(POV: Don Soria)
The night was heavy with silence above the palace, but beneath its stone foundations the world hummed with different life. The palace wine cellars were never truly empty—there were always barrels to be shifted, casks to be tapped—but tonight they served no purpose of celebration. Instead, the flicker of oil lamps danced against damp walls, throwing long shadows over men who had no place in the halls above.
Don Soria descended the winding stair alone, the click of his boots muffled by the weight of stone and secrecy. He carried no torch; he did not need one. He had walked these halls since boyhood, learning every hidden passage, every forgotten chamber. He had once accompanied his father to tastings with the King's vintner here. Now he returned for a darker business.
When he reached the iron-banded door, two figures stepped forward from the gloom. Scarred men, their Spanish rough and blunt, like their trade. Mercenaries who had fought in too many campaigns to care which banner they followed. Their hands rested on dagger hilts until they recognized him.
"Señor," one muttered, bowing his head slightly.
Soria did not return the courtesy. "Abrir," he ordered, voice low.
The door creaked inward. The cellar beyond smelled of oak, old grapes, and mold. At its center, a rough-hewn table stood beneath the dim glow of an oil lamp. Around it sat three more men—mercenaries, hard-eyed, with cloaks drawn tight. Their laughter died when they saw him.
Don Soria entered like a man stepping into his own chamber. He neither rushed nor hesitated. Authority followed him in silence, pressing on the air. He placed his gloves on the table with slow precision before speaking.
"You drink the King's wine," he said softly, letting his gaze sweep over them. "Be certain you earn it."
One of the mercenaries shifted, trying for boldness. "We earn every coin, Señor. But you must speak plain. What work requires us to gather in shadows?"
Soria studied him for a long moment. The man's beard was coarse, his armor dented from old battles. A survivor, not a strategist. He allowed the silence to linger until the mercenary swallowed and dropped his eyes. Only then did Soria lean forward, resting his fingers lightly on the table.
"There is a man," he said, voice measured. "A commander who grows too beloved, too trusted. A sword the King leans upon more than his own council."
The mercenaries exchanged glances. Everyone in Spain knew who he meant.
"Leonardo," one muttered.
Soria's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "You say the name as though it were a saint's. Do not be deceived. He is flesh and blood. Flesh can bleed. Blood can be spilled."
The men grunted their agreement. One spat on the floor. Another scratched his scarred chin, thinking.
"You want him dead?"
Soria's eyes narrowed. "In time. But not yet. A death too soon would draw suspicion, and suspicion is poison to my work. What I require now is understanding. His habits, his vulnerabilities. How he rides, how he camps, how he guards his sleep. A soldier can be broken not only by the sword, but by the right strike at the right moment."
He tapped the table once with his gloved finger. "That is why I summoned you. You have fought men like him. You know how the proud grow careless."
The mercenaries leaned in, hungry for coin. One with a missing ear spoke first. "Every commander has a flaw. Too much trust in his men, or too much pride in his arm. We will find it, Señor. But we will need gold."
Soria almost laughed. "Gold is the least of your concerns. Serve me well, and you will drink rivers of it. Fail, and you will not live to beg for crumbs."
His words were not loud, but the menace beneath them was sharper than any blade. The men stiffened, and then nodded.
One tried for jest, though his smile was thin. "You speak as if you were already King."
Soria met his gaze until the laughter died in his throat. Then, slowly, he spread his hands. "Kings are crowned by birth. Power is claimed by those who dare. And I, señores, am not afraid to claim what is mine."
He let the oil lamp gutter for a moment before he spoke again, softer now, his voice a whisper meant only for their ears. "Leonardo will not stand in my way. Spain belongs to those willing to shape it. And I have an ally who never fails."
At that, the mercenaries stirred. The missing-eared man frowned. "From where?"
Soria leaned back, letting the shadows veil his expression. "From across the sea. From a land the King's maps call barren, but whose warriors fight like the desert itself. An ally who has ended greater men than Leonardo."
The room grew heavier with silence. Even hardened killers shifted uneasily at the way Soria spoke. His voice had the cadence of certainty, not boasting.
"Tonight," he said, lifting the wine jug to pour into his cup, "we drink not to the King's health, but to his future. And to the end of the commander who would steal his throne of favor."
He raised the cup. None dared refuse.
"Por España," Soria whispered, though his eyes glittered with something darker.
They drank.
The men drank because they had no choice. The wine burned down their throats, masking unease that only sharpened under Soria's watchful eyes. He set his own cup aside, untouched. Control was not only power, it was discipline, and he would not let even a drop of distraction dull his edge.
"Listen well," he said, his voice steady, measured like a judge reading sentence. "Leonardo is adored by the King. That makes him untouchable in the daylight. To strike him is to strike Carlos himself, and the people would rise in outrage. No—he must be undone quietly, stripped of his armor long before the blade finds him."
