Jacques moved through the grimy halls of Sir Orchis’ brothel, his gait steady but his shoulders taut with unease. The place was alive with depravity, a ceaseless symphony of indulgence that knew no hour. Even in the dim haze of early morning, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh and the raw cries that filled the air grew louder, more oppressive, the deeper he ventured into the establishment. He resisted the urge to cover his ears; this was no time for the Regent King to show weakness.

His boots thudded against the sticky wooden floor, each step producing a nauseating squelch that clung to the soles like a parasite. Jacques couldn’t help but glance down, grimacing at the dark streaks staining the boards—a mixture of spilled wine, sweat, and Gods knew what else. The air was a noxious cocktail of odours that clung to every surface, the overpowering musk of cheap perfume clinging to overused linens, and the sour-sweet stench of wine turning rancid in the heat.

Shadows writhed along the walls, cast by the flickering light of guttering candles and lanterns that barely held back the gloom. The weak, golden glow seemed almost reluctant to illuminate the scenes unfolding in the dim alcoves. Jacques caught flashes of limbs entwined, bare backs arched, and faces contorted in expressions he couldn’t decide were pleasure or torment.

I can’t afford to lose my nerve now.

He focused on the staircase ahead, its banisters worn smooth by years of gripping hands, and ignored the leering gazes from shadowed figures lounging in alcoves or doorways. Some offered sultry smiles, their eyes glassy from drink or opium. Others merely stared, their hollow expressions betraying the weight of a thousand transactions that had stripped them of humanity.

A hand shot out as he passed one doorway, pale and skeletal, fingers brushing his arm. Jacques froze. He met the gaze of a gaunt woman with sunken cheeks and a fading bruise along her collarbone. Her lips parted, her voice hoarse as she whispered, 'Looking for something, love?'

Her question hung in the air, a brittle thing laced with desperation.

'Not here,' Jacques muttered, his voice low and cold. He stepped out of her reach and quickened his pace, his boots echoing louder against the planks as if to drown out her quiet, bitter laugh.

Jaques gripped the banister and began his ascent. The sounds below faded, but the air grew heavier, thick with an almost tangible dread. He wasn’t just climbing to the top floor of a brothel—he was ascending into the lair of a predator.

The Hawk Knight awaited him there. Jacques could already feel the weight of the knight’s reputation pressing down on him like a suffocating hand. A spymaster who thrived on fear and deceit, Sir Orchis Vortigon perched above his domain like the bird of prey he took his name from, always ready to strike with cruel precision.

It had been weeks since his father had departed for the border, marching into the chaos of war and leaving Jacques to shoulder the crushing burden of ruling the capital—alone, save for her. The weight of it all, the ceaseless onslaught of responsibility, was like an avalanche, each day adding another stone to the pile pressing against his chest. It was becoming harder to breathe, harder to think, as the demands of the crown and the treachery of those around him coiled like an iron band around his ribs.

From Sir Orchis’ blatant manipulations, so thinly veiled they might as well have been taunts, to Mirielle stealing the Hanneburg deal from under his nose with a smug, cutting smile, every day brought a fresh humiliation. And then there was Rickard. His bastard nephew. The revelation had struck like a thunderbolt, leaving Jacques reeling, his plans scattering like leaves in the wind. The situation wasn’t just dire—it was spiralling out of control.

Before he could make any meaningful plans, he needed to uncover Mirielle’s. Her machinations were as intricate as they were insidious, and there was only one man in the city who might have a semblance of insight.

Jacques remembered his last encounter vividly—the sharpness in Sir Orchis’ voice, the calculated glint in his eyes as he dismissed Jacques’ naive attempts at outmanoeuvring Mirielle.

How wrong I was, Jacques thought bitterly. The memory churned in his gut, leaving the acrid taste of regret on his tongue. He had believed he could defeat Mirielle without Sir Orchis’ help. That arrogance had cost him dearly.

Now, he saw things true. He needed a man like Sir Orchis.

He was dangerous, yes, but he was also cunning and resourceful. The Hawk Knight might only need to whisper Rickard’s existence to Mirielle for the boy to be thrust into unimaginable danger. Jacques couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.

This was no longer about pride or grudges. It was about alliances, about survival. For the sake of the people he had sworn to protect, for the memory of Rick and Aubery, and above all, for the boy whose future hung in the balance, Jacques would do what needed to be done.

The steps were steeper than he remembered, their worn wooden edges creaking ominously beneath his boots. His legs burned with exertion, muscles straining against the climb, and a sheen of sweat clung to his skin, making his collar itch uncomfortably.

Below him, the brothel remained alive with debauchery, a symphony of sin that reverberated through the walls. The drunken laughter, punctuated by cries of pleasure—or despair—mixed with the ceaseless clinking of glasses and the rhythmic creak of overburdened beds. It scraped at his nerves, a constant reminder of the rot beneath the city’s surface.

By the time he reached the top, his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. The dimly lit corridor stretched ahead of him, its silence broken only by the faint hum of activity below. Before him loomed the door to Sir Orchis’ office, its polished dark wood reflecting the feeble glow of nearby lanterns. The surface seemed alive, shadows flickering across it like restless spirits. The air here was heavier, laced with the faint acridity of opium smoke that seeped through the gaps in the doorframe.

Jacques’ fingers twitched at his side, the instinct to turn and retreat gnawing at the edges of his mind. But he couldn’t. He steeled himself with a deep breath, and rapped his knuckles against the door.

The sound echoed sharply, the silence swallowing it whole before a voice, thin and unsettlingly light, called out from within.

'Come in.'

Jacques pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest as he stepped inside.

He had expected to see Sir Orchis seated at his usual place—the rounded table that often served as both battlefield and stage for his machinations. Instead, the knight was across the room, adjusting the position of a black wooden cupboard. He stepped back, his hawkish gaze scrutinising its stability, his movements slow, as if testing the patience of the room itself.

Tasting the air, a slight haze crept into Jacques’ thoughts, making his already frayed nerves feel taut and brittle. He fought the urge to cough, his throat itching as he stepped further inside.

Jacques stumbled onto a squeaky floorboard, the sharp creak cutting through the heavy silence. Sir Orchis turned at the sound, his gaze locking onto Jacques with direct precision. A slow grin curled across his lips, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and veiled menace.

'Your Grace,' he drawled, the mockery in his tone as thick as the toxic air, 'to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Have you come to tell me I need to close up shop even earlier than anticipated?'

Jacques fought the urge to wince. So, he thought, that’s how it’s going to be. He swallowed hard, his pride scraping like shards of glass against his throat. 'I…' He faltered, then tried again, his voice steadier this time. 'I came to apologise, good sir.'

Sir Orchis froze mid-movement, his expression transforming into one of mock astonishment. His grin widened. 'You have?' he asked, his voice dripping with theatrical disbelief.

Jacques coughed into his fist, a feeble attempt to clear both his throat and the suffocating weight of his own ego. 'I… doubted your loyalty—to myself and to my father,' he said, each word tasting bitter as bile. 'And for that, you have my deepest…' He paused. Damn it, what should I say? '…regrets.'

The following silence suffocated him, broken only by the faint hiss of candle flames and the rhythmic creak of the floorboards beneath Jacques’ weight.

