinting in the darkness, and with Mirielle around, he doubted he would ever truly exhale without fear of what waited in the shadows.

As Jacques chewed, another figure materialised from the chaos of the bustling tavern. His thin frame shivered visibly, his lanky arms clutching a threadbare cloak to his chest as though it might protect him from the chill seeping into his bones. His massive eyes darted nervously around the room, glistening with an almost feverish sheen, before finally settling on Jacques.

'Dennis?' Jacques said, recognising the king’s steward as he weaved through the crowd.

Dennis bobbed his head in acknowledgement, his breath fogging slightly as though the cold night still clung to him. 'Y-your Grace,' he stammered, bowing with the graceless urgency of a man who wished to be anywhere else.

Jacques arched an eyebrow. 'Come to join us for a drink?' he asked, gesturing to the mug of ale at the centre of the table. His voice carried a touch of humour, though the unease crawling up his spine betrayed the lightheartedness of the offer.

Dennis shook his head vehemently, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. 'I’m afraid not,' he said, his words trembling as much as his hands. 'I’ve come to deliver a message… f-from Sir Orchis Vortigon.'

The mention of the name snapped the thin thread of camaraderie at the table. Jacques straightened in his seat, his shoulders stiffening, while Owen’s hand instinctively drifted toward the hilt of his sword. The weight of reality descended heavily, crushing the fragile sense of respite Jacques had just begun to savour.

'Go on,' Jacques said, his tone deliberately steady, though his mind was already racing. Trouble, no doubt. Sir Orchis never delivered good news—it wasn’t in his nature.

Dennis hesitated, his lips trembling as he glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting a shadow to lunge at him from the crowd. Finally, he leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'He wants you to meet him in the throne room, Your Grace. By the entrance to the royal cells.'

Jacques frowned, the words sinking into him like stones into deep water. The royal cells? That dark, damp labyrinth of forgotten criminals and whispered secrets? The Hawk Knight always had a taste for theatrics, but this request reeked of something more sinister. 'Why?' Jacques asked, suspicion sharpening his tone.

Dennis shook his head, wringing his hands like a man desperate to scrub away invisible filth. 'He didn’t say, Your Grace,' he stuttered. 'Only that it was urgent. He… he said he’s found something.'

Jacques frowned, wondering what sort of twisted game Sir Orchis was trying to play with him this time: a trap? Another lie spun so deftly in half-truths that untangling it will only snare me further? Jacques glanced back at Dennis, whose pale, nervous face betrayed nothing useful. 'What exactly did he say?' Jacques demanded, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the tavern.

Dennis flinched, his hands wringing the edges of his cloak. 'He didn’t say much, Your Grace. Only that you must come urgently. He… he seemed quite serious.'

Jacques let out a slow breath through his nose, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table. His gaze turned toward the flagon of ale before him, but its dark, inviting surface no longer promised relief. The camaraderie of the tavern—the blacksmith’s heartfelt gratitude, the patrons’ cheering toasts—had evaporated like mist under the cold, unforgiving sun of responsibility. Even the bard’s lilting tune seemed to falter, its merry notes unable to reach him.

He pushed the flagon away, the taste of satisfaction curdling into bitterness on his tongue. The Hawk Knight was a storm cloud that could not be ignored, and ignoring him now might unleash a tempest Jacques couldn’t contain. 'Damn the man,' Jacques muttered under his breath.

He turned to Owen. 'Finish your ale, Owen. It seems we must tend to a hawk who refuses to accept that his wings have been clipped.'

Owen raised an eyebrow but nodded, lifting his mug with one hand while his other rested instinctively on the pommel of his sword. 'Aye, Your Grace,' he said, draining the flagon in one determined swig. He slammed it down on the table, his maple eyes scanning the room as if already preparing for whatever ambush awaited them. 'Ready when you are.'

Silence greeted Jacques and Owen as they stepped inside the throne room, the kind that clung to skin and seeped into one’s very bones. Torches lined the walls, sputtering weakly, their dim flames casting jagged shadows that writhed like living things on the cold stone. Each step Jacques took echoed faintly, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the chamber, until he and Owen stood at the edge of the black gloom radiating from the doorway to the royal cells.

Sir Orchis Vortigon stood motionless in the corner, a dark figure outlined by the faintest sliver of torchlight. His gleaming armour was dulled by shadow, but his presence radiated menace. His posture was casual, almost dismissive, yet his every movement carried the tension of a predator waiting to pounce. When Jacques’ eyes met his, the knight’s expression twisted into a grin that sent a chill down his spine. This was not the anger-fuelled scowl Sir Orchis had once worn; this was the smile of a man who’d delivered the checkmate.

