It was late in the night, well past midnight.
In a grand hidden hall deep within a private manor, debauchery reigned unrestrained.
The air was thick with heavy scents: exotic incense, spiced wine, sweat, and something darker still. Massive chandeliers bathed the room in flickering golden light, casting dancing shadows on walls adorned with scarlet tapestries.
Some guests lounged in corners, savoring rich, spiced wine from golden goblets. Others crowded around gaming tables, wagering extravagant sums: glittering jewels, property deeds, even slaves pledged as mere currency.
Musicians played in a corner, their sensual, hypnotic melodies echoing through the hall. Veiled dancers moved with grace, their silhouettes swaying beneath translucent, colorful fabrics.
Wine flowed. Courtesans laughed. The guests were lightly intoxicated, carried by the decadent atmosphere.
At the center of the hall, an improvised arena had been set up.
And at its heart, two women fought to the death.
They wore tattered rags, their bodies already marred with scratches and cuts. Each wielded only a short, dull knife, making the fight all the more brutal and drawn-out.
They circled each other, panting, desperately seeking an opening.
Seated on an elevated chair with a perfect view of the arena, the Second Prince Eric watched the spectacle with detached interest.
He was a man in his thirties, tall and well-built, with wavy black hair that fell carelessly over his shoulders. His eyes, a deep brown bordering on black, held a perpetually amused expression, as if he found the entire world entertaining. He wore a purple silk tunic embroidered with gold thread, and several rings adorned his fingers.
At his side stood Sacha.
In his human form, Sacha was an imposing man in his forties, with steel-gray hair cropped short and piercing yellow eyes that betrayed his true nature. A fresh scar ran along his right shoulder, disappearing under his shirt. His right arm, though present, seemed slightly smaller and less developed than the left, as if it were still… regrowing.
"So, Sacha," Eric said without taking his eyes off the arena, "how's your arm doing lately?"
Sacha raised his right arm, flexing it slowly. The fingers moved, but with a certain stiffness.
"Thanks to the healing potion Your Highness provided," he said in a deep, gravelly voice, "my arm is regrowing slowly but surely. In a few days, it should be fully functional."
Eric nodded, taking a sip of his wine.
"I'm relieved to hear it. It wasn't easy to acquire, you know. Ever since the Kingdom of Orvane gained a monopoly on high-grade healing potions, they've become much harder to obtain."
He swirled the red liquid in his goblet.
"Common or advanced potions can't regrow a limb. It had to be high-grade."
"I'm grateful, Your Highness," Sacha said, bowing slightly.
In the arena, one of the enslaved women stumbled. Her opponent seized the moment, lunging forward with her knife raised.
Eric's thoughts drifted to the incident that had cost Sacha his arm.
I never thought things would go so wrong.
It had been the perfect opportunity. A royal hunt. His father isolated in the forest. Everything meticulously planned.
But fate had smiled on his father that day.
A chain of unforeseen events. A child falling from the sky with hundreds of creatures. A Manticore appearing out of nowhere.
The embodiment of bad luck.
"Sacha," he said quietly, "everything that could link that assassination attempt to me has been cleaned up, hasn't it?"
Sacha nodded.
"Most of the participants have been silenced, Your Highness. Permanently."
He paused.
"But a few are rather skilled at hiding. They're still at large."
Eric smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You always do good work, Sacha. I trust you to handle it."
In the arena, one of the slaves had just barely defeated her opponent. She stood trembling, covered in blood, her breathing short and ragged. The other lay motionless on the ground, a knife lodged in her throat.
Eric waved a hand, almost bored.
At once, servants rushed into the arena, dragging the body out and cleaning the blood from the floor for the next match.
"Apparently," Eric continued, leaning back in his seat, "the creature that did that—" he gestured toward Sacha's arm "—was brought to the palace by the king."
He shook his head with feigned admiration.
"To think my father had such a trump card up his sleeve is… impressive. I'll give him that."
Sacha frowned slightly.
"Your Highness, may I ask a question?"
"Go ahead."
"What about this… Cassian? The supposed illegitimate child of the king?"
Eric chuckled.
"Nonsense, obviously. My father would never be careless enough to have an unclaimed bastard. And even if he did, he certainly wouldn't keep him in the palace."
He tapped his fingers on the armrest of his seat.
