Within the inner sanctum of Prince Benedict's private chambers in his royal palace, a darkly opulent room lined with satin drapes and illuminated by flickering lanterns, three men stood in a triangle of tension.
Prince Benedict stood by the window, a goblet of rich red wine in one hand, his other arm draped behind his back. The glow of the fire deepened the sharp planes of his aristocratic face, his features were hardened with ambition and a quiet, lethal arrogance. his blond hair perfectly combed but a fraction out of place as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times.
Across from him, Lord Perrin Halstonelean sat with fingers steepled, watching the prince with cool intensity.
Beside him lounged Lord Percival Breyne, younger, more flamboyant, with a taste for danger and drama. A ruby ring glittered on his little finger, catching the light as he swirled the wine in his glass without drinking.
"He's left the capital," Perrin said at last, his voice low but cutting through the room like a blade. "The Duke departed at first light. Quietly. As always."
"Back to Wycliffe countyl
?" Benedict asked without turning around.
Perrin nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. As we expected. His horsemen are taking the southern road. No fanfare, no entourage. Just his guard captain and a few riders."
Percival exhaled a soft laugh. "How poetic. The Iron Duke rides alone into the lion's mouth."
Benedict turned, his pale eyes glinting. "Is everything in place?"
Perrin gave a sharp nod. "The men are posted at Hollowbrook Crossing. That stretch of forest is narrow, quiet, and far from prying eyes. If we strike there, we can ensure a clean execution."
"Good," Benedict said, walking to the table and placing his goblet down with quiet finality. "He's made his position clear."
Percival raised a brow. "Has he now?"
Benedict's smile didn't reach his eyes. "He refused my olive branch. A man like that with such influence in the court, allies in the army, and a county sprawling with ten thousand vassals can't be allowed to sit on the fence. If he won't join me…"
He leaned forward, both hands resting on the edge of the table.
"…then he must die."
The fire popped.
Percival sat up straighter, the amused glint in his eye fading. "Killing a Wycliffe isn't like killing a merchant baron or an ambassador's nephew. If this fails..."
"It won't," Benedict interrupted coldly.
Perrin folded his arms. "We've bought the loyalty of the mercenaries. They know the Duke by sight. No insignias. No survivors."
Prince Benedict looked at both men, his voice dropping to a dangerous hush. "Nathaniel Wycliffe is a threat. He's always been a shadow in the corner of power; watching, silent and unreadable. I offered him my hand. He looked me in the eye and said nothing. Nothing."
He picked up a dagger from the table, a ceremonial piece with a jeweled hilt and ran his thumb along the flat of the blade.
"If he will not take my hand," Prince Benedict said, voice like ice, "then don't blame me for being ruthless."
The silence that followed was reverent. Dangerous. The kind of silence that came before bloodshed.
"We move at Hollowbrook," Benedict said as he turned and strode to the door. "And make sure the body burns. I want no trace left of him."
Perrin and Percival both rose, bowing slightly. "Yes, Your Highness."
As the door clicked shut behind the prince, the two men exchanged a long glance.
"A dangerous play," Percival muttered.
Perrin smirked. "Perhaps. But if it works… we'll be rid of the one man who might have ruined everything."
Outside, the wind howled over the city as storm clouds gathered in the distance, an unseen heralds of the blood that was about to be spilled.
The late afternoon sun had begun to dip behind the rolling hills when Duke Nathaniel Wycliffe's small convoy entered the wooded stretch of the Hollowbrook Forest. The towering trees lined the narrow road like silent sentinels, casting long shadows across the gravel path. The scent of damp earth and moss hung thick in the air.
Ser Aldric, the commander of the escort rode at the head of the group, cloaked in a black travel coat, his gloved hands steady on the reins of his dark stallion. He said little, as usual. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, noting the silence, the kind of silence that came not from peace, but from something watching.
"Too quiet," muttered Ser Aldric. "No birds. No wind."
Nathaniel riding in the carriage, jaws clenched. He spoke only two words.