'Thank you for coming at such short notice, Your Grace,' Sir Orchis said, bowing his head in mock reverence.

Jacques’ stomach tightened, but he refused to let his unease show. 'What is it you want to show me, Sir Orchis?' His voice was even, but he could feel the weight of Owen’s silent readiness beside him.

Sir Orchis’ grin widened. He gestured toward the black maw of the doorway, the darkness within seeming to pulse. 'Go in and see for yourself,' he purred, his voice dripping with sinister glee.

Jacques and Owen exchanged an uneasy glance, the tension between them taut as a bowstring. Jacques felt the weight of unspoken words in Owen's eyes, a mix of warning and loyalty that left him both reassured and unsettled.

To show fear now would be to show weakness, Jacques reminded himself. Yet every step toward the shadowed entrance felt like stepping closer to a trap. His pulse throbbed in his ears, and his throat felt dry despite the ale he’d nursed earlier. Only a short while ago, Sir Orchis had been an ally—sharp-tongued and brash, but dependable when it mattered. Now, Jacques wasn’t sure what he was. A friend? An opponent? Something worse?

The Hawk Knight’s enigmatic grin, visible even in the flickering torchlight, held no warmth, only sharp, predatory.

He’s enjoying this far too much.

Jacques’ jaw tightened as he stared him down, forcing the fear snaking its way up his spine into submission.

I will not be afraid of him. Despite his resolve, doubt curled in his chest like a smoking ember. Why does it feel like he’s the one holding the board and all the pieces, pulling my strings like the master puppeteer people accuse me of being?

As Jacques took a step toward the doorway, Owen’s hand shot out, clamping down firmly on his arm.

'Your Grace,' The Northman said, his voice low but urgent. 'Let me go with you.'

Jacques paused, the weight of Owen’s concern pressing heavily against his pride. He followed Owen’s gaze to Sir Orchis, whose expression remained maddeningly unchanged. The Hawk Knight slowly shook his head, his grin widening just enough to reveal his teeth. Sir Orchis’ meaning was clear: This is for you alone.

The cold knot in Jacques’ stomach twisted tighter, his unease bordering on nausea. It wasn’t just the smirk or the ominous invitation; it was the unsettling certainty that Sir Orchis wanted him to feel off-balance, to question every move. That he relished the new regent king’s discomfort.

Jacques turned back to Owen, meeting The Northern Knight’s desperate gaze. The lines of concern etched into Owen’s scarred face were deeper now, his protective instincts clearly warring with his duty to obey. Jacques placed a steadying hand on Owen’s shoulder. His voice was quiet but firm, an anchor in the rising storm. 'If I do not return in the next hour, you have my permission to kill him.'

Owen glanced at Sir Orchis, his face hardening into the grim mask of a soldier. He nodded tightly, his fingers curling around the pommel of his sword as if it were the only thing tethering him to restraint.

'The final cell on the left,' Sir Orchis said. Those words echoed in Jacques’ ears, sharp and cryptic, as he stepped into the abyss.

Jacques’ heart thudded against his ribs, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to grow louder with each passing second. The icy dread creeping into his chest wasn’t unfamiliar; he’d felt it before, in the aftermath of King Geraldo’s assassination, during the tense exchange he’d endured with Sofia. But this was different. This felt more primal, more immediate, as though he were walking willingly into a monster’s lair, his own instincts screaming at him to turn back.

In all his years living in the palace, he’d never ventured into the royal cells. He’d read about them, of course—The Shadows Beneath the Crown, one book had called them. They were described as a place the sunlight couldn’t reach, where the air hung heavy with the stench of despair and rot. A place where men lost their minds long before they lost their lives. Tales, Jacques had always thought, written to keep children from mischief and criminals from defiance. But now, standing at the edge of that dark spiral staircase, he couldn’t help but wonder: Are they just tales? Or is this truly the palace’s buried heart of torment?

Carefully, Jacques stretched his leg forward, his toes searching for the first step in the overwhelming blackness. When his foot landed flat, he exhaled a shaky sigh of relief. 'At least it isn’t a straight drop,' he muttered under his breath. The sound felt hollow, fragile, as if the darkness might shatter it completely.

His pulse quickened as he descended, each step amplifying the eerie silence around him. The stone staircase was slick beneath his boots, the faint moisture of the walls glistening in the dim torchlight filtering from above. The air grew colder with every turn of the spiral, biting through his clothes and settling into his bones. Each footfall echoed back at him in distorted whispers, as though the walls themselves were alive, murmuring secrets of the condemned.