One mercenary shifted in his seat. "Señor, men like him do not fall easy. He is guarded by brothers-in-arms, men who would kill for him—"
Soria cut him off with a flick of the hand, sharp as a dagger drawn. "Men die every day. Loyalty dies faster. Find the cracks. A soldier drinks too much, another gambles, another has debts. Gold loosens tongues. Women loosen discipline. None are perfect, and Leonardo is no god."
The missing-eared mercenary leaned forward. "And if we discover nothing?"
Soria smiled at last, a slow curling of lips that held no warmth. "Then you have not looked hard enough."
The men quieted, cowed by the weight of his certainty. Their leader, broad-shouldered and scarred across the nose, finally spoke. "Very well. We will dig. We will watch him from shadows. We will whisper in taverns and among the barracks. His flaw will be found."
"Good," Soria said softly. He picked up his gloves, slipping one on with deliberate calm. "But remember—your tongues must remain tighter than your purses. Not a word to anyone outside this circle. If I even suspect one of you has spoken, you will vanish into the earth before sunrise. ¿Entendido?"
"Sí, Señor," they murmured almost in unison.
Soria's eyes gleamed. Fear was the coin he trusted more than gold.
He rose to his feet, cloak falling around him like a shadow given flesh. The oil lamp painted his features in stark relief—sharp cheekbones, thin mouth, eyes dark and restless. He was a man carved for secrets.
"You are dismissed," he said. "I will send word when the time comes."
The mercenaries stood, scraping chairs back, bowing stiffly before retreating toward the door. Their boots echoed down the hall until the sound faded into silence. Only the oil lamp remained, flickering.
Soria stood alone now, and in solitude he allowed himself the faintest exhale. Not relief—never relief—but calculation. Pieces were moving. Soon the board would be his.
He poured another cup of wine, holding it up so the lamp shone through the dark red liquid. For a moment, he studied the reflection of his own face rippling in the surface: a face of patience, ambition, hunger.
"Adiós, comandante," he murmured, almost to himself, the words in Spanish curling like smoke. "Your time as the King's golden sword is nearing its end."
The wine stilled, reflecting him back as if in answer.
Soria drank now, not for thirst but for ritual. Each swallow tasted like victory deferred. The ally across the sea would soon receive his message, and then the real game would begin.
***
When the last echo of bootsteps died, Soria bolted the cellar door and turned the key with a click that felt like sealing a tomb. Silence pressed against the stone walls. Only the lamp flame remained, whispering with its faint hiss.
He moved to the table once more, sweeping aside the scattered cups until the wood was bare. From beneath his cloak he withdrew a small lacquered case. Its hinges creaked faintly as he opened it, revealing parchment sheets, a quill trimmed to a razor's edge, and a vial of ink as black as midnight.
Soria dipped the quill and paused. The first stroke of such letters was always the most dangerous. If intercepted, it could mean his head. Yet coded words had carried him further than armies ever could.
He began to write, his script a careful lattice of slanted lines and flourishes—ordinary phrases on the surface, but riddled with hidden meaning only the chosen would understand.
"La vendimia fue rica este año, though one vine grows too strong for the trellis. The gardener fears it will choke the others, unless pruned swiftly."
Each metaphor was a blade in disguise. The "vine" was Leonardo. The "gardener," the King. To anyone else, the letter read like idle reflections of a noble bored with courtly life. But to Kara, across the sea, the meaning would be unmistakable.
Soria leaned closer, whispering as he wrote, "El comandante is disciplined, a creature of dawn drills and soldier's bread. He trusts too easily those beneath him, but his rage is slow to stir. If you strike, it must be with speed, before his sword clears its sheath."
His quill scratched steadily, filling the page with veiled truths about Leonardo—habits, routines, flaws too small for the King to notice but deadly in the hands of an assassin.
Soria set down the quill and sprinkled sand to dry the ink. Then he rolled the parchment tightly and slid it into a narrow copper tube. The case snapped shut, the sound final as a coffin lid.
He retrieved a silver seal from his breast pocket, pressing it into soft wax across the tube's cap. The crest was not his own but that of a forgotten merchant guild, long defunct. To any spy, it would seem like harmless trade correspondence.
Soria held the sealed message up to the lamplight, studying it. In that small cylinder lay the beginning of Leonardo's end.
He lifted his goblet once more, letting the wine catch the lamp's glow. His reflection shimmered in the red surface: pale, sharp, unyielding.
"Adiós, comandante," he whispered again in Spanish, this time with a trace of venom curling in the words. "Que tu caída sea lenta, y tu dolor largo."
He drank deep, the cellar swallowing the sound. Above, the palace stirred with the life of feasting and music, unaware that in its depths, treachery had already begun to flow across the sea.