Sir Orchis tilted his head, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Then, as though unable to contain himself, he let out a soft chuckle. 'Come now, Your Grace,' he said, his voice smooth as silk but twice as cutting. 'I’ve played this game far too long to mistake that for a genuine apology. You don’t come here, crawling through the muck of my establishment, unless you want something. A favour? A secret? Or…' He stroked his chin in mock contemplation, his smile stretching wider, exposing a hint of his devilishly perfect teeth. 'Could it be you’re interested in a certain someone? Who might that person be, I wonder?'

The amusement in The Hawk Knight’s voice made a fierce heat rise in his chest, his anger simmering just below the surface. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. He had been a fool to underestimate Sir Orchis once. He would not make the same mistake again.

He met Sir Orchis’ piercing gaze, the words crawling reluctantly from his mouth. 'You’re right,' he admitted, 'I do want something. I need to know who Mirielle is going to meet next. I need to be ahead of her. I need to make the deal myself.'

Sir Orchis’ grin widened, his eyes gleaming with delight. He stepped closer, the rich, cloying scent of opium wafting from his armour, wrapping around Jacques like a snake. Suffocating, thick and inescapable. 'Ah, there it is. The truth,' The Hawk Knight purred. 'You need my help to outmanoeuvre the princess. How deliciously ironic.' His gaze flicked toward the black cupboard behind him, lingering there for a moment before returning to Jacques.

'Yes, I could sing my song for you, if the mood strikes me. But then, why would I? You mocked me. Insulted my honour. Ordered me to close down an establishment that has lined my pockets quite handsomely. Surely, you can understand my… predicament.'

Jacques’ jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to nod. 'Yes. I can.'

Sir Orchis tilted his head, his grin taking on a crueler edge. 'So, let me teach you a lesson about power, Your Grace,' he said, 'Power is both ice and fire. It can cut like the sharpest sword or crush like the bluntest hammer. It’s a tide that drowns the unworthy and elevates those who know how to swim. The Jubilees have power. They have numbers. And, more importantly, they have friends. Many friends. Tell me, Your Grace'—his voice dropped to a venomous whisper—'how many friends do you have?'

The room contracted around Jacques, the air growing thicker, heavier, until the very walls leaned in to smother him. A shiver crept down his spine, cold as death itself, as the weight of Sir Orchis’ words settled over him like a burial shroud. The dim light flickered, casting long, grotesque shadows writhing across the room like spectres.

In the deepest corner of his mind, a voice emerged, low and scornful. His father’s voice.

I never wanted you.

'So let me make you an offer,' The Hawk Knight said. 'I give you undying loyalty and all the information you desire, and in return, you allow me to continue my business here in this fine establishment of mine, uninterrupted. I keep all the profits—every last coin—for myself. Surely, you’d agree that’s a fair deal.'

Jacques wanted to shake his head, to protest, to stand tall and declare that it was unacceptable. But the words refused to come. How could I say no? Sir Orchis was his best chance to stop Mirielle. He needed the man’s connections, his cunning, his knowledge. Yet, even as he forced himself to meet Sir Orchis’ gaze, the plans he’d envisioned for the brothel clawed at the back of his mind—dreams of taking its ill-gotten profits and funnelling them to the poor, to the orphanages, to him.

The thought of his bastard nephew—the boy whose fragile existence hung in mystery—tightened around Jacques’ chest like a vice. Those funds could give the boy a future, a life free of the shadows that had consumed Jacques’ own. Knights are supposed to be honourable, he thought bitterly, selfless protectors of the weak, or at least that’s what the stories said. But he wasn’t speaking to a knight from the tales of old. He was speaking to The Hawk Knight, a man who wore honour like a helmet and wielded manipulation like a sword.

'And the boy?' Jacques asked, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. He raised an eyebrow, feigning detachment as he gauged Sir Orchis’ reaction.

The Hawk Knight’s expression softened, just a fraction, but enough to make it clear he relished the moment. With exaggerated flair, he crossed his heart with a gloved finger. 'I’ll take the secret to my grave, Your Grace. Princess Mirielle will hear nothing from me. You have my word.'

Jacques stared at him, his features carefully schooled into impassivity, though relief coursed through him like a wave crashing against the shore. Rickard was safe. For now. But trusting in Sir Orchis was a precarious thing, fragile as a thread spun from glass.

I have to beware.

'Very well,' Jacques said at last, his voice clipped 'I will meet your demands. Now…' He narrowed his eyes. 'You will tell me what your spies have been whispering in your ear.'

Sir Orchis nodded. He strode toward the round table where Jacques had sat during his last visit, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the flickering candlelight. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled out a folded parchment from a pocket within his crimson cloak. He unfurled it and smoothed it onto the table’s surface with deliberate care, the crackling of the paper filling the silence.

Jacques leaned closer, his brow furrowing as he examined the detailed map now stretching before him. It depicted the city in meticulous detail, from the western walls to the eastern outskirts, and even the countryside for miles beyond. Every road, every field, every insignificant building had been inked with an obsessive precision that hinted at just how deep Sir Orchis’ web of knowledge truly ran.

'Since the war began, the public has grown… concerned,' Sir Orchis’ finger hovered over the fields sprawled outside the city, tracing the lines as though they were veins carrying the lifeblood of the capital. 'About where their food will come from. More specifically, their meat. A most primal worry, wouldn’t you agree?'

Jacques blinked, his thoughts momentarily derailed. 'Meat?'

'Yes, meat, Your Grace,' Sir Orchis replied, exhaling a sigh as if Jacques’ response were a personal affront. 'Now tell me, where do you suppose the city acquires its meat from?'

'Butchers,' Jacques said, though the answer felt insufficient even as he spoke it.

Sir Orchis closed his eyes for a brief moment, as though summoning patience. 'And where, pray tell, do butchers acquire their meat?'

'From farmers.'

'Yes,' Sir Orchis replied, his tone almost patronising now, 'And how do farmers sell their livestock?'

'Auctioneers.’

'There we are,' Sir Orchis said, his smile returning in full force as if rewarding a particularly slow pupil. He tapped a finger against the map with a soft thunk. His nail landed on a marked location outside the city walls, the inked letters spelling out Cooper’s Markets.

'There’s a livestock market a few miles from the city. That,' he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, 'is where Mirielle will go to make her deal.'

Jacques’ gaze followed the path Sir Orchis had traced, his mind already racing. The market was outside the city—far enough from prying eyes to make it the perfect spot for clandestine dealings. This wasn’t just about commerce. It was about control. Food was survival, and whoever controlled the city’s food supply would wield an iron grip over its people.

Jacques straightened, his mouth dry. 'And you’re certain of this?'

Sir Orchis crossed his arms with an air of smug satisfaction. 'Do you think I would waste your precious time if I weren’t? My sources are impeccable, Your Grace. Mirielle knows that whoever holds the markets, holds the city’s throat in their hands.'

The map before Jacques’ eyes seemed to grow larger, the roads and fields stretching out like an endless maze. Mirielle was always one step ahead—always scheming, always striking where it hurt most. He couldn’t afford to falter, not now.

The Hawk Knight’s grin widened, his expression somewhere between a friend’s pride and a demon’s glee. 'Now tell me, Your Grace,' he murmured, his voice silkier than before, 'what will you do with this information?'

Cooper’s Markets. A ripple ran through Jacques’ body, a flicker of hope amidst the endless uncertainty. This was it—a foothold in the shadowed battlefield he’d been forced to navigate. If he could intercept Mirielle’s deal, he might finally begin to shift the tide in his favour.

