The world had narrowed to the harsh The sounds of the idling steam-wagon, Pyotr's low muttering, even Amir's presence beside her—it all faded into a distant hum.
Seraphina's feet carried her forward, one after the other, moving on a will that was not her own. She stepped past the grim, black-armored form of an Iron Crusader, the harmonic hum of his armor a vibration in her teeth. She didn't see him. She didn't see the Blade Master, a specter in the shadows. She didn't see the physicians and their trays of bloody instruments.
Her world had shrunk to the steel gurney in the center of the chaos.
And the two figures upon it.
Her mother sat on a simple stool, a coarse military blanket draped over her shoulders like a shroud. Her posture, usually a rod of perfect regal discipline, was slumped. Her hands, which always held a fan or rested gracefully in her lap, were clenched into white-knuckled fists on her knees. But it was her face that stole the air from Seraphina's lungs. The face that could command a room with a single, icy glance was now a mask of hollow shock. Her eyes were wide, unseeing, fixed on the table, staring at nothing and everything at once. She was a fortress whose walls had been vaporized, leaving only a terrified, exposed core.
Then, Seraphina's gaze traveled to the table.
King Valerius II, the Iron Lord, the unyielding heart of the Republic, lay still as death. His skin was the color of old parchment. The magnificent, gold-threaded tunic he had worn with such smug pride hours before was gone, sheared away to expose the brutal, ugly truth of flesh and bone. A thick, white bandage was taped high on his chest, A tube snaked from his nose, and his breathing was a shallow, mechanical rasp, syncopated by the quiet hiss-click of a machine beside him.
This wasn't her father. Her father was a force of nature. But this ?
A sound escaped her, a small, broken thing that was more air than voice. It was the sound of a world view shattering.
She didn't run to him. She didn't throw herself over his body. The gulf between them felt infinite. She simply stood there, a princess in a torn and stained dress, and watched the slow, artificial rise and fall of his chest. Each mechanical breath was a confirmation. The crown was a lie. Power was a lie. The only thing that was real was the fragile thread holding his life to this world, and the scent of antiseptic and blood.
A single, hot tear traced a clean path through the grime on her cheek. Then another. They fell silently, dropping onto the cobblestones at her feet. She was weeping not with the loud sobs of a child, but with the silent, profound grief of someone who has just understood the terms of a cruel universe.
Amir watched from a few paces back. He saw the proud princess who had slapped him now looking like a lost child.Pyotr's hand landed on his shoulder, firm and grounding. "Tough sight, kid. But staring won't unbreak the eggs. Our job's done. Captain ordered a full emergency meeting at the station. Let's move.
As they moved towards the steam-wagon, Johnathan fell into step beside Amir, his expression a thundercloud. "You learn quick, I'll give you that. Using the servant's route was clever. But it was a goddamn stupid risk! What the hell were you thinking? You had the Princess with you! A royal heir, you fucking idiot!
Pyotr glanced back. "Ease off the steam, Johnathan. It got the package out clean. That's what matters.
It would have been CLEANER to wait for the Iron Army to purge the castle!" Johnathan shot back, though his volume lowered from a shout to a heated growl.
He then shoved a heavy, leather utility belt, lined with vials of swirling, colored liquids, into Amir's hands.
Amir looked at it, then at Johnathan, surprised by the gesture. "What's this?"
Potions, you Fucking idiot,Johnathan said, his tone still sharp, but with a grudging edge. "Strength, stamina, dexterity, endurance, night vision, speed, health, quick regeneration. They'll help you on your next fuck-up. Or, God forbid, a solo mission. You're still a fucking dumbass... but at least you're a dumbass who's ready to get the job done.
He turned and strode towards the passenger side of the steam-wagon, the lecture clearly over.The door of the steam-wagon hissed shut, sealing them in. The emotional storm was over, for now.
The steam-wagon's interior was a capsule of tense silence, punctuated only by the hiss of the engine and the rhythmic clatter of wheels on cobblestone. Seraphina sat in the corner, curled into herself, staring at nothing. The emotional storm had passed, leaving behind a chilling, hollow calm.
Amir was the one to break the quiet, his gaze fixed on the passing, smoke-choked city. "Why didn't the Blade Master come with us?"
Pyotr, cleaning a piece of grime from his nail with a knife, didn't look up. "He stayed behind to hunt.
To hunt? Amir frowned, turning to look at him. Hunt what? ohhhh wait wait i get it...he gonna hunt down the remaining assassins ?
Johnathan cut him off with a sharp, derisive snort. "You're still thinking like a rookie. Stepping on a few ants doesn't kill the colony." He leaned forward, his eyes intense in the dim light. "If you want the whole colony gone, you find the queen. You cut off her head. Then the rest of the ants wither and die on their own. The Blade Master isn't hunting rats. He's tracking the scent of the queen."
A cold understanding settled in Amir's gut. "The one who gave the order."
Exactly," Pyotr said, finally looking up and sheathing his knife. "The men with the guns and the knives are just tools. Expendable. The hand that holds them... that's the real target.
Amir processed this, the scale of the conspiracy widening before him. "This... this is kinda rare, right? I mean, the last king... he didn't have an assassination attempt this big, did he?"
Pyotr's usual smirk was entirely absent. His face was grim. "No. This was different. The royal family always has attempts. A poisoned glass of wine, a lone fanatic with a pistol. Annoyances. This..." He gestured vaguely back towards the castle. "This was a military-grade decapitation strike. This wasn't some disgruntled noble. This was a declaration of war by someone with an army, funding, and a plan. Someone else is involved in this. Someone we haven't even seen yet."
The weight of his words filled the cabin. They weren't just dealing with rebels anymore. They were facing a shadow with the resources of a nation.
Far from the rumbling steam-wagon and the grieving city, in a soundproofed chamber hidden from the world, a different meeting was taking place.
The room was dominated by a large, round table of polished dark wood. Ten high-backed chairs were occupied, but the figures in them were mere silhouettes, their features swallowed by the deep shadows that clung to the edges of the room, cast by a single, low-hanging light above the table.
The silence was shattered by a furious, rasping voice. THE KING IS STILL ALIVEEEEEEEEEE!
A calmer, almost bored voice answered from the opposite side. "Relax, Suliman. It was expected. Though, I will admit, it was also unexpected. I didn't foresee the Iron Army's Aether-tech integration progressing so... effectively. Their response time was irritatingly sharp.
A third voice, lighter and laced with contempt, chimed in. How utterly disappointing. I expected our opponents to have grown stronger. It's almost funny—they think they can challenge us with such... mild innovations.
A deep, authoritative voice rumbled, cutting through the petty complaints. QUIET. EVERYONE.
The room fell instantly silent. This was the voice of command.
Do not ever underestimate your enemy. That is a fool's luxury. And more importantly, you are all forgetting the most critical point: we failed a primary objective. This is not a situation for celebration. It is a threat to our long-term design, and it must be finished. Quickly.
The silence in the room was now absolute, heavy with fear and respect.
Another shadowy figure dared to speak, its voice hesitant. "Off... what should we do?"
The leader's voice returned, this time with a slow, sinister smirk woven into its tone. Do not worry. Their own enemies live amongst them. Contact Alistair Finch. See how his... 'business'... is progressing now ?