Chapter 20: The King's Check
The air in the sealed records room was thick enough to choke on. Lyra's triumphant, cackling laughter seemed to linger in the silence, a phantom echo of the trap now closing around them. Dvrik stood by the hidden door, his hand gripping the axe at his side, his knuckles white.
"There are at least a dozen Royal Guards in the main corridor," he said, his voice a low growl, listening to the subtle thud of their synchronized boots through the thick stone. "We could fight our way to the stables. We can break their line."
"And be cut down or captured before we reach the courtyard," Leinara countered, peering through a slit in the heavy, archived curtains. Her face was grim, her hunter's instincts screaming danger. "They will have the entire palace on high alert. There is no escape route they haven't accounted for."
Caria, her face pale beneath her fiery hair, shook her head, her staff humming faintly in her hand. "Fighting or fleeing confirms our guilt. It's exactly what the Queen wants. We would be tried and executed for treason by dawn, and no one would question the verdict." The mood was grim; they were perfectly and completely cornered.
"No," a calm voice cut through the despair, a voice that carried the quiet, absolute authority of the Black Flame. It was Don. He stood by the table, staring not at the door or the window, but at the vial of Night-Tear poison that lay incriminatingly on the dusty surface. "She has not cornered us. She has merely forced our move."
They all turned to him, seeing not panic, but a chilling, focused clarity in his eyes, his long black hair falling around his determined face. "The Queen's plan is perfect, but it relies on one assumption: that we will act like her other enemies. That we will run, or hide, or lash out in blind rage."
He picked up the vial, its dark liquid glittering with malicious intent. "She expects us to be caught with this. She expects a confrontation in the dark, where the only witnesses are her pawns." He looked up, his gaze meeting each of theirs, a profound trust and command in his eyes. "We will not give her that satisfaction. We will have our confrontation in the light, with a witness whose integrity is beyond question."
He turned to the shaken Grand Scriptor, who had been silent until now, his scholarly mind reeling from the betrayal. "Menvin Thalos," Don said, his voice respectful but firm. "The Queen has made you a pawn in her game. I am asking you to help us flip the board over. Your word, delivered to the King himself, is the only thing that can cut through her web of lies. Will you be our voice?"
The old scholar looked from the vial of poison to the determined young man before him, whose power he had only just begun to comprehend. His life's work had been the pursuit of truth. He saw it now, stark and terrifying, laid bare by the chilling proof. He knew he had no other choice. "Lead the way, Lord Adraels," he whispered, his voice trembling but resolute.
---
The palace was a labyrinth, and Menvin Thalos was its most unlikely guide. "The main halls are watched," he hissed, leading them not towards the grand stairways, but down a narrow servant's passage hidden behind a forgotten tapestry. "But the archivists... we have our own paths. Rarely used. Rarely guarded."
They moved through the forgotten arteries of the castle—dusty, web-choked corridors, silent storage rooms filled with discarded relics, and narrow stairwells that smelled of damp stone and ancient disuse. The rhythmic tramp of armored boots echoed from the main corridors above, a constant, menacing heartbeat reminding them of the desperate race they were in.
Leinara moved at the front, a phantom in the gloom, her senses on high alert. At each junction, she would pause, listening, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger, before signaling them forward. Her fierce loyalty to Don was a palpable force, sharpening her instincts to a razor's edge. Dvrik followed last, effortlessly carrying the bound and struggling Lyra over his shoulder, one hand clamped firmly over her mouth, muffling her frantic struggles. Caria walked beside them, her hand glowing with a soft, silvery light, weaving a subtle spell of silence that muffled their footsteps and even the frantic, muffled struggles of their prisoner. Her presence was a powerful anchor, a sensual counterpoint to the tension of their flight.
"This way," Menvin whispered, pointing to a small, unassuming door, almost invisible in the shadowed wall. "This leads directly to the corridor behind the King's private solar. It is rarely used, even by the royal family."
As they reached the door, the sound of the main guard detail grew louder, closer. They were running out of time.
---
King Medveick sat in his solar with Crown Prince Strelm, a detailed map of the southern territories spread between them. "Tidor grows bold," the King was saying, his voice weary. "And this Adraels boy… his defiance is a growing problem."
The heavy oak door to the solar burst open without ceremony. The King's personal guards, stationed just outside, lurched forward, swords half-drawn, but froze at the sight of the intruders.
Menvin Thalos, the respected Grand Scriptor, stumbled into the room, his face ashen, his hair disheveled, pointing a trembling finger at the group behind him. "Your Majesty! Forgive the intrusion, but there is no time! An attempt has just been made on my life!"
Before the King or a stunned Strelm could react, Dvrik strode forward and threw the bound Lyra, still gagged, onto the ornate rug at the foot of the dais. Don followed, his presence radiating an unyielding command. He placed the small vial of Night-Tear poison on the table beside the King's own wine goblet, its dark liquid shimmering malevolently.
"This is the Queen's poison, Your Majesty," Don said, his voice ringing with cold certainty in the suddenly silent room. "Wielded by her own handmaiden. She was minutes from assassinating Grand Scriptor Thalos, and framing me for the crime."
At that exact moment, the main doors on the far side of the solar opened. The Captain of the Royal Guard strode in, his face flushed with purpose, a patrol of heavily armored guards behind him. He saw the King, the Prince, the southern lord he was meant to arrest, the captive on the floor, the pale Grand Scriptor, and his professional composure shattered.
"Your Majesty," the Captain stammered, his eyes wide with confusion, his gaze darting from the live Grand Scriptor to the handmaiden on the floor. "We... we were on our way to Lord Adraels' quarters. We received a credible tip... a report of a plot to assassinate the Grand Scriptor and implicate Lord Adraels…"
His voice trailed off as his gaze fell upon Menvin Thalos, standing very much alive beside the King. The Captain stared at the handmaiden on the floor, then back at Don, the gears turning in his mind with dawning, horrifying clarity. The Queen's trap had been sprung, not in the shadows of a corridor, but here, in the brilliant, unforgiving light of the King's own solar, with the King himself as the primary witness.
King Medveick's face, which had been a mask of initial shock, slowly hardened into something far more dangerous. The color drained away, leaving a visage of pure, glacial fury. He looked at the captured handmaiden, at his own bewildered Captain of the Guard, at his silent, calculating son who stood frozen in place, and finally, at the young man who had checkmated his Queen in her own court.
His voice was dangerously quiet, a low rumble that promised a terrible storm.
"No one leaves this room," he commanded. "Explain. Now."