But just as the faintest glimmer of victory began to take shape, a sharp bang startled him. The sound came from the black cupboard, jolting violently as if something inside it struggled to be free. Jacques stiffened, a shiver crawling up his spine.

The air in the room felt heavier, thicker, pressing down on him like an unseen hand. But The Hawk Knight showed no reaction, his attention fixed on the map before him, his scarred cheek catching the flickering glow.

That scar.

The words came back to him unbidden, Sir Owen Flagg’s voice echoing in his memory with smug amusement: I understand you knew my brother, Lyndon, Sir Orchis.

All too well, Lord Flagg. I still carry a token of his esteem.

Jacques concentrated on the scar, a pale line etched like a brand. The memory of Sir Orchis’ mocking, measured words twisted his stomach: I was so sorry to hear of his passing under your watch.

Jacques cleared his throat, forcing a strained smile to his lips. 'Sir Orchis,' he began, his voice light but laced with unease, 'I think I’m growing strangely fond of you.' The words felt odd as they left his mouth, their levity at odds with the atmosphere in the room. 'But I couldn’t help noticing the friction between yourself and Sir Owen Flagg. He mentioned that you… crossed swords with his brother?'

The change in Sir Orchis was instant and unnerving. The lightness in his posture drained away, his smile vanishing like the sun swallowed by a storm.

'I lost,' Sir Orchis said flatly, his voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. He didn’t look at Jacques, his gaze staying on the map, as though his thoughts had drifted somewhere far away. 'That’s all you need to know. Lyndon Flagg was bigger than me, stronger than me, and worthy of my lady’s love—and everyone knew it, except me.'

Jacques’ discomfort deepened as he watched the Hawk Knight wrestle with the memory. This was not the glib, confident man who had effortlessly commanded the room moments ago. This was someone haunted, weighed down by a humiliation that still festered. My lady’s love. Jacques stared at the faint shimmer in Sir Orchis’ eyes. He saw something there that made his heart stop.

He saw Aubery.

The cupboard jolted again, louder this time, a low, ominous rumble followed by a distinct thump that reverberated through the oppressive silence. Jacques’ heart raced, his pulse pounding in his ears. Fear pricked at his senses like the cold edge of a blade.

'What are you hiding in there?' he demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.

Sir Orchis’ smile returned, but it was no longer the practiced smirk of a showman. It was something darker, colder. Without breaking eye contact, he prowled toward the cupboard.

'Do you know what I learned when I lost that duel?' he began, his tone almost conversational.

Jacques said nothing, frozen in place as Sir Orchis reached the cupboard. The knight paused, resting a hand on its surface, his fingers lightly drumming against the black wood.

'I learned humiliation. As I lay on the ground, broken and bleeding, one northerner decided it would be funny to spit on me. Not content with just watching me suffer, he leaned down and made sure I heard him clearly. He told me I was nothing, that I would never rise above the dirt.'

His hand stopped drumming, fingers curling into a fist against the wood. His gaze drifted to some unseen point, far beyond the room they stood in. 'He was an older man, with a scraggly beard, one blue eye, and one green. That face burned itself into my memory as I lay there, my tears watering the earth beneath me. Lyndon Flagg left me to die that day, and I promised myself two things: I would survive, and I would rise higher than he ever dreamed.'

Jacques’ mouth dried, his unease growing with every word. The cupboard thumped again, and this time, the sound was followed by a faint, muffled moan.

Sir Orchis’ eyes flickered back to Jacques, sharp and glinting with cruel satisfaction. 'Now Lyndon Flagg is buried beneath the ground, while I stand here, alive, thriving, and unshackled by the chains of failure.' His voice took on an edge of grim pride. 'Revenge has a flavour unlike anything else, Your Grace. It is bitter, yes—but oh, how sweet the aftertaste.'

Jacques felt the walls closing in, the room growing darker, heavier, suffocating. 'What does this have to do with that cupboard?' he asked, though his voice betrayed the trepidation bubbling within him.

Sir Orchis’ smile widened, his teeth gleaming in the flickering candlelight. 'I am not like Sir Theon, endlessly serving a kingdom that doesn’t serve him. Nor am I like Sir Owen, so blinded by precious honour that I cannot see the dagger at my throat.' He gestured grandly to the room, as if presenting a masterpiece. 'I see all, I know all—and I wait until the perfect moment to strike. That is how I win. That is how we will win.'

Jacques’ eyes darted to the cupboard as another faint sound came from within. A chill ran down his spine, his instincts screaming at him to leave, to run. 'And what, exactly, am I meant to make of that, Sir Orchis?'

Sir Orchis exhaled softly, a sound that could have been mistaken for a chuckle. He turned to face the cupboard fully, his hand lingering on its door. 'All of my hard work, my patience, my planning—it paid off just a few days ago.' He leaned closer to the cupboard, his voice dropping to a near whisper. 'And here lies the culmination of that victory.'

Without another word, Sir Orchis wrenched the cupboard door open, and Jacques peered inside.

Shivering in its shadowy crevices, bound and gagged, was a man so gaunt and pale he looked like death’s apprentice. His skin was ashen, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones, and his scraggly beard clung to his jaw like a last defiance. What caught Jacques’ attention most, however, were his mismatched eyes—one blue, cold as a winter sky, and the other green, dull yet flickering with raw, unfiltered terror.

'Is this—' Jacques turned sharply toward Sir Orchis, his words cut short as The Hawk Knight’s blade was already drawn, gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

'You see, Your Grace,' Sir Orchis said smoothly, his voice devoid of the mockery it had carried earlier. Now it was all ice and iron, brimming with a dangerous calm. 'If it is revenge you seek, all you have to do...' He paused, stepping closer to the cupboard, the blade’s tip glinting ominously as it caught the light. '...is reach out.'

Before Jacques could react, Sir Orchis plunged the blade into the man’s neck with a sickening shlunk.

'...and take it.'

The man’s muffled scream turned into a gurgle as blood gushed from the wound in torrents, painting the floor of the cupboard in a gruesome crimson. His body crumpled forward, hitting the ground with a grotesque thud, limbs sprawled awkwardly.

Jacques’ breath caught in his throat, his eyes drawn downward as the pool of blood expanded, thick and metallic, creeping outward like a living thing. His own reflection stared back at him in the gleaming red surface, his face pale, eyes wide with shock.

Sir Orchis turned the blade in his hand, casually wiping it on a cloth he pulled from his pocket. 'Gods save the King,' he said, almost conversationally, as though he hadn’t just killed a man in cold blood.

Jacques gulped. Gods save the King.

Owen held the door open with a firm hand, his sharp gaze scanning the council chamber as his brothers of the royal guard—Sir Edrick Combermere, Sir Bryce Howard, and Sir Mandon Jubilee—strode inside. Their crimson cloaks flowed behind them like blood-stained banners, the heavy fabric whispering against the polished stone floor. Each knight’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the casual pose exuding a feigned confidence.

A sudden laugh shattered the solemn air, high and rasping, like nails dragged across rusted iron.

The source of the laughter was Gorgen Cooper, a plump man whose body seemed to spill over the edges of his chair. Belly shaking violently with each guffaw, his jowls quivered like jelly. The uneven remnants of his teeth gleamed in the flickering light of the chamber’s torches, adding an almost grotesque edge to his mirth. The sound reverberated off the cold stone walls, a sharp contrast to the tension that clung to the air like old smoke.

