The guards did not hear the barrier settle.
That was the point of it.
It slid into place like pressure, not light — a distortion that swallowed sound first, then space, sealing the King's chambers from the corridor where two guards stood arguing quietly about a dice game they would never finish. Whatever happened inside the room would not travel. No impact. No scream. No last breath clawing for witness.
Six men stepped through the threshold.
They did not announce themselves. They did not hesitate. They spread, practiced, blades already moving, timing rehearsed down to the breath.
The King was awake.
He had been awake for hours.
He did not rise immediately. He watched them enter, catalogued posture and fear and the one — always one — who already regretted coming. His fingers rested on the edge of the table. Ink still wet. A letter unfinished.
"Six," he said mildly, eyes still on the page. "You could have sent more."
The first blade went for his throat.
He caught the man by the face.
Not the wrist. Not the arm. The face.
His fingers crushed inward, thumbs driving into eye sockets with a wet, decisive force that ended thought before pain had time to form. He twisted and tore, snapping the neck as the body dropped, twitching, the sound of it absorbed entirely by the barrier.
The second attacker lunged too fast, too eager.
The King rose then — not hurried, not strained — and met the charge head-on. He drove his palm through the man's sternum with a sharp, brutal strike that collapsed bone inward. The assassin folded around the hand, breath exploding out of him in a sound no one heard, blood spraying across the King's sleeve as the body slid down and stilled.
The third and fourth came together.
They did not last together.
One lost his head.
Literally.
The King seized the man's hair, pulled him forward into a knee that shattered the jaw, then twisted sharply, wrenching the head sideways with a strength earned over centuries. Spine tore. Flesh followed. The head came free with a tearing sound like cloth ripping under strain. Blood fanned the floor, steaming faintly.
The body hit a heartbeat later.
The fourth froze.
That pause killed him.
The King stepped in and drove two fingers into the man's throat, ripping downward. Something vital gave way. The assassin clutched at himself, eyes bulging, choking on blood that spilled soundlessly down his chest before he collapsed, kicking once, then not at all.
The fifth tried to flee.
The barrier denied him.
He hit it like glass that wasn't there, rebounded in panic, and the King took him from behind. He broke the man's spine with a short, efficient twist, then slammed his head into the wall until the skull gave. Once. Twice. Enough.
The sixth dropped his blade.
He fell to his knees, sobbing without sound, hands raised, eyes locked on the King's face as if finally understanding what he had been sent against.
"Please—" he mouthed.
The King looked at him.
He struck the man once across the temple, hard enough to leave him conscious but ruined, awareness swimming, body shaking as he collapsed sideways, whimpering.
The room was ruined.
Blood everywhere. On the floor. On the walls. On the table where the unfinished letter lay soaked and unreadable now. The barrier still held, obedient, sealing the violence inside like a secret the palace would never admit to knowing.
The King bent and picked up the severed head.
It was heavier than people imagined. Always was.
He held it by the hair, blood dripping steadily onto the marble as he walked to the door. He paused only long enough to drag the surviving assassin with him, fingers biting into the man's collar as if he weighed nothing at all.
The barrier dissolved when the King willed it to.
Sound rushed back in.
The guards turned at once, mid-breath, mid-word — and froze.
The King stood in the doorway.
Blood streaked his face. His hands. His clothes.
In one hand, a head.
In the other, a living man sobbing quietly, eyes unfocused, body barely holding together.
The guards stared.
Neither moved.
"Someone tried to kill me," the King said calmly, as if commenting on the weather. "You did not hear it because they used a silencing barrier. That failure is not yours."
He let the head drop at their feet.
It landed with a dull, final sound.
"This one," he said, releasing the surviving assassin, who collapsed in a heap, "will tell you who sent them."
The guards finally found their voices.
"Your Majesty—"
"Clean the room," the King interrupted. "Quietly."
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And tell Prince Kaelen nothing."
The guards hesitated.
The King's eyes sharpened.
"Nothing," he repeated.
They bowed. Hard.
He stepped past them into the corridor, boots leaving dark prints behind, posture straight, breathing even, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred at all.
As if six men had not just learned — too late — that the throne was guarded by more than walls.