Chapter 11: A Blade in the West Corridor
The west wing corridor felt colder than usual as Eldrin walked back toward his chambers. The bitter resolution he had just made in the Glass Garden gave him a numb sort of calm. The plan was simple: be useless. Be a shadow. Be the trash that everyone would ignore until he found a way to be truly free.
The torches mounted on the stone walls flickered, their flames dancing in a draft that whispered from nowhere. His own shadow stretched and shrank across the pale moonstone floor, looking like a gaunt phantom following him faithfully. The silence in this castle never felt peaceful. It was always filled with echoes—echoes of a long-lost glory, echoes of the footsteps of ancestors who would surely be disappointed now.
He felt like he was being watched.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. At first, he dismissed it, attributing it to the lingering paranoia from the storm of memories he had experienced. Just exhaustion, he thought.
But the feeling didn't go away. It grew stronger, a cold, piercing sensation in his back. This wasn't paranoia. This was a primal instinct screaming that a predator was nearby. An instinct Alfin Leontarde had never possessed, but one that had perhaps been ingrained in the blood of Prince Eldrin, who had always lived in fear.
His heart began to pound faster, shattering the false calm he had just built. He quickened his pace, the soft sound of his boots now seeming too loud in the silent corridor, as if announcing his presence to the darkness.
He passed two large tapestries hanging on the wall, their colors so faded the heroic battles depicted on them were barely recognizable.
It was from the gap between those two tapestries that a shadow lunged.
It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Eldrin only had time to see a glint of cold steel in his peripheral vision before his entire body froze. Time seemed to stretch, becoming thick like honey. His brain, the brain of Alfin the gamer, screamed a series of useless commands.
DODGE! RAISE YOUR ARMS! JUMP ASIDE! DO SOMETHING!
But this body did not respond.
The body of Prince Eldrin Vaelmont, conditioned by eighteen years of fear and avoidance, chose the response it knew best: total paralysis. The trauma of Alfin's memory of failing to save his sister now collided with the inherent fear of the original prince, creating a fatal short-circuit in his nervous system.
He was a prisoner in his own body, a front-row spectator to his own execution. He could only stare, his eyes wide with horror, at the tip of a dagger hurtling silently toward his heart.
So this is how it ends...
KLANG!
The deafening sound of steel on steel echoed loudly in the narrow corridor.
Eldrin flinched, his world, which had slowed to a crawl, snapping back to normal speed with brutal force. The dagger had never reached his chest.
Another shadow had appeared between Eldrin and his attacker. Faster. Much faster.
It was Cain. His new guard.
The fight was not even worthy of the name. It was an execution, a lesson in terrifying efficiency.
The attacker, who moved with the agility of a professional assassin, suddenly looked like a clumsy, panicked amateur. He tried to stab again, a move that should have been lethal. But Cain merely tilted his wrist slightly, his black sword deflecting the dagger aside with ease.
The attacker tried to leap back to create distance, but Cain was already there, his movements so fluid he seemed to float above the floor. Before the assassin could raise his weapon again, Cain did three things in one blinding second: a single step to the side, a twist of his wrist that deflected the attacker's arm, and a short, low-power but highly precise thrust.
A choked groan escaped the attacker's lips. His eyes widened in shock. He looked at Cain, then down at his chest, where there was no large wound, only a small, dark red spot. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only a bubble of blood emerged.
His body fell to the floor with a dull, final thud.
Cain stood over the body, his slender sword now dripping blood onto the cold stone. He was not even out of breath. It was as if he had just completed a trivial chore like making a bed.
He glanced at Eldrin for a moment. His gaze, from behind his dark eyes, was unreadable, cold, and analytical. It was not the look of a savior to the one he had saved. It was the gaze of an expert assessing an asset.
Without a word to Eldrin, Cain turned, crouched beside the attacker's corpse, and quickly examined it. He then stood and let out a sharp whistle, a short signal that was immediately answered by the sound of other guards running from the end of the corridor.
As the guards approached, Cain didn't wait to give a report. He didn't seek praise. He melted back into the shadows of the corridor wall, returning to his post, becoming an invisible guardian once more.
Eldrin leaned against the wall, his legs trembling so violently he could barely stand. His knees felt weak. The cloying, metallic smell of blood filled the air, stinging his nostrils and making his stomach churn.
His illusion of safety was shattered to pieces.
His plan... his pathetic plan to become the "Trash Prince" so he would be ignored... was a complete failure.
Hiding won't work.
Being invisible won't keep me safe.
They won't ignore me. They will kill me.
The truth hit him with brutal force. His desire for a quiet life was a childish fantasy in this cruel world. There was a far more fundamental, far more primal desire that was now taking over. The desire to simply live.
And to live, he had to be able to do something. Something real.
He looked at the figure of Cain, now standing silently in the distance like a statue of shadow. Amidst the terror and despair, his pragmatic brain identified the only variable that mattered in this situation. The only tool. The only hope.
He pushed himself off the wall, his movements stiff and unbalanced, but filled with a new, terror-born purpose. He ignored the guards now crowding around the body, ignored their panicked questions.
He walked back to his chambers, each step heavy. He slammed the door behind him, locked it, and leaned against it, trying to control his ragged breathing.
The fear was still there, burning inside him. But beneath it, something new had formed. Something cold, hard, and pragmatic.
He walked to the door and shouted to the servant now waiting anxiously outside.
"Summon the new guard," he commanded, his voice, though hoarse, was firm, cutting through the air like steel.
"Cain. I wish to speak with him."