At the head of the table sat Prince Jacques, his posture one of utter ease, though his knuckles shone pale against the table’s dark oak. His laughter joined Mister Cooper’s, lighter in tone but carrying the same edge.

Beside Prince Jacques perched Sir Orchis Vortigon, his body reclined lazily, though every fibre of him radiated a quiet, serpentine menace. His eyes glittered, reflecting the torchlight like twin shards of obsidian, alive with both amusement and calculation.

Further down the table, Sir Robert Bickerton, Sir Julius Nymer, and Sir Osgar Sterling added their own laughter to the mix. But theirs was different—forced, uncertain. The kind of laughter that answered to duty, not joy. It filled the room, stretching the moment of false levity into something brittle, as though it might crack under the weight of the unsaid.

Mister Cooper, still quivering from his cackling fit, reached for his goblet with fingers thick as sausages, his knuckles brushing against the table as he lifted it. The ruby-red wine swirled lazily in the cup, catching the flicker of the torchlight. He took a hearty gulp, his throat working with exaggerated effort, and wiped a stray trickle of wine from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand.

'You are fine company, Your Grace,' he slurred, his words rolling off his tongue with the clumsy ease of a man who had already had one too many. 'Let there be no mistake about that.' He gestured broadly, nearly tipping the goblet in his hand.

'You are kind to say so, my good man,' Prince Jacques replied, his tone light and courteous, though a faint haze of weariness slipped through his polished demeanour. He rested his own goblet on the table, his fingers tapping idly against its stem as he studied Mister Cooper. 'Though I would strongly recommend one of my knights accompany you back to your home. Unless, of course, you feel confident in your ability to walk straight.'

Mister Cooper erupted into another guffaw, his belly heaving as the sound echoed around the chamber. 'Oh, I’ve been drunker than this, Your Grace, let me tell you!' His voice climbed higher, his laughter wheezing. 'And with this new deal we’ve struck, I’d say I’m willing to be even more so!'

Prince Jacques allowed himself a satisfied smile, though his eyes remained sharp, flicking briefly to Sir Orchis beside him. He raised his glass, the liquid catching the firelight like blood against the crystal. 'I shall certainly drink to that.'

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The others at the table followed suit, lifting their goblets. For a moment, the room was filled with the soft clink of glassware and the faint murmur of voices offering muted toasts.

Sir Mandon turned sharply toward the door of the council chamber, his heavy armour creaking with each hurried step. The torchlight glinted off his polished breastplate as his jaw tightened with resolve. No doubt he intended to report this meeting to his sister.

Owen moved to intercept him. He stepped in front of Sir Mandon, his own crimson cloak swirling around him. His hand landed firmly on his new captain's shoulder, fingers curling around the cold steel of the pauldron.

'My apologies, sir.' Owen’s words were formal, yet he hoped his tone carried an unspoken warning for him. 'The prince has called a meeting of the royal guard. You are its captain. Your place is here.'

Sir Mandon’s eyes sparked with indignation, his nostrils flaring like a cornered bull. 'You do not command me, Owen!' he barked, his voice scraping off the stone walls.

Owen’s hand did not waver. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into the grooves of the pauldron with a quiet but unrelenting force.

'Oh!' came a voice from the head of the table. Prince Jacques’ tone was light, almost playful, yet there was no mistaking the steel beneath it. He turned to the pair with a smile that cut through the tension like a finely honed blade. 'Sir Mandon! Finally made it, I see. Now we can begin our meeting.'

Prince Jacques extended his hand toward Mister Cooper, his movements measured, his posture exuding calm authority. 'A pleasure doing business with you, sir.'

Mister Cooper returned the gesture with a hearty handshake, his fingers engulfing Jacques’ in a moment of silent understanding.

'Likewise,' he said, his voice gruff but tinged with respect. He withdrew his hand and reached for his goblet, draining the last of the wine before setting it down with a decisive clink. 'Now, I’d best get home. The wife will be wondering what’s kept me.'

'Give her my regards,' Prince Jacques replied, his smile never faltering, though his eyes briefly flicked to Sir Mandon, holding a sharpness that suggested he’d already moved on to the next game in play.

'I will,' Mister Cooper said with a nod, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor as he rose. He adjusted his belt, the faint jingle of coin and steel accompanying his movements, and shuffled toward the exit. He breezed past Owen and the rest of his brothers standing by the door, his wine-stained smile plastered across his face as though they were little more than statues flanking his departure.

Prince Jacques leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of wood breaking the silence. His glee sharpened as he fixed his gaze on Sir Mandon.

'Thank you for coming at such short notice, Captain.'

Sir Mandon, Sir Edrick, and Sir Bryce exchanged uneasy glances, the air thickening with unspoken tension as a silence hung heavy over the room. The flickering torchlight painted their faces in shifting shadows, exaggerating their furrowed brows and darting eyes.

Prince Jacques gestured toward the empty chairs with a flourish, his expression expectant. 'Please, gentlemen, have a seat.'

For a moment, no one moved. Owen stood a few paces from the door, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning his comrades. The trio hesitated, their hesitation palpable. Finally, with the weight of Prince Jacques’ unrelenting gaze pressing upon them, they moved. Sir Mandon led the way, his boots clicking against the stone floor as he approached the table. The knights slid into their seats, their crimson cloaks pooling around them.

Owen took his place at the far end of the table, directly opposite the prince, the weight of his armour gnawing into his shoulders as he lowered himself into his chair. The cold steel felt heavier than usual, as though the unease in the room had seeped into the metal itself.

His eyes flicked to Sir Mandon, observing the younger man’s face. The captain’s attempt at composure was failing; his fingers drummed against the edge of the table, his jaw clenched too tightly, and his gaze darted toward the doorway where Mister Cooper had disappeared. Would Sir Mandon address the deal he had just witnessed, or would he try to maintain his fragile mask of indifference?

Finally, Sir Mandon leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated yawn, covering his mouth with a gloved hand. 'It’s barely dawn yet, Your Grace,' he drawled, his tone lazy, though it wavered just slightly. 'I could’ve benefited from some sleep.'

Prince Jacques tilted his head, his smile thinning. 'Yes, well... We’ve all got to make sacrifices.'

A tense silence settled over the room, the kind that prickled at the edges of Owen's nerves. Sir Mandon’s gaze lingered on the flagon of wine sitting at the centre of the table, its deep red contents glinting under the flickering torchlight. The faint aroma of cherries wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of old stone and oiled steel.

Prince Jacques gestured toward the flagon with an elegant flick of his wrist. 'Please, help yourself.'

There was no hesitation. Sir Mandon leaned forward, his armour creaking as he reached for the flagon. The goblet in his other hand clinked faintly against the table. He poured generously, the liquid swirling into his cup with a richness that seemed to fill the room.

The knight raised the goblet to his lips and took a long, deliberate sip, savouring the wine as though it were a balm for his frayed composure. He smacked his lips with exaggerated appreciation, his eyes flicking toward the prince. 'Cherry flavor,' he declared, his voice carrying a faint note of satisfaction. 'This is Mister Hanneburg’s wine.'

A faint smile tugged at Jacques’ lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. 'A wine connoisseur, Sir Mandon?' The question hung in the air, laced with a subtle challenge.

Sir Mandon shrugged, his gauntlet brushing against the edge of the table. 'You could say that, Your Grace.'

