(POV: Leonardo)
The palace of Madrid was never truly silent, but tonight it came close. The faint shuffle of servants clearing away the remnants of the feast echoed down distant corridors.
Leonardo walked slowly, boots steady against the marble, but his ears were sharper than his steps. He had led armies through storm and fire, and yet in the quiet of a palace, he felt the weight of something heavier: whispers.
Mateo had begged off earlier in the evening, complaining that the feast had drowned him in wine. Leonardo had clapped him on the shoulder, joking that the battlefield never slowed Mateo, but goblets always managed to defeat him. They had laughed, but it was a short laugh, one that faded the moment Mateo disappeared behind the guest chamber door. Now Leonardo walked alone, tracing the familiar halls. The music of the feast had long stopped, yet his mind refused to rest.
He paused near the smaller council wing. The door to one of the rooms was slightly ajar. A thin blade of golden candlelight stretched across the stone floor. Leonardo would have walked past if not for the murmur of voices seeping through the crack. He stilled, his instincts flaring.
"…corona…"
"…sangre…"
"…antes del consejo del Rey…"
Three words. Crown. Blood. Council. Enough to set a soldier's nerves on fire.
Leonardo drew back into the shadows, pressing himself against the stone. His breathing slowed, trained from years of stalking enemies in forests and cities alike. He tilted his head closer, trying to separate the voices.
One voice was sharp, clipped, carrying the authority of command. The other, lower and heavier, belonged to a man trying not to reveal too much. Then came a third — smooth, careful, and unmistakable.
Don Soria.
Leonardo closed his eyes for a heartbeat, jaw tightening. He would recognize that serpentine rhythm anywhere. The King's adviser had always spoken as though every word carried hidden weight. Now, behind the cracked door, that voice dripped with a tone Leonardo had heard too often on battlefields — conspiracy.
"I told you," Soria murmured, his words barely rising above the flicker of the torches, "he grows too powerful. El Comandante walks in these halls as if they belong to him. The King calls him hermano de armas. Do you think nobles will sit idle? Do you think Spain will not notice?"
There was a shuffle of feet. Another man coughed quietly. "Señor, his men love him. Even the provinces speak his name with fear and respect. To touch him is—"
"—necessary," Soria cut in, sharp as a blade. "The King will not live forever. Spain must have stability. Power belongs to those who can seize it, not to a soldier who bathes in blood and expects loyalty as if it were his birthright."
Leonardo's fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword. The temptation to shove the door open and confront them rose like a tide, but he forced himself still. Too much noise and they would know he was listening. He breathed through his nose, patient.
The heavier voice spoke again, hesitant. "And if he resists?"
Soria chuckled — low, humorless. "He will resist. That is why I have friends across the sea. Una aliada que nunca falla."
Leonardo frowned. Across the sea? His mind raced. The word aliada—female ally—etched itself in his memory.
The conversation dipped lower, too faint for him to catch every word. He leaned closer, careful not to make a sound. He caught fragments: "assassino," "antes del consejo," "nadie sospechará."
The scrape of a chair followed. Leonardo pushed back into the shadows, watching the thin line of light beneath the door brighten as it opened. His heart did not race. It never did, not in moments like these. Calm steadiness had kept him alive in ambushes, sieges, and duels.
Soria stepped out first, his robe dragging lightly against the floor. The flicker of the torch in the corridor lit his face, and for a moment Leonardo saw the smile there — small, practiced, and utterly false. Behind him followed two mercenary-looking men, cloaks drawn, and faces half-hidden.
They walked with the heavy steps of soldiers, not courtiers. Their eyes scanned the hall briefly, but Leonardo had already slipped deeper into shadow.
"Remember," Soria whispered to them in Spanish as they moved away, "cuando el Rey duerma, we plan. When the crown falls, Spain will be ready."
The words echoed down the corridor as they vanished around the bend.
Leonardo waited until the echo of boots was gone before exhaling. He touched his sword again, not in readiness this time, but in thought. Crown. Blood. Council. Across the sea. An ally who never fails. Every fragment pieced together into a puzzle that stank of betrayal.
He turned toward his chamber, boots silent now. Each step carried the weight of decision. Should he go directly to the King? The man trusted him as brother, but kings also loved proof more than loyalty. A whisper without evidence could be spun into suspicion, and suspicion in court was as deadly as an assassin's blade.
As he reached the stairwell, he nearly collided with a servant carrying linens. The young man bowed quickly, murmuring something under his breath in Chichewa — "Pepani, bwana."
Leonardo gave a curt nod, his mind elsewhere. Even here, among the servants from foreign lands, tongues whispered things he did not always understand. Tonight, though, the words he did know were enough to choke him.
When he reached his chamber, he did not lie down. He stood by the window, staring out over Madrid's dark rooftops. The city was quiet, its people unaware of the storm brewing in their palace. Lightning flickered faintly on the horizon, though no thunder followed. Leonardo pressed a fist to the sill.
Tomorrow, he would walk these halls as the King's commander again. Tomorrow, he would smile in court, raise his cup, and let nobles whisper. But tonight, he had heard what few dared to say aloud. And he would not forget.
