Chapter 25 – The King's Check
The air in their quarters was thick enough to choke on. Lyra's triumphant laughter seemed to linger in the silence, a phantom echo of the trap now closing around them. Dvrik stood by the 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. "We could fight our way to the stables."
"And be cut down or captured before we reach the courtyard," Leinara countered, peering through a slit in the heavy curtains. "They will have the entire palace on high alert. There is no escape route they haven't accounted for."
Caria, her face pale, shook her head. "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. It was Don. He stood by the table, staring not at the door or the window, but at the vial of Night-Tear poison. "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. "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. "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. "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. "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. His life's work had been the pursuit of truth. He saw it now, stark and terrifying, and 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 tapestry. "But the archivists... we have our own paths."
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. The rhythmic tramp of armored boots echoed from the main corridors, a constant, menacing heartbeat reminding them of the 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, before signaling them forward. Dvrik followed last, effortlessly carrying the bound and struggling Lyra over his shoulder, one hand clamped firmly over her mouth. 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.
"This way," Menvin whispered, pointing to a small, unassuming door. "This leads to the corridor behind the King's private solar. It is rarely used."
As they reached the door, the sound of the guards grew louder, closer. They were running out of time.
---
King Medveick sat in his solar with Prince Strelm, a map of the southern territories spread between them. "Tidor grows bold," the King was saying. "And this Adraels boy..."
The heavy oak door to the solar burst open without ceremony. The King's personal guards 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, 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 onto the ornate rug at the foot of the dais. Don followed, placing the small vial of Night-Tear on the table beside the King's wine goblet.
"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."
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. He saw the King, the Prince, the southern lord he was meant to arrest, the captive on the floor—and his professional composure shattered.
"Your Majesty," the Captain stammered, his eyes wide with confusion. "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..."
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.
King Medveick's face, which had been a mask of 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, and finally, at the young man who had checkmated his Queen.
His voice was dangerously quiet, a low rumble that promised a terrible storm.
"No one leaves this room," he commanded. "Explain. Now."