'Please,' the prince said smoothly, his smile sharpening just enough to unnerve. 'Call me Jacques.'

Sir Mandon took another leisurely sip, his lips stained faintly by the deep red of the wine. The spell of Mister Hanneburg’s craft seemed to seep into him with every swallow, the smooth burn dulling his inhibitions and loosening his tongue. He swirled the goblet idly, watching the wine catch the flickering torchlight.

'Redan wine really is the finest in Galia,' he said, his words slow, almost drawled, as though the richness of the drink had settled in his very marrow. He tipped the glass again and drained it halfway. 'My sister did quite well to secure this deal.'

Prince Jacques leaned forward slightly, his hands folded neatly on the table. His smile was polite, but his eyes remained keen, unblinking. 'Quite right, good sir. She made it so Hanneburg wine is a delicacy everyone can enjoy. I can only applaud that.'

Sir Mandon scoffed. He held his glass up to the light, watching the deep crimson liquid shimmer like a jewel. 'A luxury like this,' he said, his voice thick with condescension, 'is wasted on the penniless. Very much like the finest meat. I believe your Mister Cooper sells only to the most esteemed butchers in the city.' He paused, tilting the goblet to his lips for another slow sip. 'Luxuries like those should be enjoyed by men like us, not the scum.'

That word hung in the air, brash and ugly, carving through the warmth of the wine-soaked atmosphere like serrated steel. Owen’s jaw tightened, but he fought to keep his expression neutral, his years of discipline holding his simmering anger in check.

Sir Mandon set his glass down with a soft clink. 'I imagine myself drinking Hanneburg’s wine in a fine cottage somewhere,' he mused, his voice carrying a wistful arrogance. 'A roaring fire, a beautiful woman by my side… Now that’s my idea of paradise.'

Owen’s grip on the arm of his chair tightened, the leather groaning faintly under the strain. If it weren’t for his father’s fleet propping up the Jubilee family, Sir Mando n wouldn’t have come within a mile of the royal guard. His every word dripped with entitlement, his disdain for the people swore to protect a stain on the armour he wore.

Prince Jacques’ grin lingered, but the subtle sharpness in his tone cast a pall over the room. He placed his glass on the table, the soft impact whispering among the gathered knights.

'Sounds enticing enough,' he said, his voice carrying a note of wistful detachment. 'But that ship’s sailed for me, I’m afraid.'

'You’d thought the chance to have responsibility and power had sailed for you,' Sir Mandon said, his tone thick with self-satisfaction. 'But look at you now. You’ve just secured a very important deal—a deal my sister would’ve been proud of.'

The prince’s shoulders rose and fell in a nonchalant shrug, his face betraying nothing but a calm, almost calculating expression. 'Very true,' he said, tilting his head as though considering the thought. 'The last thing I would’ve expected.'

'Indeed,' Sir Mandon replied, his voice tinged with a smug undercurrent, the corners of his mouth curling upward.

Prince Jacques shifted in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes narrowed, the faintest glint of steel flashing in their depths. 'I never offered you my congratulations, by the way, Sir Mandon.'

Sir Mandon arched an eyebrow. 'Congratulations? For what?'

'For becoming the new captain of the royal guard. It must be hard trying to replace a legend of swordsmanship and chivalry like Sir Theon.'

The air grew taut as the prince’s words settled over the room. Owen’s muscles coiled beneath his armour. He had seen King Rickard himself wear that very expression—calm on the surface, yet charged with the promise of confrontation. Jacques looked every inch the ruler in that moment, his presence filling the chamber like a ghost.

Sir Mandon’s expression darkened, his knuckles blanching as his fingers tightened around the rim of his glass. The faint clink of crystal against metal echoed in the charged air. 'Sir Theon Balogun was old and frail,' he said, his voice steady but dangerously low. 'The King himself said so. He needed to step aside and allow someone younger and more capable to protect His Majesty and the realm. I was honoured to accept the offer.'

'Interesting…' Prince Jacques murmured, his tone light but his gaze piercing. 'Then I suppose we should look to you as the figurehead for planning any future conflicts. After all, Sir Theon guided us through two wars since my father ascended the throne. Tell me, Sir Mandon, how many wars have you personally seen?'

Owen bit down on his lip, struggling to suppress a smirk. Prince Jacques had baited Sir Mandon like a master angler. It wasn’t the kind of direct confrontation his brother would have opted for—Jacques preferred subtlety to Rickard’s brute force—but it was no less effective.

Sir Mandon’s frown deepened, his eyes darting briefly to the other knights assembled. Their gazes were hard, expectant, waiting. He cleared his throat. 'I hardly think that’s relevant. I—'

'It’s a simple question, good sir,' Jacques interrupted, his voice sharp and cutting, like the edge of a whetted blade. 'How many?'

'I—' Sir Mandon hesitated, beads of sweat beginning to glisten at his temple. 'I’m not sure… one, maybe?'

'Wrong. You’ve fought in a grand total of zero wars, sir. Yet here you sit, full of bluster and ambition, thinking you’re fit to guide us through the fires of battle? You must have an extraordinary opinion of yourself.'

'I’ve done my research.'

'So have I,' Prince Jacques snapped, giving an icy glare to the man who called himself a knight, 'I’ve read every book about war ever written. Should I wear the cloak?'

Sir Mandon scoffed. 'Of course not, you’re—' His words cut off abruptly, his lips snapping shut as though they’d betrayed him.

Prince Jacques raised an eyebrow, his expression one of cool detachment. 'What?' he said softly, his voice a low, dangerous current. Deceptively calm. Lethal.

The chamber stilled, as if even the air itself had paused to listen. Every gaze locked onto Sir Mandon. The weight of their stares bore down on him, the silence amplifying the unspoken challenge in the prince’s question.

Sir Mandon shifted his weight, the leather of his boots creaking against the stone floor. 'I apologise, Your Grace,' he muttered, the words heavy with reluctant restraint.

Prince Jacques leaned forward slightly, his hands resting loosely on the arms of his chair. His gaze was steady, unblinking. 'No,' he said, his tone icy cold. 'I want to hear it. I can’t wear the cloak because I’m…'

Sir Mandon hesitated, his jaw tightening. His bravado—so sure and proud moments ago—teetered, but then he drew a deep breath and forced himself to meet the prince’s piercing gaze. 'Because you’re too weak, Your Grace,' he spat, his voice a mixture of defiance and desperation.

A slow grin spread across Prince Jacques’ face, not one of amusement but of satisfaction, a predator savouring the misstep of its prey. 'A dab of honesty is all I ask for,' he said, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. He took a measured sip, the soft clink of crystal against his lips the only sound in the council chamber.

Sir Mandon’s face twisted, his barely concealed rage contorting his features. His hand hovered near his glass, trembling faintly, as if debating whether to lash out or retreat. No one dared move.

Owen’s eyes flickered between Sir Mandon’s clenched fists and the unyielding fire in Prince Jacques’s gaze. That fire was new—an unquenchable hunger, not just for control, but for retribution. It was a look Owen had never seen before, and he doubted anyone else had, either. Sir Mandon, for all his bluster, seemed to shrink beneath it. For the first time in his memory, Owen realised, someone was genuinely terrified of Prince Jacques Rue.