The stench struck Jacques as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the air thick and foul with the rank odour of sweat, rot, and excrement. He gagged, pressing his sleeve to his nose, but it did little to shield him from the assault on his senses. His throat tightened, every breath a struggle as the cursed tang seemed to cling to his lungs. He coughed, the sound ricocheting off the damp stone walls, swallowed almost immediately by the silence that blanketed the place.

The eerriness was a force of its own, unnerving in its completeness, broken only by the faint crunch of dust and grit beneath his boots. Even that seemed too loud, as if the royal cells themselves disapproved of any sound not born of suffering. Flickering torches lined the walls, their light feeble and inconsistent, casting grotesque shadows that danced and twisted like spectres. Rats darted along the edges of the corridor, their beady eyes glinting in the dim light before they disappeared into cracks and crevices. Jacques clenched his jaw and forced his legs to keep moving, though each step felt heavier than the last, as if the air itself conspired to weigh him down.

Finally, Jacques reached the end of the hallway, his steps faltering as he stopped. His breath puffed in uneven bursts, misting in the cold air. To his left, as Sir Orchis had instructed, was the cell.

Instructed.

That word soured in his mind, lingering like bile on his tongue. He was the Regent King—he should never be ‘instructed,’ especially not by someone like Sir Orchis Vortigon. The thought caught in his throat, tangled with frustration and something dangerously close to fear. Why does it feel like my position doesn’t matter to anyone?

Jacques peered through the iron bars, his breath catching as his gaze fell upon the prisoner.

Inside sat a boy, no older than fourteen, cross-legged against the cold stone wall. His posture was unnaturally still, as if carved from ice, and his pale face was a mask of defiance. Eyes like shards of frozen steel stared forward, cold and unyielding, daring the world to look away first. His golden hair caught the faint torchlight that flickered across the damp dungeon walls, each strand gleaming incongruously against the grime smeared across his cheeks. Jacques could imagine how, under gentler circumstances, this boy might have been seen as a beacon of youthful charm, a heartthrob amongst the girls his age. But here, in the suffocating gloom of the prison, he looked like a relic, cruelly abandoned.

A pang of sorrow twisted in Jacques’ chest, sharp and insistent. What could a boy like this—a child—have done to end up here, condemned to rot among the worst of the kingdom's forgotten souls? His fingers tightened on the iron bars, the cool metal grounding him as he sought words to pierce the stillness.

The boy’s gaze snapped toward him suddenly, his voice sharp and accusing. 'You’re the Regent King, aren’t you?'

Jacques started slightly, his throat tightening. The boy’s tone held none of the deference he was used to; there was no plea, no respect—only scorn. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Swallowing against the dryness in his mouth, he nodded. 'Indeed, I am. And you are?'

The boy’s lip curled faintly, a fleeting gesture that might have been a smirk if not for the raw bitterness behind it. 'What does my name matter to you?' he replied, his voice echoing faintly against the damp stone. 'You’ll forget it the moment you walk away.'

Jacques hesitated, the weight of the boy’s words hanging heavy between them. He could walk away, it was true. He should walk away—this wasn’t his fight, and he had enough troubles of his own. But something in the boy’s icy stare, the emptiness that shouldn’t belong in the eyes of someone so young, anchored him to the spot.

'I don’t think so,' Jacques said at last, his voice soft but firm as he crouched by the bars. 'Vortigon sent me down here to speak with you, and I intend to know why. The man seems to enjoy his riddles. So, let’s start. What’s your name?'

The boy shifted, the faint clink of his chains breaking the silence. His movements were slow, as if even the smallest effort was a rebellion against the weight of the dungeon. At last, he spoke. 'Rickard. At least, that’s what my mother named me.'

Jacques’ heart clenched, the sorrow from before sharpening into something deeper, more visceral. 'Where’s your mother now?' he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.

'Dead.' The word dropped like a stone into the dark void between them, the boy’s tone as flat and unfeeling as the cell that confined him. There was no hesitation, no tremor in his voice—just a stark, brutal truth.

'And you’ve lived on your own ever since? What about your father?'

Rickard shook his head slowly, his gaze falling to his bare, dirt-crusted feet. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, his thin shoulders trembling faintly as if under the weight of memories too heavy to bear. Jacques waited, the boy’s silence speaking louder than words. It wasn’t just grief in the boy’s posture; it was resignation, the quiet acceptance of someone who’d learned far too early that the world offered no refuge.

Jacques’ questions hung in the air, unanswered, but his heart bled for the boy—and for all the others like him scattered throughout the capital. He’d seen too many faces like Rickard’s, haunted and hollow, remnants of lives broken by hardship and neglect. Too many. Far too many.