Leonardo did not move from the window for some time. The city below looked deceptively calm, lanterns glowing in narrow alleys, the hum of late-night taverns carrying faintly on the air.
Yet the words he had overheard refused to quiet. Corona. Sangre. Consejo. They rang in his head like drumbeats of a march he could not ignore.
Finally, he pushed away and strapped his sword belt back on, though he had no intention of leaving the palace. Sleep was impossible. His instincts, sharpened by years on the field, told him that when shadows began whispering, a soldier either stayed alert or died.
A knock sounded at his door. It was light but deliberate. Leonardo's hand went instantly to his sword.
"¿Quién es?" he called softly.
The door opened without answer. Mateo stepped in, still smelling faintly of wine but with eyes sharp now, cleared by suspicion. His friend leaned against the frame, arms crossed.
"You're awake," Mateo muttered, lowering his voice. "Knew you would be. Something in the air tonight, hermano."
Leonardo studied him for a moment, and then motioned him inside. "Close the door."
Mateo obeyed, his brow furrowing. "What is it? You look like you've seen the devil himself."
Leonardo walked back to the table, pouring wine into two cups. His hand was steady, but his voice carried the weight of iron. "I heard Soria."
Mateo froze mid-step. "Soria?"
Leonardo nodded once. "With mercenaries. In the council wing. Whispering of the crown, of blood, of moves to be made before the King's next council."
The words seemed to drain the last traces of wine from Mateo's system. He dropped into a chair, leaning forward. "Madre de Dios…" He rubbed a hand down his face. "You're certain?"
Leonardo fixed him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. "I do not mistake shadows. It was his voice. Clear as a trumpet."
They sat in silence for a moment, the crackle of the torch on the wall filling the chamber. Mateo finally slammed his palm lightly against the table. "Then we go to the King now. Wake him. Tell him everything."
Leonardo shook his head. "No. Not yet."
Mateo blinked. "Not yet? You just said—"
"I said I heard words. Fragments. Enough to rouse suspicion, not enough to prove treachery. You know how court works. A soldier's loyalty weighs less than a noble's whispers. If I go to him with nothing but my ear to a door, Soria will spin it as jealousy, ambition. He'll say I fear losing my place beside the King."
Mateo clenched his jaw. "And what do you call this? Sitting silent while a snake coils at the King's throat?"
Leonardo met his anger with calm steel. "I call it patience. You fight a battle too early, you lose. You let the enemy show his blade, you cut deeper."
For a moment, Mateo looked ready to argue, but then he exhaled and leaned back, running his hands through his dark hair. "Siempre calculando, comandante. One day that patience will kill you."
Leonardo allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. "Perhaps. But not tonight."
The two men drank in silence, each lost in thought. Leonardo's eyes drifted back to the window, where clouds were slowly blotting out the stars.
Later, when Mateo had gone and the chamber was still again, Leonardo walked the corridor once more. He should have gone to bed, but rest evaded him. He found himself tracing the steps back to where he had first heard the voices. The council wing stood dark now, doors closed, torches extinguished.
He pressed a palm against the wood of the same door, feeling the faint warmth left by candles burned too long. His soldier's instinct cataloged everything: the scuff marks of boots heavier than courtiers wore, the faint tang of wine masking the musk of armor and travel. Mercenaries, without doubt. What business had they in the King's palace at this hour, unless brought by Soria himself?
A sound drifted from deeper down the hall. Leonardo stiffened. Light steps. He melted into the shadows behind a column just as a figure appeared — Don Soria.
The adviser walked alone now, his cloak brushing the stone. His face was calm, lips pressed in thought. As he passed beneath the torchlight, Leonardo studied every line of that face — the sharp nose, the calculating eyes, the slight curl of disdain that never quite left his mouth.
For a fleeting moment, Leonardo imagined stepping out, blocking his path, driving steel through his chest. One thrust, and Spain would be rid of treachery before it festered. But killing in palace halls was not the same as killing on a battlefield. Here, blood did not wash clean. It poisoned.
So Leonardo remained still, letting the adviser pass, watching him vanish into the stairwell. Only then did he breathe again.
By dawn, the palace stirred with life. Servants bustled, guards changed posts, and nobles began to emerge for morning council.
Leonardo stood already in the training yard, blade in hand, cutting through drills with ruthless precision. His men joined him, sparring, and clashing steel in the crisp air. Mateo barked at them, teasing, swearing, and keeping their spirits sharp.
But Leonardo's mind was not on the rhythm of combat. His eyes scanned the palace windows each time a noble passed by, searching for Soria's face, wondering what words were being plotted behind those walls.
When training ended, one of the younger soldiers approached, wiping sweat from his brow. "Comandante," he said hesitantly, in Spanish touched with a foreign accent, "the servants whisper. They say the King's council will be… different today."
Leonardo tilted his head. "Different how?"
The boy shrugged, nervous. "Names not spoken. Only—rumor. Forgive me." He dipped his head quickly and backed away.
Leonardo watched him go, the unease in his chest deepening. Even the servants felt it now. The crown stood on steady stone, but beneath, cracks were forming.