'Anyhow,' Jacques continued, his voice cool, 'I think it’s about time I address the true purpose of summoning you here at this early hour. You see, good sir—or should I say, not-so-good sir—'

'Your Grace-'

'Let me finish,' the prince snapped, his tone deathly sharp. His glare bore into Sir Mandon, fierce and unyielding, a perfect echo of his father’s cold authority. The room seemed to shrink under the weight of it. 'I’ve been evaluating you and your position here in the capital.'

Sir Mandon blinked, his body stiff as though turned to stone. 'Evaluating?' he repeated, his voice faltering.

'Yes.' Jacques tilted his head. 'Sir Mandon, remind me of the oath you swore when you became a knight.'

'Your Grace I-'

'Or has it been so many beatings and beheadings you’ve forgotten?'

The prince’s words, spoken with deliberate venom, hung in the air, daring Sir Mandon to respond.

The room seemed to hold its breath. Sir Mandon’s frown deepened, so venomous it seemed as if it could turn the wine in his goblet to blood. Yet Prince Jacques stood his ground, his smile unwavering, a thin, dangerous curve that only intensified the tension.

'I remember taking my oath like it was yesterday,' Sir Mandon managed, his voice strained, exposing the cracks in his composure.

'Do you?' Prince Jacques asked, leaning forward in his chair. 'Then you should have no trouble telling me what it is you swore.'

Sir Mandon’s gaze darted to his allies seated around the table, a silent plea for assistance. But the faces staring back at him were blank, their helplessness—or fear—rooting them to silence. Owen murmured the vows under his breath, every single word like the first time he’d spoken them.

'Protect the king, of course,' Sir Mandon stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush, more defensive than certain.

'But there was another part, wasn’t there?' Prince Jacques replied, his voice soft but no less menacing. His hand casually swirled the wine in his goblet, the crimson liquid catching the light as it moved. His gaze, however, remained fixed, unrelenting, on Sir Mandon’s beady eyes, stuck in place like dried mortar.

'What was it, Sir Mandon?'

Owen watched intently, his heart pounding as he observed Sir Mandon faltering before the prince’s unrelenting fire. This wasn’t just a test—it was a reckoning, and Jacques was savouring every second of it.

The Coast Knight gulped, his throat bobbing visibly. 'P… Protect the innocent, Your Grace.'

Prince Jacques’ smile widened. 'Ah yes, protect the innocent—a cornerstone of every fine knight’s duty.' His voice was silken, each word laced with mockery. 'Which is why I was… perplexed, to say the least, when I found you beating a defenceless girl for the ‘crime’ of stealing a single apple.'

Sir Mandon’s face darkened. 'A crime is a crime.'

'That may be so,' Jacques said, his elbows resting on the polished oak of the council table. 'But dispensing punishment is not your job. Nor will it be, from this day forth.'

If Sir Mandon’s frown deepened any further, the boy’s face might have caved in on itself. His hands clenched the edge of the table as though it were the only thing tethering him to reason. 'What do you mean by that?' he demanded.

Prince Jacques sighed, the sound exaggerated, theatrical. 'Do I have to spell it out?'

The room fell into a suffocating silence. The other knights sat rigid in their seats, their breaths loud in the charged stillness. Sir Mandon’s eyes darted wildly, searching the room for support. But no allies rose to his defence, their faces carefully neutral. His frustration must have boiled over as a low growl rumbled deep in his throat. 'We’ll see what my sister has to say about this.'

The words were a snarl as he shoved his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. The grating sound was jarring, like a knife dragged against steel. Sir Edrick and Sir Bryce rose alongside him, their crimson cloaks flaring out dramatically as they turned toward the door, the motion a synchronised display of silent rebellion.

But the rebellion was short-lived.

In an instant, four knights leapt from their seats, their movements swift and practiced. Sir Orchis, Sir Robert, Sir Julius, and Sir Osgar unsheathed their swords in unison, the hiss of metal on leather filling the chamber. Their blades gleamed ominously in the candlelight, the edges poised like vipers ready to strike.

'What the hell is this?' Sir Mandon hissed, his voice cracking as his eyes darted between the glinting blades.

'You know…' Prince Jacques began, his tone conversational but his gaze locked onto Sir Mandon like a predator savouring its prey. 'I don’t think we will.' He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his composure that of a king. 'I’ve instructed your brothers-in-arms to escort you to the harbour.'

Sir Mandon’s nostrils flared. 'The harbour?' he spat. 'You can’t—'

'Oh, I can,' Prince Jacques said, as nonchalant as discussing the weather, 'You’re clever men. You know better than most how… unsafe the streets of this city can be.'

Sir Mandon scoffed, though the sound was brittle, a desperate attempt to cling to his crumbling bravado. 'Pfft. These men are under my command!' he barked, his voice louder than necessary, as if volume alone could mask his unease. 'I am their leader! I command respect! Your father knows that! That’s why he chose me as his captain!'

The room bristled at his outburst. Owen’s brothers exchanged wary glances, their swords shaking in their grips. Prince Jacques, however, remained unmoved, his expression a mask of icy contempt.

'My father,' the prince said, 'chose you because you’re a ruthless cunt, not because you are wise. There’s a difference.' His tone rose, each word laced with rage. 'And maybe that’s why we’re in this mess now. This kingdom needs a leader who inspires, not one who terrorises.'

Sir Mandon’s hand twitched toward his sword, his fingers brushing the hilt. His sneer deepened, his lip curling like a feral dog cornered. 'Inspires?' he spat, the word dripping with disdain. 'A weak leader inspires nothing but rebellion.'

'Then let it be known.' Prince Jacques rose from his seat, his black cloak draping over his back, like a storm gathering on the horizon. His gaze locked onto Sir Mandon’s, unflinching, unyielding. 'I will rebuild this kingdom not on fear, but on justice and honour.'

Jacques stepped closer, his presence commanding, the fire in his eyes burning brighter. 'And if you can’t stand by that, Sir Mandon,' he said, his tone smashing The Coast Knight’s remaining facade, 'then perhaps it’s you who’s too weak to wear the cloak, not me.'

Sir Mandon’s face contorted with rage, his hand trembling as it clutched the hilt of his weapon. But the resolve in Prince Jacques’ gaze was unshakable, a sheer force of nature no man could ignore.

'Take them away!'

Sir Robert’s iron grip clamped down on Sir Mandon’s shoulders, forcing him across the room and up the stairs with a strength that made The Coast Knight’s struggles appear pitiful. Boots scraped against the floor, arms flailing wildly as Sir Mandon tried in vain to break free. 'Unhand me you fucking oaf!'

The heavy door at the top of the stairs swung open with a grating creak, as if protesting the drama to unveil. Framed by the threshold, Princess Mirielle Jubilee stood tall, her slender figure silhouetted against the dim light spilling in from the corridor behind her. Her expression was a tempest—a storm of confusion mingled with a fury that seemed to ripple through her poised stance.

'Mandon?' she gasped, her voice tinged with disbelief. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she watched Sir Robert drag her brother closer to the exit. 'What is the meaning of this?'

'Miri!' Sir Mandon let out a high-pitched squeal, his bravado from earlier crumbling into cowardly desperation. 'Help me! Do something!'

Mirielle’s frown deepened, her lips pressing into a tight line. She whirled to face the prince, her fury igniting like dry kindling. 'What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jacques?' Her voice was sharp and unforgiving, each word lashing the air like a whip.

Prince Jacques remained seated, his posture relaxed, his expression impenetrably calm. 'Just a bit of light weeding, Princess,' he replied, the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betraying his amusement. 'Sir Robert?'