"I don't know why my father's keeping this Cassian in the palace. It's not a good sign. I can't even get near him because his access is so heavily guarded."
He leaned forward, his expression growing more serious.
"There's no way such measures would be taken for a mere illegitimate child, Sacha. There's something else. Something important."
Before Sacha could respond, a sudden commotion stirred at the hall's entrance.
The musicians stopped playing. Conversations halted abruptly.
Guards in heavy armor entered the room, blocking all exits. At their head stood the Captain of the Royal Guard, Marcel.
He looked exhausted, his armor still dented and partially repaired from the hunt incident. But his gaze was firm and resolute.
Eric rose slowly, his face displaying a perfectly crafted expression of polite surprise.
"Captain Marcel," he said loudly, his voice carrying through the hall. "What a… pleasant surprise. May I ask what brings you to my humble gathering?"
Marcel scanned the room, his disgust evident as he took in the games, the slaves, the fresh blood still staining the arena.
But he offered a formal greeting nonetheless.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing briefly. "I apologize for interrupting your… festivity. But I'm here under direct orders from the king to—"
"I FOUND HIM!"
One of Marcel's men, a young guard with red hair, shouted suddenly from the other end of the hall.
Marcel turned immediately and strode toward him.
The guard was pointing at a middle-aged, well-dressed man standing near a gaming table. It was Marquis Benoît Fontaine, a portly man with slicked-back blond hair and a finely trimmed mustache. His clothes were ostentatious, dripping with jewels and costly embroidery.
Marcel stopped before him, his hand resting on his sword's hilt.
"Marquis Benoît Fontaine," he said loudly, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. "I'm here to arrest you."
The marquis's eyes widened, his face paling.
"What? Captain, I—"
"Evidence regarding the assassination attempt on King Cedric was found in your possession," Marcel continued in a neutral tone. "You will come with us for questioning."
The hall erupted in shocked murmurs.
"It's him?!"
"Marquis Fontaine?!"
"I never would've thought…"
"A traitor!"
The marquis raised his hands, trembling.
"This is a false accusation!" he cried. "I'm loyal to the crown! I've always been loyal! Captain, you have to believe me, I have nothing to do with—"
"You can plead your innocence before the king," Marcel cut in coldly. "Take him."
Two guards stepped forward and seized the marquis by the arms.
"NO! NO, WAIT!"
Eric rose from his seat, displaying a perfectly measured expression of concern.
"Captain Marcel," he said in a worried tone. "I'm certain there must be a mistake. Marquis Fontaine is an honorable man. I've known him for years. He would never—"
"With all due respect, Your Highness," Marcel said, turning to him, "the evidence is irrefutable. If you have objections, you may present them directly to the king."
Other guests began pleading for the marquis as well.
"This is absurd!"
"The marquis has never shown signs of treason!"
"There must be a mistake!"
But Marcel didn't budge.
The marquis was dragged out of the hall, screaming his innocence until his voice faded down the corridor.
Once Marcel and his men were gone, the atmosphere in the room remained heavy and tense.
Guests exchanged wary glances. The musicians didn't dare resume playing. The courtesans stayed silent.
Eric, still standing, observed the scene with satisfaction.
The perfect scapegoat, he thought, suppressing a smile.
Marquis Fontaine had been useful for a time, but he wasn't loyal enough. Keeping him around was no longer necessary. And now, he served one final purpose: diverting attention from the true conspiracy.
My pleading for him was just for show.
Eric clapped his hands, the sound ringing through the silence.
"Why so quiet?" he asked in a loud, cheerful voice. "The captain's gone. The incident's over."
He gestured broadly toward the musicians.
"Play on! Pour more wine! The night's still young, my friends!"
The musicians exchanged uncertain glances, then slowly began to play again.
Wine started flowing once more.
Conversations resumed gradually, though quieter and more cautious than before.
Eric sat back down, crossing his legs elegantly.
Sacha leaned slightly toward him.
"The marquis will be tortured," he murmured. "He might talk."
Eric took a sip of wine, smiling softly.
"The marquis knows nothing important. And even if he talks, there's no evidence linking me directly to anything."
He looked at the arena, where two new slaves were being brought in for the next fight.
"Everything's fine, Sacha. Everything's going exactly as planned."