"Brace yourselves."
The attack came as if summoned by his voice. Figures erupted from the trees on both sides. Dozens of them, dressed in black leather and cloaks, their faces half-covered, their weapons sharp and fast. It wasn't a robbery, this was a professional kill. Arrows sliced through the air before blades followed, and the forest exploded into chaos.
Ser Aldric was already off the horse before it was struck. Sword drawn in a flash of steel, he moved with a grace and speed that belied his noble bearing. His blade met the first assassin mid-lunge, slicing the man's throat clean in one movement.
"Protect the Duke!" Ser Aldric shouted, parrying a blow and cutting down another attacker.
"Your Grace, we're under attack!"
Nathaniel didn't hesitate. He was already rising, drawing his blade from beneath the seat. Polished steel caught the morning light as he stepped down into chaos.
His men were already locked in brutal combat with masked riders.
One assassin lunged toward him.
Nathaniel met him with brutal efficiency, parrying and slicing clean through the man's side. He didn't speak, didn't yell but his silence was sharper than any war cry. His stance was deliberate, his footwork precise. He had trained with masters from childhood; he moved like death itself calm, cold and relentless.
But there were too many.
Nathaniel ducked and rolled, driving his sword upward into the ribs of another man but then pain bloomed across his side. A shallow cut no, not shallow. Deep.
Blood seeped beneath his waistcoat.
He faltered for only a second.
Ser Aldric caught him, eyes wide with alarm. "My lord.. "
"Keep fighting," Nathaniel hissed. "We hold."
"Your Grace...fall back!" cried one of the remaining guards. "We'll hold them!"
Nathaniel turned to object, but the man Mathis, barely twenty barreled forward, taking two assassins with him in a final burst of fury before falling to the ground with blood in his throat.
They were dying for him.
Nathaniel's sword arm shook slightly from the strain. His breathing was ragged, blood soaking into his shirt. The air reeked of metal and blood. Still, he fought, even as he staggered toward the edge of the trees.
One of his guards fell with a pained cry, a sword driven through his ribs. Another was pulled from his horse and gutted like a deer. Still, they fought on, forming a tight circle around the Duke.
But even he knew the numbers were against them. More shadows spilled from the trees, surrounding them like a closing noose. His men, loyal to the last, stepped in front of him, shielding him with their bodies.
Ser Aldric lunged into a fray that saw three blades pierce him at once. He fell with a grunt and did not rise again.
Nathaniel stood bloodied, breathing hard, sword raised. His left hand gripped his wound, sticky with blood. Around him, the last two guards were still fighting, buying him seconds. He refused to fall. His enemies saw that in his eyes, the look of a wolf who would bite until the last breath.
And then horns.
From the trees behind, the sound of hooves thundered.
A cry pierced the din "Wycliffe banner!"
Steel-armored knights burst onto the road, banners snapping in the wind. Wycliffe's crest blazed gold against black as the reinforcements descended like a storm. The assassins hesitated but only for a heartbeat too long.
The knights tore through the attackers like wolves among sheep.
The assassins were slaughtered one by one. A few fled, disappearing into the woods like ghosts. But it was too late.
Nathaniel collapsed to one knee beside Ser Aldric's still body.
His breath came in sharp gasps. His sword dropped from his fingers, the hilt slick with blood. One of the knights dismounted and rushed forward, kneeling before him.
"Your Grace, are you...?"
"Alive," Nathaniel rasped, wiping the blood from his mouth. "Just."
He glanced around. So many of his men dead. Loyal. Brave.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand with help. "Gather the bodies. No man is left behind. I'll not have them rot on this godsforsaken road."
The knight bowed his head. "Yes, Your Grace."
As Nathaniel was helped back into the now-damaged carriage, he pressed a bloodied hand to his wound. His gaze burned forward, cold and calculating even through pain.
"Send a message to Lord Gideon," he said quietly to the knight. "Tell him: the lion was wounded, but not slain."
They wanted a war. His eyes narrowed dangerously.
He would give them one..