The king's chamber had gone still, the interruption rattling everyone. Zevros's jaw tightened, his irritation plain as his gaze locked on Shanya. She stood close now, but not at his side as she once had.
"You've thrown yourself in with these pirates, Shanya?!" Zevros snapped, his voice laced with bitter disbelief. "I expected you'd abandon the Desert Fangs eventually, sure. But to see you standing with them—the very scourge that brings chaos to our people—? I thought you'd strike out as a lone hunter, live by your own rules. I see now I was mistaken."
Shanya didn't flinch. Her eyes, once warm toward her old comrade, were now sharp and burning with madness—hatred carved into every line of her stare. She felt her chest twist with betrayal, years of pent-up fury clawing to the surface. Memories of being tossed aside, of watching strong comrades cut down or discarded by Zevros's ambition, fed her rage.
"I ain't got no time to be slavin' under bootlickers who bow to a king like dogs on a chain!" she barked back, her voice cracking like a whip in the chamber. "You tossed out some of our fiercest, toughest Fangs just so you could snatch up the spotlight, wear the title of leader like it meant somethin'. That's on you, Zevros. But don't twist it—I ain't joinin' their crew. I'm standin' with 'em 'cause they're the only ones willing to fight for somethin' real. If it takes pirates to drag this kingdom back to a life worth livin', then so be it!"
The tension between Shanya and Zevros shattered when the soldiers surged forward, their boots striking against the marble floors as they cut off the trio's path in a narrow blockade. More guards poured in from every corridor, weapons drawn, their formation tightening until the throne room was crawling with steel and discipline.
"Your Majesty! We're here—ready to defend!" one of the soldiers shouted, planting himself at the front line with spear in hand.
The king's voice boomed over the clamor, steady and commanding. "Sound the alarm. The palace is under attack!"
At once, a soldier dashed toward a mounted communication horn in the corner of the chamber, his hands trembling as he pressed the transmitter. Static cracked through before his voice rang out, magnified and carried across the city by the horn's echoing broadcast:
"Attention! Attention! The palace has been breached! Unknown intruders are inside the throne hall! All citizens remain indoors—repeat, remain indoors! All units to arms—defend the capital!"
The blaring wail of the alarm followed immediately, shrill and piercing. Its sound rolled through the corridors, out the castle gates, and into the heart of the desert kingdom. The warning bells reverberated across every district—markets fell silent, children were swept into their homes, shopkeepers slammed shut their doors, and soldiers already stationed in the streets dropped everything as they scrambled toward the palace.
From the high balconies, the citizens could see red signal banners unfurl from the watchtowers, a sign of crisis not raised in years. The whole city seemed to hold its breath, the wail of the alarm pulling every eye back toward the looming castle walls where the chaos had begun.
The shriek of the alarm tore through the streets like a blade through silence. Iron gates slammed shut. Dust kicked up from the sudden rush of feet as citizens abandoned their errands and scattered for cover.
Mothers scooped their children into their arms, clutching them tightly as they hurried indoors. Shopkeepers fumbled to pull down wooden shutters, their hands trembling so badly that hinges rattled and bolts refused to slide. Market stalls were abandoned mid-sale, fruits rolling across the sand as merchants fled.
"The alarm—! By the gods, it's the alarm!" one man shouted, dragging his wife down an alleyway.
"It hasn't rung in years," an elderly woman wheezed as she leaned on her cane, her grandson tugging her toward their home. "Not since the war with the Jungle folk… what could've happened?"
Groups clustered together in fear, eyes darting to the towering palace that loomed above the city like a shadow. The crimson banners whipping from the watchtowers were visible even from the outer districts, their signal chilling.
"Do you think it's the pirates?" someone whispered, clutching a friend's arm.
"It must be…! They said pirates were sighted all across Armagh's coasts. They've come for us now!"
Whispers turned into frightened cries as rumors spread faster than the alarm itself—some swore the invaders were demons, others claimed the Jungle kingdom had broken through and declared war again. Children buried their faces in their parents' robes, their small voices shaking as they asked questions no one dared answer.
The streets emptied quickly, leaving only patrols of armed soldiers rushing toward the castle gates, their armor clattering with every stride. From windows and cracks in shutters, frightened eyes peeked out, watching the soldiers storm past as if the fate of the kingdom depended on them alone.
The desert kingdom, once alive with its noisy bazaars and sunlit chatter, now lay wrapped in a suffocating silence beneath the echoing wail of the alarm.
"Hey, buddies. I'm really not a fan of you keeping our captain hostage." Ralphie's voice was light, but the grin on his face carried an edge. "You don't know how much that pisses me off."
