Chapter 64: Ch64 The King’s Trick
"...He’s dead?"
The words came out of King Darius’s mouth more like a sigh than a question. He rubbed at his temples, his heavy crown weighing down like iron. For all the wars he had fought, for all the monsters he had slain, this—this constant parade of incompetence and betrayal from his own people—was the thing that gave him headaches.
The guard kneeling at his feet swallowed hard. His armor clanked as his shoulders shook. "Y-Yes, Your Majesty. Hans... Hans has been slain."
The king’s eyes flicked up, sharp as a hawk’s. "Slain how?"
The guard licked his lips. "We... we were struck down first, sire. By something unseen. An invisible enemy. Our weapons were useless—we didn’t even see what hit us. When we woke, Hans was..." He hesitated, trembling, then forced the words out. "His head was gone, Your Majesty. Taken clean off. One strike."
"one strike?," the king muttered, lowering his hand and glaring down at the trembling man. "But you were spared... but Hans was not."
King Darius leaned back in his chair, staring at the guard as though weighing whether the man deserved to live another moment. He exhaled heavily, then turned his gaze to the table beside him. There, nailed with a cruel precision, was a parchment. A bloody, severed ear pinned it down.
Written beneath in a jagged crimson scrawl were the words:
"Harold is next."
The king drummed his fingers on the table once, then flicked his hand at the guard. "Enough. Get out of my sight before I decide you’re too useless to keep breathing."
The guard’s forehead nearly smacked the floor in his haste to bow before fleeing from the chamber.
A silence settled. Hale, who had been watching the exchange with that infuriatingly calm expression of his, stepped forward. He picked up the parchment as though it were some fascinating puzzle, eyes narrowing at the bloodied ear.
"Well, well," Hale murmured, his tone dry. "Hans was not exactly worth much, but... whoever killed him was no ordinary assassin. The dungeon wards are designed to detect intruders stronger than an A-class beast. Yet someone slipped through them without so much as a whisper. No trace. No sound. Nothing."
King Darius groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, not only do I have to deal with priests preaching about divine prophecies, and nobles whining about taxes, now I have a phantom murderer walking through my dungeons as if they were gardens."
Hale chuckled faintly. "You do keep life interesting, sire."
"Shut up, Hale," the king muttered, though without real anger. His eyes turned sharp again. "What about Harold? Where is that snake?"
Hale placed the parchment back down with a thoughtful hum. "Harold is still with the temple. He was captured in the first wave of attackers, if you recall. The temple has not yet sent him here."
"Good," the king snapped, a little too quickly. "Let him stay there. I won’t have him moved."
Hale’s eyebrow arched, amused. "Strange. I thought you’d want him close. You don’t trust the temple."
"I don’t trust anyone," Darius growled. "But if this phantom dares to enter the holy grounds, they’ll find themselves facing something far worse than dungeon wards. Let them try. No one sneaks past a god’s eye."
Hale tilted his head, lips curling faintly as he tapped the parchment. "And yet, sire... this letter says Harold is next. It’s almost daring you to prove them wrong."
The king scoffed. "Hah! A bluff. Not a warning." He leaned forward, eyes glittering with cruel amusement. "Whoever wrote this knows very well the temple cannot be breached. But imagine—just imagine—if the council, or the generals, or even the peasants had seen this little threat. They would cry, ’Bring Harold to the capital! Protect him!’ And in doing so, they’d deliver him right into the killer’s waiting hands."
Understanding lit Hale’s gaze. "Ahh... so it’s not about what the killer can do. It’s about what you’ll do. A trap, then. Bait to make you move your piece where they want it."
"Exactly," the king said, teeth bared in a grim smile. "But I’m no fool. I see the strings. If they want me to dance, they’ll be disappointed."
Hale chuckled lowly, clapping once in mock applause. "Ever so wise, my king. You make it sound like a game of chess."
The king leaned back with a smirk. "It is always a game of chess. And I never lose."
For a moment, silence. Then Hale asked softly, "What will you do, then? Sit and wait for this phantom to try again? Or strike first?"
"Waiting leads nowhere." The king’s hand slammed down on the table with such force the parchment quivered. "If I sit here, Harold dies. If I move him carelessly, Harold dies. Either way, the phantom thinks himself clever."
He paused, eyes narrowing with cold calculation. "But if I send someone unexpected... someone the phantom won’t anticipate..."
He turned his head suddenly. "Guard!"
The doors opened at once, a knight bowing low. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Bring me Prince Eilan," the king commanded. His voice carried authority now, sharp and decisive. "Tell him his king has a task for him."
The guard bowed and hurried out, boots echoing against the stone.
Hale’s lips curved slyly. "You mean to use Eilan? Escorting Harold, hunting the killer... this is no small mission. If the boy fails—"
"Then he dies," the king interrupted coldly. "And I lose nothing."
"And if he succeeds?" Hale asked, eyes glinting with interest.
"Then," the king said with a cruel smile, "he proves himself worthy of my throne. If Eilan wants to be king, let him earn it with blood. What better test than to face the phantom himself?"
Hale’s chuckle was soft but mocking. "A trial by blood, then. You’re either setting him up for glory... or feeding him to the wolves."
"I may love my son dearly, but if he can’t prove to me he is worth keeping. I see no reason to bargain"
The king leaned forward, smirking. "Either way, I win."
Unseen by both men, just beyond the chamber doors, Mark lingered in the shadows.
His golden eyes gleamed as he leaned against the cold stone, arms folded lazily. Every word from within had spilled into his ears like music. He smirked, lips curling into a cruel, boyish grin.
"Well, Father," Mark whispered, chuckling softly, "so you finally took the bait. Dancing on strings you don’t even see. My silly, silly father."
He pushed off the wall, strolling down the empty corridor with his cloak trailing like a shadow.
"Let’s see how long it takes before you realize you’re not the one moving the pieces anymore."