The Iron Knight halted in his tracks, turning to the prince with the same measured composure Owen had always known him for. Prince Jacques gestured toward Mirielle with a flick of his hand. 'I think we have room for one more on the boat. Perhaps the Princess would like to join her brother on his journey home.'

All eyes shifted to Mirielle as she stood rigid, her face reddening with fury. She straightened her shoulders, locking her blazing gaze onto the prince. 'I am not going anywhere with him!' she spat, her voice trembling with both rage and defiance. 'I am the Queen Regent, by order of your father, the King!'

'And now I’m relieving you of that burden. Sir Robert, if you please…'

The Iron Knight gave a small shrug, as if the task were no more difficult than moving a stubborn cupboard. With an almost casual ease, he swept Mirielle off her feet and slung her over his broad shoulder. Her shriek pierced the air, her fists pounding against his back as she writhed in his grasp. 'Jacques!' she roared, her voice a mixture of rage and panic. 'Order him to let me go this instant! I am the Queen Regent! Do you hear me? You can’t do this!'

Her words echoed through the chamber, but Jacques didn’t flinch. He adjusted his cuffs, his gaze fixed on the commotion as though watching a play unfold. 'Oh, but I can, my dear lady,’ he said, his voice cool and measured. 'And I am.'

Mirielle’s curses grew louder, her struggles frantic, but Sir Robert’s grip remained. With one arm holding her securely in place, he continued dragging Sir Mandon toward the exit. The chamber filled with the swirling storm of Mirielle’s shrieks, The Coast Knight’s sputtering protests, and the clanging of boots on stone as Sir Osgar and Sir Julius escorted Sir Bryce and Sir Edrick out of the room. Their red cloaks trailed behind them, the fabric swirling like roses.

Mirielle’s cries grew fainter as Sir Robert carried her down the corridor, leaving only the sound of footsteps and the soft clink of armour to echo in the emptying chamber. When the last of the dissenters had been removed, silence descended like a heavy shroud.

Owen glanced around, his gaze landing on Prince Jacques, who sat motionless at the head of the table. His expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet fire in his eyes—a mixture of triumph, resolve, and something darker, something devious.

The prince poured himself another glass of deep red wine, the liquid catching the flickering torchlight as it cascaded into the goblet. He paused for a moment, letting the wine breathe, before pouring a second glass for Sir Orchis. The faint aroma of spiced cherry filled the air as he raised his goblet. 'To revenge.'

'To revenge,' Sir Orchis echoed, the crisp chink of their glasses ringing. The Hawk Knight took a deliberate sip, savouring the wine before adding, 'The only matter left now is selecting a new captain. Naturally, I shall put my name forward for consideration, but the choice is yours, Your Grace. You are the Regent King, after all.'

The room fell silent, the weight of Sir Orchis’ words hanging thick in the air. The prince’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, his expression thoughtful yet unreadable. Finally, his eyes flicked toward Owen, piercing Owen’s heart with an intensity that made his breath hitch.

'Sir Owen Flagg… I would name you the new captain of the royal guard.'

Time halted.

Owen sat frozen, the weight of the words crashing down on him like rocks down a mountainside. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a deafening drumbeat in his ears. His vision narrowed, and for a fleeting moment, the room faded into insignificance, leaving only Prince Jacques’ words echoing in his mind.

Fifteen years of relentless sacrifice, sleepless nights, and unwavering dedication had culminated in this singular moment. This was the recognition he had long dreamed of, the validation of every hard-fought duel and every quiet act of service.

Owen struggled to maintain his composure, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts as he gripped the edge of the table for support. He resisted the almost primal urge to punch the air in triumph, knowing this was not the time for such displays. Yet, despite his efforts, his jaw fell open, his shock breaking through the carefully constructed facade he had worn for years.

'I… I am not worthy of the honour,' Owen stammered, his voice trembling.

'I need to keep this city in check while my father fights in the war,' Prince Jacques replied, his tone firm yet carrying a thread of urgency. 'For that, I need men I can trust. Trustworthy men seem to be in short supply in these parts. The rest of us—those who remain true—we need to stick together now, or everything will unravel.'

Owen nodded slowly, the enormity of the prince’s words pressing down on him like an anvil. The room seemed to grow colder, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the stone walls as if they mirrored his simmering apprehension.

He glanced at Sir Orchis, who remained on his perch, his sharp brown eyes fixed on Owen. Sir Orchis’ expression was inscrutable, his thin lips barely twitching, but there was something calculating in his gaze, as though he were already weighing his opponent in his mind.

'The first thing we need to do is rebuild the royal guard,' the prince continued. 'We need people loyal to me—only me. Sir Orchis, you will pick the candidates. Owen, you will train them. The four best will fill the vacancies.'

Prince Jacques leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His eyes glimmered with a fierce determination. 'Then,' he said, his tone lowering but no less commanding, 'we need to establish some kind of force to keep our streets in check. This city festers with crime, and I want to know where every whisper, every plot, every scheme originates. We need to stop it before it grows. Do any of you have suggestions?'

'Weavenhall Prison,' Sir Orchis said without hesitation, his voice steady and confident.

Owen’s heart jolted. Weavenhall Prison? he thought, the name ringing in his mind like an ominous toll. His blood ran cold, and his throat tightened as childhood stories of the prison surfaced—its grim reputation, its corridors filled with the most hardened and dangerous criminals in the kingdom.

Is he mad?

'Weavenhall Prison?' Prince Jacques asked, his brow furrowing.

The best way to deal with criminals is to use those who know the very underbelly of this city. No one knows where criminals operate better than criminals who’ve already been caught. If we pay them enough, we’ll have a network that can thwart criminals before they can even step outside of their holes.'

Owen’s stomach churned, and for a moment, the room closed in on him. The idea seemed wrong, unnatural—like building a house on paper foundations. He swallowed hard, the bitter taste of discomfort rising in his throat. He couldn’t hide the disapproval twisting his features. 'I thought punishment was meant to come after the crime,' Owen said, his voice firm but laced with unease. He met The Hawk Knight’s gaze, hoping for some kind of answer that would make sense.

Sir Orchis’ eyes flashed a sharp, calculating gleam. He didn’t seem at all disturbed by the challenge. Instead, he leaned forward, his posture suddenly more menacing, as though closing the distance between them would make Owen want to retreat. 'We don’t have the luxury of waiting for crimes to be committed,' he countered, his voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous register. 'You don’t always have the time to wait for the crime. By the time the crime has been committed, it’s too late. There’s no justice then, only retribution. And retribution doesn’t help the people who’ve already suffered. Let me tell you a story, Sir Owen.'

Owen glanced over at Prince Jacques and caught him rolling his eyes—a gesture that spoke volumes about how many times he may have heard this particular tale. Sir Orchis pressed on, his voice unwavering, his gaze locked firmly on Owen as if daring him to challenge his logic.

'My great-grandfather, Lord Vincent Vortigon, was said to be good man,' he began, his tone shifting into one of almost nostalgic reverence. 'A loyal man. A man who loved his people. He used to go down to taverns, drink with the common folk, laugh with them. He went with no protection, no sword at his belt, because he trusted people.' The Hawk Knight’s voice darkened as he continued, the weight of the words pressing down like a thick fog. 'One day, someone murdered him in cold blood. No reason. Just a knife in the dark. That’s when my grandfather, Lord Kembrys, realised the truth.'