The cigarette balanced between his lips finally slipped free, landing on the polished floor. He ground it beneath his heel with a deliberate stomp—at once the ground quivered and a sharp shockwave rippled outward, rattling the marble beneath their feet. Soldiers staggered, some nearly tumbling to their knees as the walls trembled from the sudden burst of force.
"Easy there, cook," Nathaniel's calm voice cut through the chaos. He raised his pistol, his tone even as ever. "No need to bring the whole palace down."
Ralphie flexed his shoulders, cracking his neck with a smirk. "Don't worry, Nathaniel," he said, loosening his tie with one hand before stretching his legs, "I'm just showing them how a dish is served."
With a slick twist of his heel, Ralphie's polished shoe squealed against the throne room's floor before he suddenly vanished forward in a blur, dashing with such speed it left a faint shock behind him. The first soldier barely had time to widen his eyes before Ralphie spun clean around, his heel snapping into the side of the man's helmet with a sharp crack. The impact sent the soldier sprawling across the marble, armor screeching as he skidded to a halt against a pillar.
Ralphie's spin didn't end there. The momentum carried him through as another guard lunged with a spear. Without hesitation, Ralphie's leg gleamed—reinforced in an instant with a hardened steel-like sheen. His foot swept outward, striking the shaft of the spear and knocking it wide from the soldier's hands. The weapon spun up into the air, twisting clumsily overhead.
Before it even reached its peak, Ralphie drove a heavy kick into the disarmed soldier's chest, sending him sprawling. With perfect timing, he twisted on his other foot and launched a sharp strike at the airborne spear. His heel connected with the weapon's base, propelling it like a missile through the air. The spear shot forward in a straight line, handle-first, and cracked against another guard's helmet, sending the man crashing onto the floor in a heap.
"Whoops," Ralphie muttered with a grin, brushing a stray bit of ash from his sleeve. "Guess that one's on the house."
But more soldiers poured in, surrounding him from every angle—shields raised, spears drawn, voices shouting in unison.
Instead of faltering, Ralphie lowered one hand to the floor and shifted his weight. His body bent like a spring, one leg lifting high into the air. The soldiers closed in just as Ralphie pushed off, spinning on his palm. His legs blurred in a cyclone of kicks, shoes striking with brutal precision.
One by one, the soldiers were launched back by the storm of strikes. Shields splintered from the impact, armor dented as men were flung across the room, crashing into walls and scattering across the throne's steps. Ralphie's spinning form whipped through the air like a whirlwind until, with one final twist, he kicked off the ground and landed neatly back on his feet.
He dusted off his suit jacket, straightening his tie as the last of the soldiers groaned on the floor around him.
"Now that's what I call serving the main course."
Several soldiers edged past the chaos Ralphie had stirred, slipping toward Nathaniel's back with blades raised. His posture shifted ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to intercept.
Before he moved, Shanya cut in. Her gauntlet shot forward in a brutal arc, her fist colliding with a soldier's face and driving him back across the polished floor. His body struck the wall, collapsing in a heap. She flexed her hand once, then cast Nathaniel a sidelong glance full of sharp amusement.
"You're welcome," she said.
Nathaniel arched a brow, unimpressed. "I had it handled."
"Sure," Shanya drawled, pointing toward another soldier closing the distance fast. "Guess you'll handle that one too, right?"
Nathaniel's eye twitched as he caught the movement too late. For just a split second, he flinched — his stoic mask cracking enough to show he hadn't noticed.
Nathaniel's form blurred, shadows twisting around him. In the next instant, he stood behind the soldier, pistols already raised. He struck the back of the man's helmet with the hilt, sending him sprawling.
Another swung a sword, but Nathaniel leaned just enough for the blade to sweep past his face. A smooth twist of his arm and the pistol's handle connected with the attacker's jaw. He flowed through the soldiers pressing in, weaving between strikes with an almost indifferent calm, each counter precise and efficient.
One soldier lunged too close; Nathaniel seized his arm, spun him off balance, and drove the grip of his weapon into his ribs. Another tried rushing from behind only to be met with an elbow that dropped him instantly. Within moments, a line of bodies was scattered across the throne room floor, all unconscious.
Nathaniel exhaled slowly, straightening his coat as though nothing had happened. His voice was low, carrying faint irritation.
"Can't even use pistols properly," he muttered. "One shot, and I'd be dragging corpses instead of clearing the room."
The pistols spun once in his hands before settling back into place, his expression cold and flat, as though the skirmish had been little more than an inconvenience.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
The voice rang across the throne room, sharp and commanding, freezing every movement. Heads turned toward the entrance where a figure stood framed in light.
To be continued...