Clearing his throat, Jacques shifted his approach. 'So how did you end up here?' he asked, his tone lightening slightly, though his stomach clenched at the thought of what answer might come. 'What happened?'

Rickard hesitated, his thin fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tattered trousers. His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling in erratic jerks. 'I…' he started, his voice cracking as his eyes filled with unshed tears. He bit his lip, shaking his head as though trying to banish the memory. 'I killed a man.'

Jacques’ breath caught, but he said nothing, watching as Rickard’s fragile composure crumbled.

'I was only having some fun,' the boy continued, his voice breaking into a frantic rush. 'You know, making his carriage break. I thought it’d be a laugh—just a prank. But then they started beating this boy for something I did. A little boy. He couldn’t have been any older than me.’ Rickard’s words came tumbling out now, heavy with desperation. 'I couldn’t just stand there. So I stepped in to help. But then—' He choked, his hands trembling as they balled into fists. 'Before I knew it, I’d… I’d killed him.'

He looked up then, his tear-streaked face twisted in a mixture of anguish and terror, his voice cracking with raw emotion. 'And now I’m in here.' He gripped his tattered tunic with trembling hands, his knuckles white. 'I was only trying to help, Your Grace. You have to believe me! I didn’t mean to—' His voice faltered, swallowed by a sob, and he buried his face in his hands.

The sound of his sobbing filled the cell, sharp and unrelenting, echoing off the stone walls. Each cry was a sword, stabbing through Jacques’ defences, striking chords of pain and guilt he hadn’t realised he carried. He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his own emotions in check, but Rickard’s grief was a force all its own, raw and unyielding.

He wanted to say something—anything—but the words refused to come. He shifted closer to the bars, his hand lifting instinctively, reaching out to bridge the chasm between them. But as his fingers hovered just inches from the bars, he hesitated. What could I offer? Empty promises? Hollow reassurances?

Jacques drew his hand back slightly, the weight of his own failures pressing down on him like the damp air of the dungeon. He’d failed people before—failed to protect them, to shield them from the injustices that consumed them all. Now here he was, staring into the eyes of one more soul he might not be able to save.

'I believe you,' Jacques said gently, his voice softening as he met the boy’s tear-filled eyes. 'You should’ve walked away, Rickard. No one would have blamed you for that. So why didn’t you?'

Rickard sniffed, his sobs slowing, though his breathing remained uneven. He looked away, his fingers twitching as they traced the edges of the iron cuffs around his wrists. 'It’s silly,' he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Jacques frowned, leaning forward. 'What is it?' he pressed, his tone laced with both curiosity and concern. He could sense that whatever the boy was about to say carried the weight of his deepest convictions.

The boy hesitated, his face contorting in a mixture of shame and hope. 'I… I’ve always wanted to become a knight of the royal guard,' he admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if afraid they might be snatched back by the gloom of the cell. 'Like Sir Theon Balogun.'

Jacques blinked. 'Sir Theon?'

Rickard nodded quickly, a spark of light flickering in his eyes for the first time. 'Yeah. When I was younger, he helped my orphanage. He kept us afloat when no one else cared. He made me believe… believe that even someone like me could make a difference. That I could help people if—if I could just be in a position of power, like Sir Theon was.'

The raw sincerity in Rickard’s voice tugged at Jacques, cutting through the bitterness and despair that had filled their conversation until now. 'You look up to him?' Jacques asked, though he already knew the answer.

The boy cracked a faint smile, his tears momentarily forgotten. It wasn’t much, but it transformed his face, revealing the child he still was beneath the grime and sorrow. 'I got to see him fight once,' he said. 'At the king’s peace tournament. He was unstoppable—like something out of a legend. I’ve never seen anything like it.'

Jacques found himself smiling faintly, despite the heavy air in the cell. 'The peace tournament?'

Gods, that feels like a lifetime ago now.

Rickard nodded, his small hands gripping his clothes. 'I wasn’t supposed to be there—I snuck out of the orphanage to watch. I filtered through hundreds of people just to get a glimpse of him in the arena.' He laughed softly, though there was a note of sadness in it. 'The guards kicked me out. They beat me. But it was worth it. Just seeing him fight was worth it.'

Jacques’ mind spiralled back to memories he’d tried to bury—the days he would watch Rick train in the palace courtyard, the boy’s determined scowl mirrored by the sharp clanging of steel against steel. Jacques could almost feel the sun on his face again, hear Rick’s laughter as he called out another challenge to the old knight who had mentored him.