Owen sensed the shift in the room, the air thickening with the rising bitterness of Sir Orchis’ story. He was not speaking of strategy now; this was something personal, something that had hardened him into The Hawk Knight sitting before him. Owen swallowed, trying to keep his discomfort in check.

'My grandfather blamed his trusting nature. From that day forward, he never went anywhere without a sword at his belt. He never let his guard down again. But,' he added, his voice lightening like the end of a cavern, 'he still held the same love for his people. He just… didn’t trust them anymore. And he passed that lesson down to my father, and my father down to me. You can love your people, but that doesn’t mean you need to trust them.'

The silence suffocated. Owen pulse raged in his throat, the words from Sir Orchis sinking into him like a boulder dropped into a lake. Prince Jacques’ dilemma pressed down on him, the internal conflict starting to unravel the prince’s thoughts and decisions. Trust—the very foundation of everything Owen himself had valued, and his father and brother before him—was now in question. Could trust truly be sacrificed so easily for something as pragmatic as this?

'They will fear us, and they will hate us,' Owen hissed through gritted teeth. 'If we do this, we’re no better than King Jacob when he fried men alive – a man who slaughtered all our grandfathers, if my memory serves me right.' His eyes flicked to Sir Orchis, whose ever-present smile faltered, though his posture remained infuriatingly calm. 'Your Grace, is that the kind of ruler you want to be remembered as?'

'It doesn’t matter what I want,' Jacques replied, meeting Owen’s defiance with a resolute expression, though his voice betrayed a hint of weariness. 'It matters what this kingdom needs. We need stability. We need control. That is what my father expects of me, and that is what I must deliver.'

The fire in his eyes burned brighter, the weight of responsibility and ambition igniting within him. Yet Owen could see the cracks beneath the surface – the desperation of a second son trying to emulate his father, trying to be his brother. Owen gulped, seeing his younger self sitting right in front of him clear as day. Jacques wasn’t asking for agreement; he was begging for loyalty.

'The plan is this,' the prince continued, 'Sir Orchis and I will travel to Weavenhall Prison and recruit the numbers we need. Owen, you will train the candidates once they arrive. We will create a force to reclaim these streets.' His gaze swept across the table, pausing briefly on Owen. 'Do I have full cooperation from you all?'

Owen turned his glare to Sir Orchis, who lounged back in his seat like a game-master in control of the entire board. His calm demeanour only weathered the storm raging in Owen’s chest. The cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach. Sir Orchis Vortigon was more than a dangerous man; he was a schemer, someone who could wield influence as lethally as a blade. The prince couldn’t see it – or worse, wouldn’t.

How can I stand by and watch this?

The weight of his oath came crashing down, the promises he’d made not just to the King, but to himself. Protect the royal family, no matter the cost. His loyalty had defined him for years, and he couldn’t falter now, no matter the danger, no matter his doubts.

He unclenched his fists, though the tension still vibrated through his body. He raised his head and met the prince’s gaze. 'Always, Your Grace,' he said.

'Good. Now, we can have a drink and celebrate. Orchis, bring the boy. I think we’ve got some things we need to discuss.'

Prince Jacques pushed himself up from his chair, his movements quick and assured. He strode toward the heavy oak door of the council chamber, a newfound energy in his step that bordered on exuberance. The change in him was striking – a glimmer of the leader Owen had hoped he could become. For a moment, a flicker of pride warmed Owen’s chest. Perhaps this was the turning point they all desperately needed.

But then his gaze shifted to Sir Orchis Vortigon.

The knight rose leisurely, like a serpent uncoiling, his sharp smile plastered across his face as he fell into step behind the prince. He followed with the same unwavering presence he always carried – a shadow clinging to Prince Jacques, impossible to shake. Owen’s chest tightened. The warmth of pride turned to ice as cold contempt flooded his veins. Whatever confidence Jacques had found, it was The Hawk Knight who lurked just behind it, waiting to bend it to his will.

Prince Jacques had named him captain of the royal guard, a position of trust and power, but what good was it if Sir Orchis still held the prince in his grasp? Owen’s pulse quickened, a low thrum of anger and unease building within him. He wouldn’t let Sir Orchis poison the prince’s growing strength. Not anymore.

With a sharp intake of breath, Owen thrust himself to his feet, the sound of the chair scraping against the stone floor slicing through the chamber.

He had taken an oath, a sacred promise to protect the royal family and their ideals, even if it meant standing against a man as slippery as Sir Orchis Vortigon. If Jacques was to lead, truly lead, it wouldn’t be with The Hawk Knight manipulating his every move.

As soon as the prince disappeared on the other side of the door, Owen took his chance. Sir Orchis extended a hand toward the handle, but Owen was faster. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud, and before The Hawk Knight could react, Owen’s hand shot out, gripping his throat like a vice. He drove Sir Orchis backward, slamming him against the solid oak. The impact sent a sharp metallic clang echoing through the chamber as Sir Orchis’ armour clattered against the wood.

Owen kept his face inches from Sir Orchis’, his breath hot with anger. 'What sort of game are you playing, eh?' he snarled, his voice low and guttural. 'Tell me!'

Sir Orchis gasped for air, but even as his breath came shallow and strained, his lips curled into a maddening grin. 'May I be the first,' he rasped, his voice dripping with mockery, 'to offer my congratulations, Captain Flagg?'

Owen’s grip tightened, his fingers pressing hard into the steel gorget that protected Sir Orchis’ throat. His knuckles blanched under the strain, his fury screaming to rip him to shreds. 'You will do well to remember that,' Owen growled, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. 'His Grace made me captain, and I’ll honour that decision by protecting him with everything I’ve got. From any threat. Even you.'

The Hawk Knight’s cackling laugh broke the tension like a jagged knife, sharp and grating against Owen’s ears. His brown eyes gleamed, catching the flickering light of the chamber’s sconces as he leaned as far forward as Owen’s grip allowed.

'You know… you look so much like your brother Lyndon when you’re angry. I remember him well, that fiery glare, that stubborn pride. We crossed swords once, if you recall. Do you know where he is now?'

Owen’s breath hitched. The mention of Lyndon was a gut punch, a name wrapped in pain and loss. The memory surged forth, vivid and raw – the image of his elder brother, brave and defiant, standing tall like the lord he was always born to be. And then the arrow. It had come out of nowhere, a whisper of death, splitting the air before burying itself deep in Lyndon’s skull. The blood. The lifeless thud of his body hitting the ground.

Owen’s grip faltered as the vision consumed him. His fingers slackened, trembling now as they fell away from Sir Orchis’ throat. His chest heaved, his breaths shallow and uneven as the knot of grief and rage cruelly twisted in his stomach.

Sir Orchis straightened, rubbing his neck with an exaggerated slowness, his sly grin widening like salt pouring into an open wound. 'Ah, there it is,' he whispered, his tone a mixture of pity and glee. 'You’re haunted by it still, aren’t you? The loss. The failure. I wonder… would Lyndon be proud of you now? Would anyone? Never fear… you’ll find out soon enough.'

Owen’s hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he struggled to anchor himself. 'What do you mean?'

The room seemed to tilt, the air thick with tension as Sir Orchis leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

'Come now, my brother-in-arms,' he sneered, his words oozing false camaraderie. 'We have a prince to serve.'