A dim, foul-smelling chamber beneath an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of London
The assassin stumbled inside, blood trailing from a wound hastily bound in a strip of dark cloth. His cloak was torn, face pale and grim. The torches on the wall flickered low, casting shadows across the stone walls.
Lord Percival Breyne was waiting.
He stood beside a large wooden desk, still clad in the fine doublet he'd worn to court that day, his pale green eyes sharp under candlelight.
The assassin dropped to one knee, panting. "My lord… we failed."
The words hung heavy in the room.
Percival didn't blink.
"What did you say?"
"The Duke… he lives," the assassin muttered. "There were too many reinforcements...he was injured but… not mortally. We lost all our men. I barely escaped."
A vein ticked in Percival's jaw. Slowly, he reached for the sword at his hip and unsheathed it. The steel glinted cold.
The assassin, suddenly sensing death in the air, tried to scramble back. "Please, I..."
Shing.
The blade sank deep into his chest.
He gasped once, eyes wide, then crumpled to the floor.
Percival stood over the corpse, breathing hard.
"Damn you, Wycliffe," he spat, yanking the blade free with a wet hiss. Blood splattered the flagstones. "You were supposed to be dead."
He wiped the blade clean, face hardening with fury and dread.
This changes everything.
Without another word, he stormed from the chamber, mounting his horse outside in a fury and galloping through the shadowed streets toward the manor of Prince Benedict.
The Prince's Manor - Private Quarters, Midnight
Candles flickered wildly in the heat-heavy air of the prince's bedroom.
Sweat glistened on smooth skin.
A young woman, dark-haired, bare except for a thin gold chain around her neck, arched atop Prince Benedict, her head thrown back as his hands gripped her hips.
The prince lay beneath her, shirt open, teeth gritted with pleasure, his golden curls damp against the pillow.
Her voice broke the silence with breathy moans as she rocked against him, her fingers clawing down his chest.
"My Lord...you're… insatiable," she gasped between motions.
Benedict smirked, his grip tightening. "You're the one who begged to be in my bed again tonight, little dove."
She gasped as he bucked up, flipping her effortlessly beneath him. Her laugh turned into a low cry as he took control, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger sharpened by ambition and ego.
In the flickering candlelight, their bodies tangled again, limbs a blur, as desire overtook the hour.
Elsewhere, in the Prince's Consort's Chamber
A porcelain vase shattered against the far wall.
The prince's official consort, Lady Calista, stood barefoot in a flowing silk robe, her hair disheveled and her cheeks flushed with rage.
"He's with her again?" she hissed at her handmaiden, who shrunk under her fury. "That vulgar little plaything?"
"My lady, I… I'm sure it's only temporary..."
"Temporary?" Lady Calista snarled. "I am his wife, not that courtyard strumpet!"
She began pacing, eyes burning. "He humiliates me. I swear, if he makes her more than a passing amusement, I will..."
Another vase nearly met the same fate as the first, but the handmaiden quickly caught it.
Lady Calista's rage seethed beneath her skin. Her pride wounded, her jealousy boiling.
From her window, she could almost see the glow of the prince's rooms down the corridor. She knew he wasn't alone.
And that burned more than any betrayal.
Prince Benedict's Chambers - The Royal Manor
The heavy oak doors of Prince Benedict's private chambers thudded under the fist of the night steward.
"Your Highness," the man called from outside. "Lord Percival has arrived. He insists the matter is urgent."
Inside, tangled in silken sheets and the limbs of a panting mistress, Prince Benedict scowled.
His lover groaned beneath him, flushed and irritated. "Ignore it…"
Another knock - firmer, insistent.
He was still inside her, breathless and sweat-slicked, her nails raking down his back as she whimpered, "Don't stop…"
"I'll kill him," Benedict growled under his breath, pressing his forehead to the hollow of her throat. "Who the hell comes knocking at this hour?"
"Your Highness?" came the steward again.
Prince Benedict cursed under his breath and rolled off her with reluctant grace, reaching for his robe.
The girl sprawled on the bed, bare and sulking, lips swollen from their kisses. "You promised me the whole night."
"I promise you gold and attention, dove. Not silence from the rest of the world," he muttered, pulled on a crimson silk robe lined with black fox fur and strode barefoot to the door. He flung it open, eyes stormy.
"Tell me, Percival," he said flatly as the nobleman stepped in, breathing hard and still cloaked in travel dust, "did the sky fall?"
Lord Percival Breyne stood there, mud on his boots, eyes dark with urgency. His jaw was tight, the lines of his face drawn with stress.
"Your Highness," he said with no pleasantries, "we need to talk."
Prince Benedict leaned against the doorframe lazily, raising an eyebrow. "I assume this couldn't wait till morning?"
"No."
From the bed, the girl pouted. "Who is it?"
"None of your concern," Benedict snapped over his shoulder before slipping into the corridor and shutting the door behind him.
He followed Percival down the hall to his quiet study room, where a fire still burned low. Once they were alone, he poured himself a drink.
"Well?"
Percival didn't sit. He stood rigid, still holding the blood of the assassin on his gloves.
"The ambush failed."
Benedict paused, drink halfway to his lips.
Percival continued, voice low and clipped. "The Duke lives. He was injured, yes, but his reinforcements arrived before the kill could be completed. Only one assassin made it back and he's dead now."
Benedict slammed the glass down on the table, liquid sloshing over the rim. "You said it was a flawless plan."He yelled.
Percival's mouth twisted. "It should have been. He was in a carriage, surrounded by a limited guard. The terrain gave us the advantage. But his men… they fought like fanatics. Died protecting him."
Benedict exhaled sharply, pacing.
"That man is a thorn I cannot dig out," he growled. "Always so calculated, always so measured. He's never sworn to any faction. The moment he does choose a side, it'll shift the balance."
Percival looked up sharply. "Then we need to move faster. Make our claim before he returns to court."
Prince Benedict turned, eyes sharp.
"You don't understand, Percival. If he throws his weight behind Isolde, or worse if he starts asking questions about the prince, our entire scheme burns."
The room thickened with unspoken panic.
Prince Benedict looked out the tall window into the black night.
"When the wolf survives the trap," he said softly, "he returns with sharper fangs."
He turned back toward Percival.
"We will try again. But this time… not with blades."
Percival frowned. "You mean...?"
Benedict's smile was thin and dangerous.
"Yes. The court respects his sword. But even a cold, calculating man can be undone by poison, or scandal, or the right woman."
He glanced back toward his chamber door, where his mistress likely still waited in his bed.
"Everyone bleeds. One way or another."