Rickard swept a strand of his golden hair from his face, and Jacques’ breath hitched. The motion was so familiar it was painful, a precise echo of how Rick would push back his own locks before launching into an attack. It wasn’t just the gesture—the golden hue, the tilt of the boy’s jawline, even the way he carried himself, all bore an uncanny resemblance.

Jacques gritted his teeth, his hands tightening around those cold iron bars. I’m seeing him everywhere. Rick… He’s gone. He’s dead, you fool! Stop torturing yourself!

But as much as he tried to dismiss the thought, his heart thundered in his chest. He forced his gaze back to the boy, studying him with an intensity that bordered on desperation. The golden hair, the sharp cheekbones, the proud tilt of his chin—it was as if a phantom from his past had materialised before him, flesh and blood and brimming with defiance.

A sudden, gnawing dread coiled in Jacques’ stomach, twisting tighter with every passing second. This isn’t possible. It can’t be.

'Your mother… what was her name?' Jacques asked, his voice trembling slightly before he steadied it. The question came out too sudden, too sharp, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Rickard’s gaze darkened with suspicion. 'Aubery,' he said slowly, the name rolling off his tongue like a challenge. 'Why?'

Aubery. The name hit Jacques like a dagger to the chest. He staggered back a step, his jaw slack. He’s Aubery’s son. He’s…

His mind raced through fragmented memories—the laughter they’d shared, the secrets whispered in the quiet of moonlit nights, the ache of losing her. And now, this boy.

Jacques’ voice hardened as a storm of emotions churned within him. 'Look at me, boy,' he demanded, harsher than he’d intended. His hand pressed against the bars as if to close the distance, to drag the truth into the light. 'I said look at me!'

Rickard flinched but obeyed, lifting his head and locking eyes with Jacques. The moment their gazes met, Jacques’ heart seized. There was no mistaking it—those eyes, piercing and vibrant as the open ocean, were hers. The same eyes that had once enchanted him, that had gazed at him with love and longing. Now, they stared back at him from the face of this boy, filled with defiance and confusion.

But it wasn’t just the eyes. The features, so familiar yet distinct, tore at him. This wasn’t Aubery’s face. It was the face of the past, reformed and reshaped, come back to haunt him in a way he’d never imagined. His gut churned, a tumult of disbelief, fury, and something deeper: hope.

Jacques sprinted down the dimly lit corridor, his heart pounding in his chest, his boots striking the stone floor with a frantic rhythm. The stairs loomed ahead, and he charged upward, his burning lungs screaming in protest as he pushed himself harder. Each step felt steeper than the last, the image of the boy’s golden hair and piercing ocean-blue eyes flashing relentlessly in his mind. It was as if the spectre of Rick had returned to haunt him, and the weight of it threatened to drag him under.

The faint light of the throne room grew closer, flickering like a distant beacon. Jacques stumbled, catching himself on the rail before lunging forward and bursting through the heavy doors. He staggered to a stop, his body heaving as he clawed at the air, leaning against his knees to catch his breath. His vision blurred from exertion, but even through the haze, he could feel eyes on him.

'Find anything?' Owen’s voice cut through the tense air, calm but curious.

Jacques straightened slowly, his chest heaving, and his gaze locked onto Sir Orchis. The Hawk Knight leaned casually against the far wall, arms crossed, a smug grin etched onto his face. The sight of it sent Jacques’ blood boiling. Sir Orchis’ expression wasn’t just confident—it was victorious, as though he had already delivered the killing blow and was merely savouring the moment. Denying it would be futile.

'You,' Jacques growled, his voice a trembling mix of fury and disbelief. He took a step forward, pointing an accusatory finger at The Hawk Knight. 'You know who that boy is, don’t you?'

Sir Orchis’ grin widened. 'Do I?' he replied, his tone dripping with feigned innocence.

'Why?' Owen said, his brows furrowed as he turned toward Jacques, 'Who is he?'

Jacques didn’t answer immediately, his gaze remaining fixed on Sir Orchis’ infuriatingly smug face. The truth clawed its way out of his throat like a wild animal, each word heavy and laden with anger and despair. 'My… my brother’s bastard son.'

The declaration hit the room like an earthquake. Owen’s eyes widened in shock, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. His expression hardened as his gaze flicked between Jacques and Sir Orchis, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

The walls seemed to close in, the air growing heavy as if the very castle itself had turned against Jacques. His chest tightened painfully, his breathing shallow as the weight of the revelation pressed down on him. Every second felt like an eternity, the silence deafening save for the pounding of his heart.

Sir Orchis broke the stillness with a low chuckle, his amusement filling the void. 'Now, Your Grace,' he said, his grin widening into something razor-sharp. 'I believe you were saying something about clipping my wings?'