Barron moved like a shadow through the narrow corridors, each footfall careful yet urgent, carrying Grace with a strength born of desperation. Her dress clung to her in dark, sticky patches, soaked through with blood that ran from the lacerations on her feet. Every step was agony, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself forward, clutching Barron's shoulder for support. The mansion's second-floor hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by flickering sconces, and every turn revealed potential danger: guards, armed and alert, patrolling corners as if anticipating their every move.
"Barron… I can't… I can't go on," Grace gasped, her voice broken, every inhale rattling painfully through her chest. She pressed her trembling hand against the cold stone wall, her body sagging as if the blood that soaked her dress had drained all strength from her very bones. Her wide, frightened eyes flicked toward each shadow, hoping against hope that they might pass unseen.
"Just a little further, Grace. A few more steps, and we'll reach the kitchen," Barron whispered, his voice a low anchor in the storm of her panic. He slipped his arm around her waist to steady her and pressed his other hand to her shoulder. His sword rested ready in his left hand, glinting faintly in the dim light. "There's a passage… we'll get you out. Stay with me."
The sound of boots echoed somewhere ahead. Barron's head snapped toward the noise, muscles coiled with alertness. His eyes met the nearest shadowed doorway: a guard stepping into the corridor. Barron's movement was swift and silent; he struck with deadly precision, the glint of his sword flashing briefly before the guard crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Grace winced at the sound but dared not cry out. Her body trembled violently, pain wracking her from the blows of past punishments, yet she leaned heavily on Barron, each step a struggle against exhaustion and terror.
As they moved, Barron glanced down at her, concern etched into his rugged features. "You're doing well… just a little further," he murmured. His voice was steady, reassuring, though his eyes never stopped scanning, never resting. Around them, the hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, every shadow a potential threat, every door a potential trap. Grace's hands gripped his tunic, her nails digging into the fabric as she forced herself forward, step by painful step.
Meanwhile, at the wedding hall, the air had grown taut with tension. Leonare's presence was like a sudden storm, a force that drew every eye, every instinct toward him. Medeya's pulse raced. Harold's confusion turned to unease as he watched the man standing there, perfectly composed yet exuding a dangerous aura. Leonare's voice cut through the murmurs, speaking a language both alien and familiar to Medeya. Her lips parted slightly, understanding every word, every accusation.
"Minerva, kha'ren dra valesh na'ru zha'mir enna veyth a'karh dosh elen'shara."~So, Minerva, may I now ask you to pay for what you did to my eldest sister?~
Medeya's hands clenched at her sides. Her mind raced, heart pounding against her ribs. She pressed herself instinctively behind Harold, shielding herself from Leonare's piercing gaze. The truth of her identity—the sins she had committed alongside her brother Malrek—hung over her like a dark cloud.
Harold's eyes narrowed. "Medeya… who is this?" His voice wavered slightly, the mixture of authority and confusion evident. He sensed danger in this stranger, a presence that unnerved him, demanded his attention. Leonare's lips curved into a calculated, almost venomous smile.
"Greetings, Emperor of the Western Empire. I am Leonare Ashval Driftmoor, Vizier of the Blackthreads Kingdom. Forgive my intrusion upon your… special occasion," he said, bowing slightly, the movement elegant yet laced with menace.
Harold's voice rose, sharp with irritation. "Who are you, and why are you here? I do not recall expecting a guest from… another realm."
Leonare's smile widened, a flash of cunning that sent a shiver down Harold's spine. He raised both hands in mock civility, eyes glinting with mischief. "Ah… why not ask your mistress herself? She hails from there, does she not, Minerva?" The words were like ice in the air, sharp and deliberate, forcing all eyes upon Medeya.
"Minerva?" Harold's tone was cautious, curiosity edged with suspicion. Medeya's breath caught. She pressed herself closer to Harold, concealing her face, trembling, her body tense as every instinct screamed at her to disappear from Leonare's sight. "No… I… I don't know him," she said, her voice fragile yet deliberate, each word carefully measured, clinging to the lifeline of her disguise.
Leonare laughed, deliberately loud, a sound that carried through the hall, drawing Harold's gaze fully to him. "Such an actress, Minerva. A liar still," he sneered, tilting his head back, one hand covering his clenched fists, a mocking grin twisting his face.
Harold's patience snapped. "Guards! Hold your positions! Where is Barron?" The command rang sharply, urgent, but Leonare only smirked, calm in the growing chaos around him.
"It's bad news, sir… Sir Barron is helping the prisoner escape. The guards are searching for him now," one sentinel reported, voice tight with alarm.
