The city roared with celebration, but the palace wasn't fooled. It was quiet, more quiet than anything. Laughter from the lower streets drifted up in faint waves, mixing with the muted clang of steel somewhere in the courtyards. I stood gazing from my balcony; the festival lanterns looked like sparks drifting over a sleeping beast. My hands gripped the marble ledge as the System's clock pulsed faintly at the edge of my vision.
[4:58:17]
Time enough for them to set the stage, but not enough for me to defend myself.
Jorven entered without any permission, out of breath. His armor was half-buckled, sweat running in thin lines along his jaw. "Your Majesty," he huffed, keeping his voice low, "Captain Istren's men have been spotted from the east wall. No orders from you or me."
I straightened. "Where are they now?" I asked, a brow cocking.
"Split. A dozen at the inner garden, the rest posted around the council wing."
The council wing—dammit—a fortress within the fortress, a playground for a coup.
"And Drann?"
"In the training yard with two dozen of his best. Says it's a 'preparedness drill.' At night. During a festival."
I took a deep breath. Drann could have his best interest in mind, or his worst. "Defense or betrayal?" I mumbled.
The doors opened again. Leyla slipped in, her hair pinned hastily, a narrow blade tucked into the sash at her hip. She smelled faintly of spiced wine and cold air. Our eyes fixed on her.
"They're closing the north kitchens," she said. "No reason given. Scullions say a few scullions brought heavy crates in earlier."
Could there be weapons smuggled in under the cover of the festival? Come to think of it, the kitchen is the best place to smuggle them, especially on the night of a festival.
I turned to Jorven. "Quietly gather men you trust. No uniforms, no formation. Keep them close to the inner halls. If anyone asks, they're patrolling for drunken guests."
He nodded once and slipped out.
Leyla's lips curved downward. "Who could it be? Valric or the high queen?"
[4:41:03]
"Valric? He's hosting the reception like the perfect gentleman. But his cup's been full all night. A sober man at a festival is a man waiting for his cue."
There was a soft knock on the door. Leyla shuddered, a trembling hand on her blade.
A servant entered, head bowed. "Your Majesty… the High Queen requests your presence in the observatory. She says it's urgent."
Dammit, the observatory is across the palace and three floors up. Perfect to pull me from my men, easy to seal behind me. Could it be her?
"Tell her I'll attend shortly," I mumbled with a smile.
The girl nodded, turning to leave with a slight bow. My eyes caught the flicker of black silk at her wrist before the door closed.
Goddamn, those Veynn Isle. They're in the palace too.
I exhaled slowly. "We won't wait for them to make the first move."
[4:20:03]
We moved fast, my personal guards on our tails. We took the service stairs to avoid the main halls. The air was cooler here, damp with the scent of stone and oil from the torches. At the first junction, two men stepped into our path, both wearing palace colors, greeting us with a bow. But the way they held their spears was wrong, too tight, like they were expecting resistance, not a celebration.
I took a deep breath. They have their men stationed everywhere.
I didn't give them a chance to speak, sweeping past them with a smile. I left them both breathing, for now, noting their faces, not being able to do anything, right now.
The next passage opened onto the servants' hall that ran parallel to the north kitchens. The scent of smoke and hot iron rolled out before we reached the archway. Inside, half a dozen men were prying open crates. Steel glinted in the firelight. One of them saw me and froze. Then his hand darted for the knife at his belt.
[3:49:03]
"Don't," I barked. Their hands trembled at my voice.
They were not loyalists, just hired blades, promised a purse to supply arms to the right hands.
just what can happen in the remaining time
I swallowed a lump in my throat
"Drop the weapons," I spoke. "Young men, walk out the back door and nobody will hunt you down. You will be allowed to live. Just leave."
All of the young men obeyed, turning their backs and leaving. We have successfully de-armed at least a number of them
A scullion rushed in, head bowed, out of breath, adjusting her head-piece
"Where have you been?" My brows furrowed at the sight of that woman "Can't you see what's happening?"
"Your majesty, forgive me. The high queen had called me to her chambers."
"Fine Fine, Open those boxes," I gestured to the boxes lying in a corner.
The old woman, with her head bowed, ripped open the boxes. Inside were swords, axes, and a handful of shortbows, all wrapped in oiled cloth.
"This much steel," I murmured, "they're arming more than a dozen men."
"Leyla! go into your chambers, lock them from inside, and don't come out until I, myself, tell you to!" I ordered. She was loyal to me, so anything could be planned against her, too.
She obeyed with her head bowed, walking away with steady steps.
I continued, with the guards following behind me. We reached the inner court, and the changes were awfully obvious. The posted guards didn't look at me, they didn't bow, a frown on their faces. My authority was already being erased.
[3:09:03]
Jorven appeared from the shadow of a pillar, two of my loyalists at his back.
"West gate is sealed," he said. "Drann's men are holding it. Istren's posted around the council wing, and I can't get a word past them without drawing blades."
Dammit, two of the commanders with their loyalists, that's worse than I thought!
"They'll wait until the Queen's in her chambers," Jorven said. "Then they'll split. One group for the council, one for the king." He nodded toward me.
I looked at Jorven. "So they're trying to take out the whole system in one night. How many do we have?"
"Twenty I'd stake my life on. Maybe thirty if we start pressing favors," Jorven said, avoiding eye contact.
Not enough for a pitched battle in the halls. We'd need to hold the throne room or choke them in the narrower galleries where numbers mattered less.
"The number doesn't matter, the skills do." I patted his shoulder.
"Signal the men," I said. "We hold the king's gallery. No one gets past without bleeding for it."
He hesitated. "That's three corridors away from your chambers."
"That's the point. Let them think they've pulled me from safety. Then shut the trap."
We were almost at the gallery when a horn blasted from the east wing, sharp and urgent. The festival's noise couldn't hide that sound.
[2:38:03]
"We have to move, now!" I said.
The torches along the gallery walls burned low, throwing long shadows over the marble. The tapestries shifted in the draft from the arrow slits. The space narrowed toward the throne chamber, the perfect place to hold ground.
We set men in the alcoves, behind the columns, at the bends in the corridor. Steel whispered from scabbards. Footsteps pounded in the distance, and then silence. A heavy, smothering kind that comes before a storm.
[1:08:03]
Jorven stood just ahead of me, his sword drawn.
"They're here," he said quietly.
Time's running, god knows what will happen after this
My breath caught in my throat, no matter how many wars I've fought, its always the same. A cornered lamb.
From the far end of the gallery, figures emerged, a dozen at first, then more, their steps perfectly in sync. Palace colors. Palace steel. But the faces were too foreign. And behind them, walking like he owned the floor, dressed in all black, was Valric.