The Shadow Guards, a hush-hush network established after the present King assumed the throne.
Unlike the well-known Black Guard, the Shadow Guards are spies of the crown, existing merely as whispers on the lips of the townsfolk.
While bumping into a member of the Black Guard might be a bragging right to share with kin and friends, claiming to have truly seen a Shadow Guard is a tale no one can tell.
And for the nobles and ministers, these unseen watchers are the stuff of many a sleepless night, as nobody fancies their secrets spied upon.
Yet, with His Majesty’s near-four-decade reign, the old guard has mostly bitten the dust, or they’re neck-deep in it. The new crop of power players has gotten used to the Shadow Guards' surveillance. After all, their watchful eyes cast a wide net but only reel in the big fish. Translation: While the King knows everything they're up to, they won't get snatched as long as they don't push it.
Once they figured this unspoken rule out, the Shadow Guards morphed from a hanging sword to a line drawn for the young nobility to tread carefully around.
Except for one other name equally weighted with the mention of Shadow Guards—Lahore.
Lahore, the third leader of these elusive agents. No one knows where he came from, what he looks like, or even his gender; it's all guesswork based on his voice.
Because nobody has ever seen him.
Unseen equals unease, and with Lahore at the helm, even the rule-savvy elite have gone unusually tight-lipped and toe-the-line, not daring to dig too deep into this enigma. When you're dealing with an assassin of his calibre, you never know if he’s reading over your shoulder.
But now, they know Lahore is in the hall.
From this moment, the King’s eye wields the King's blade, casting a chill over everyone present.
Doyle stood up from the carpeted floor, bowed his body, and backed out of the council hall. With his command stripped, he's effectively under house arrest from this point forward.
The kingdom's heart beats on without Doyle, firing off military orders in all directions. The state machine gears up for war—a relentless beast fueled by flesh and blood until it engulfs or is engulfed.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
War has officially begun.
---
The morning of September 2nd.
In the northern suburbs of the capital, the early autumn sun drizzled over the azure lake, turning the still waters into a smooth mirror, casting light into the row of posh lakeside houses. Not even the curtains could keep out the vibrant morning rays.
Golden locks were strewn across the big bed, where a half-awake maiden considered snuggling under the covers to carry on her slumber, perplexed by today's less-intrusive sunlight.
A bit dimmer than usual.
Bare curiosity nudged aside the wave of sleepiness, and with squinting eyes, she glimpsed a familiar figure.
Her personal maid.
“You, Anne? Sneaking in without a peep," the girl mumbled incoherently, delighting in the dimmed light shielding her from dreamless beams, “Hmm...just a bit longer, just a touch. Don’t rat me out to dad.”
Without covering her head with the blanket, the girl turned, giving her back to the maid, and waltzed back into dreamland.
Morning snoozing went like that, despite drifting off, her subconscious stayed alert.
September, Anne, dad, school.
Something didn’t add up. Her nagging subconscious raced.
In a scant three seconds, her eyes flew open. "Anne? What are you doing here?!"
Eschell Arwin, the grandduke's granddaughter with reflexes a tad offbeat, was finally wide awake.
It was September 2nd, and she was supposed to be at the prestigious Heracles Academy, holidays a good two months away. Given its no-servant policy, Anne should’ve been at the Arwin fortress in Rofca, which meant...
“What in the world’s happened?”
“I’ll explain en route,” Anne replied, her manner graceful but undeniably firm, “Please change into these for now,” unfolding a plain set of clothes from her bundle.
Eschell, quite used to being the obedient noble girl, felt inclined to obey Anne. However...
“Anne~ I shan't wear peasant trousers, they’re simply hideous, and they’re not even tailor-made,” Eschell whined, doing the whole damsel-in-distress act she’d mastered back home in Rofca.
“Miss, they are, in fact,” Anne’s gentle voice assured her, “I remember all your measurements, and these were rushed at the tailor’s, so they are custom-made.”
“Alright, Anne, suppose they are. But I don't want to wear them. Why can’t I leave in a dress?” Eschell paused, sensing her weak ground, “This isn’t returning to the West. It’s fleeing there.”
Anne pondered for a moment, then with a hint of a smile said, “You’re correct, miss. We are indeed fleeing West. In short, because your father and grandfather have taken up arms against the King.”
Those words turn the sunny room wintry.
After a brief silence, still in her nightgown, Eschell grabbed the peasant trousers, made of rough-hewn linen, and awkwardly wiggled her smooth legs into them.
Anne sprang forward to assist, and after a brief flurry of activity, Eschell was dressed, panting, “So we run now?”
“Yes, miss. We must depart immediately.” Anne carefully cracked open the door and, finding the coast clear, beckoned.
Eschell cast one last longing look at her little lakeside academy cabin, grabbed her wand, snatched the book unfinished from the night before, and, with an unwavering step, set out with Anne on their covert journey.