"Shit!" Harold's fury ignited. Barron—his most trusted knight—had betrayed him. Anger and disbelief coursed through him, his eyes narrowing as he watched Leonare's confident stance.
Leonare's voice cut the tension like a blade. "Do you think this can defeat me?" In an instant, figures emerged from the shadows: men in black tunics, masks concealing their faces, gold-armored bracers gleaming, moving like predators. They struck with lethal precision, each movement silent and deadly, cutting down the palace guards in a flurry of motion.
Screams erupted. Guests stumbled and tripped over one another in a desperate bid to flee across the palace's open front yard. Decorative tents flapped violently in the sudden chaos, banners twisted and tore in the wind, and fine china and silver trays left on tables clattered to the ground, shattering under panicked feet. Nobles, servants, and onlookers surged toward the gates, their faces pale with fear, breaths ragged and uneven. The sound of galloping horses and clanging armor from the palace guards mingled with cries of terror as people were shoved and jostled in the frantic mass. Some screamed for loved ones, others froze in shock, only to be propelled forward by the unstoppable tide of panic. Dust kicked up from the trampled grass, swirling around them like a storm, adding to the confusion and frenzy.
Harold drew his sword, deadly determination flaring in his eyes. "Protect Medeya! Get her out of here!" His voice was steel, commanding, as he and his remaining knights engaged Leonare's soldiers. The hall erupted into chaos; music, laughter, and celebration were drowned in the clash of steel and the screams of men falling. Blood painted the floor, the scent metallic and heavy in the air.
Medeya seized her chance. Heart racing, legs trembling, she bolted toward the side exit, moving like a shadow, her breaths ragged and uneven. Behind her, the battle raged, shouts and the clash of steel echoing through the hall, the chaos providing her fragile cover. She clutched her side, every step a struggle, yet the instinct to survive overpowered the pain.
Johanes waited in the shadowed recess of the mansion's hallway, his three men flanking him like silent sentinels. The air was thick with tension, every creak of the floorboards echoing through the dim corridor. They were waiting for Sir Criston to return, tasked with retrieving Grace from the secret dungeon where she had been held.
Finally, Criston appeared, his armour scuffed and dust clinging to his tunic, his breath heavy from the frantic dash back through the corridors. But even as he approached, there was no sign of Grace—the young girl he had been sent to save.
"Criston… where's my daughter?" Johanes asked, his voice tight with anxiety. His hands clenched involuntarily at his sides, a knot of fear twisting in his chest. The sight of Criston alone, without Grace, made his stomach sink.
Criston paused, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. "I… I don't know," he admitted, his voice low, strained. "When we reached the dungeon, every guard… every executioner… they were on the ground. Dead. There was no one left alive."
Johanes felt a chill run down his spine, unease gnawing at him. Relief that Grace had somehow escaped was tempered by the dread that without backup, there was no guarantee she would survive. Perhaps, he thought, this was why reaching the dungeon had been so difficult—Grace had already managed to slip past them, her cunning and courage allowing her to get ahead.
"But we must find her… now!" Johanes said sharply, determination hardening his tone. His men nodded grimly, the three of them moving with renewed urgency, following Criston through the shadowed halls of the mansion in desperate pursuit of Johanes' daughter.
Meanwhile, outside, the wedding once brimming with ceremony and joy had devolved into a scene of utter chaos. Guests ran in all directions, panic twisting their faces, the pristine event marred by spilled blood and overturned tents. Barron, carrying Grace as he neared the kitchen—where a hidden passage promised escape—moved with every ounce of focus and caution.
Just as he reached for the kitchen door, a steel blade flashed past his head with a hiss, the swing of the sword slicing the air with deadly intent. Barron's reflexes saved him, dodging just in time, the metallic tang of fear hanging thick in the air.
"Kyaaa!" Grace shrieked, thrown off balance by Barron's sudden push to protect her from the blade. She tumbled to the floor, her dress catching the dim light as she hit the cold floor. As she lifted her head, her eyes widened in horror. Surrounding them were the palace guards, forming a tight circle, led by none other than Maxon—the formidable head of the palace guards. Every man's eyes were fixed on them, weapons ready, anticipation and menace in their posture.
Barron bent closer to Grace, grip tightening around her waist, his sword raised defensively, muscles coiled like springs. He scanned the encircling guards, calculating each movement, heart hammering with adrenaline. Grace's breaths came in ragged gasps, pain and fear mixing as she pressed herself against Barron's side, unwilling to let go. The hallway was a storm of motion around them—the scrape of boots on stone, the clash of steel, and the tense shouts of the guards echoing through the corridors, turning the mansion into a claustrophobic nightmare.