That night, Leonardo sat alone again. His chamber felt smaller, the walls closer, the silence heavier. He poured wine but left it untouched. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Soria's voice again: Aliada que nunca falla.
Across the sea. Someone — a woman — who never failed. A foreign dagger aimed at Spanish flesh.
His mind conjured possibilities. A mercenary queen? An assassin? Some phantom whispered about in soldiers' camps? Whoever she was, Soria's confidence made her dangerous.
Leonardo leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. His reflection glimmered faintly in the wine left in his cup. The words of the dying rebel in Asturias returned unbidden: La corona caerá antes de la próxima luna.
He had brushed them off in the rain-soaked mud of battle. Now, in the silent heart of Madrid, they returned like prophecy.
By the time the palace bells marked midnight, Leonardo had made his choice. He would not run to the King yet. He would not cry wolf in a den full of serpents. But he would sharpen his sword, open his ears wider, and watch every move Don Soria made.
Because when the serpent struck, Leonardo would be ready.
***
The morning sun spilled across Madrid like a golden banner, but Leonardo's mood was iron. He rose before dawn, armored himself in polished black steel, and strode through the palace corridors with purpose. Last night's decision burned within him: he would speak to the King, but not with fear in his voice. He would present what he had, steady and sharp, like a commander addressing a field report.
As he neared the royal apartments, guards in red and gold livery straightened at his approach. They knew him well; his presence needed no announcement. Yet when he reached the heavy oak doors of the King's chamber, two of Soria's men stepped forward, barring his way.
"His Majesty rests," one said coolly.
Leonardo's eyes narrowed. "The sun has risen. The King rises with it."
The second guard shifted uneasily but did not move aside. "Orders from Don Soria. No disturbances until the council hour."
Leonardo studied their faces. They were not palace regulars — mercenaries dressed in borrowed colors. His hand twitched near his sword, but he forced it still. Drawing steel in the King's hall would give Soria the pretext he wanted.
He stepped back slowly, voice measured. "Then tell Don Soria that when the crown is threatened, only a fool bars its protector."
The guards said nothing. Leonardo turned on his heel, the fury in his chest cooling to resolve. If he could not reach the King this way, he would find another.
The council chamber was already stirring when he entered. Nobles filed in with silks brushing the marble, their voices buzzing with half-heard gossip. Leonardo took his place near the dais, his commander's cloak heavy across his shoulders. His eyes swept the room until they landed on Don Soria.
The adviser stood in quiet conversation with two lords, his hands clasped behind his back, his smile polite and poisonous. Their gazes met briefly. Soria inclined his head in a gesture that was almost respectful, but the curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Leonardo moved closer. "Don Soria," he said evenly.
"Comandante," Soria replied, his tone warm but shallow. "I trust you slept well after our glorious celebrations."
Leonardo's eyes stayed hard. "I rarely sleep when the kingdom stirs uneasily."
Soria's brows lifted just a fraction. "How poetic. But worry not — His Majesty sleeps soundly. Spain rests secure beneath his crown."
Before Leonardo could press further, the herald announced the King. Carlos III entered, leaning slightly on a cane, his age showing in the pallor of his face. Yet his eyes remained sharp, his presence commanding. The nobles bowed low, and Leonardo dropped to one knee, fist to chest.
"Rise, hermanos de armas," the King declared, his voice steady. "Today we speak of Spain's future."
Leonardo stood, watching closely as Soria slipped into position just behind the throne. Always near, always whispering.
The council began with matters of trade, taxation, and border security. Leonardo contributed where strategy was needed, speaking clearly, never overstepping. But as discussion turned to foreign envoys, he felt his moment slipping away. He needed the King's ear alone.
When the chamber finally adjourned for a short recess, Leonardo stepped forward. "Majestad," he said softly, "a word, if it pleases you."
The King smiled faintly. "Always, Leonardo. Walk with me."
They moved together into a side corridor lined with tapestries of old battles. Guards kept a respectful distance. For the first time all morning, Leonardo felt the weight of Soria's eyes absent. He seized the chance.
"Majestad," he began, lowering his voice, "last night I heard whispers outside the council wing. Don Soria was not alone. Mercenaries stood with him. I caught fragments — crown, blood, before the next council."
The King slowed his steps, cane tapping gently against the stone. "Are you certain?"
Leonardo met his gaze without flinching. "I swear it on my life. My ear has kept me alive through a thousand fields. I would not bring you shadows if they were not real."
Carlos regarded him in silence. At length, he sighed. "You have ever been my shield, Leonardo. But you know as well as I that in court, shadows can be stretched into daggers or dismissed as smoke. Soria has powerful friends."
Leonardo's jaw tightened. "Then let me cut through his friends as I do through the enemy. A viper in your house must be crushed, not fed."
The King's mouth curved into a weary smile. "Siempre el soldado. Always ready to draw steel." He rested a hand briefly on Leonardo's shoulder. "I do not doubt you, hermano de armas. But proof — proof is what Spain demands."
Leonardo turned at last, his expression carved from resolve. "Proof. Or Spain will bury me as a traitor before the next moon."