Crossing the White Stone Corridor and entering the performers' preparation room near the stage, Victor saw the true culprit who had destroyed his peaceful life—Dandelion—sweet-talking a maidservant with an improvised little verse praising her beauty.
The original plan to perform a harvest-themed piece had clearly been changed. On the way over, the young man had already figured it out: he must have been distracted two nights ago and simply hadn't heard clearly, which had led him to expect the wrong thing. Still, he wasn't nervous. Picking a heroic epic from his repertoire was easy.
After all, from age four to nine, this body had done little besides grind instrument practice, immerse itself in faithful recreations of classics, and prepare for a brilliant artistic life.
…
Soon enough, everyone in the hall had taken their places, ready for the night's main event: the King's Arrival. And the two bards specially invited by Princess Adda were waiting off to the side of the performance platform, tucked into an inconspicuous corner.
"Hail! His Royal Majesty King Foltest—King of Temeria, Pontar and Mahakam, Prince of Sodden, Senior Protector of Brugge, Angren, and the Riverdell Valley, and Protector of Ellander!"
At last, in the herald's ringing proclamation, Victor saw the true face of one of the two "strangers" he knew best in this witcher world: Temeria's king.
As the entire hall bowed with hands to their chests, Temeria's ruler entered the Pure White Hall. Crowned like a king, dressed like a king, he lived up to every story that had spread among the people—noble and handsome, carrying himself with effortless authority and grace.
Noticing no one was paying attention to their corner, Victor leaned close to Dandelion's ear and whispered, "How did you do that just now?"
"Do what?" The poet thought the young man was about to ask something important and answered in a serious hush.
"That maid was perfectly ordinary. How did you manage to say the words 'the most beautiful flower in the whole world' with a straight face?"
"…." Dandelion had no answer at all.
Then, in the entourage accompanying Foltest into the hall, the closest figure to the king was the commander of the Blue Stripes—Temeria's elite guard.
A step behind came a man and woman walking side by side. The man was Jacques de Aldersberg of Aldersberg, Grand Master of the Order of the Flaming Rose.
The woman was a sorceress dressed modestly—modest only in comparison to Keira Metz. The fabric was still sparse enough, but the way it was cut was restrained, and the naturally loose cascade of red hair made her identity unmistakable.
Victor blinked. "That lady behind the king?"
"Triss Merigold."
Thank the gods—seen from afar, her skin was pale, a dusting of faint freckles across her face, and a green gemstone circlet resting on her brow.
…
Once Temeria's king had taken his seat, and Princess Adda, as host, led the first toast, it was Dandelion's turn to go on.
The herald announced in a booming voice, "…Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove—renowned singer and poet of the Northern Kingdoms…"
Seizing the brief window of introduction, Victor leaned in again. "Now's your moment. Get up there and let everyone hear your political beliefs: no kingship lasts forever—Foltest out!" He finished just in time to notice sweat beading along the poet's ear.
"Forgive me," Dandelion pleaded in a strangled whisper. "I was wrong, all right? I swear I'll pay attention to the occasion before joking with you again—especially political jokes."
Having extracted his surrender, Victor smiled and shut his mouth, watching as Dandelion stepped onto the stage to sing.
This might have been the clearest difference between the boy and the poet. He was still bound by his era—he might sneer at royal power on the surface, but deep down he still respected the crown.
Victor was the opposite: outwardly respectful, but inside…
For instance, right now, while Dandelion's plucked chords and singing filled the hall, Victor was busy entertaining a brand-new daydream:
If I were an assassin and wanted to kill Foltest, how would I do it?
Magic was impossible. Any king would be wearing countless charms and wards—protection against curses and magical attacks. Which meant the only option would be steel: a blade, close and direct.
But getting near the king meant passing several impossible thresholds.
First, the sorceress's protection—Triss Merigold. Her fire magic could turn a person into a torch in seconds. She could throw up a barrier that would blunt even a crossbow bolt. And according to what was plainly recorded in books, she possessed short-range teleportation. Without an anti-magic bomb to suppress her, there was no way to get in close. She alone could toy with several Victors and never break a sweat.
Then there was Jacques de Aldersberg—an even more hopeless obstacle. A man who could rise to Grand Master of a knightly order would be at the peak of personal combat ability. And worse, he carried a terrifying well of power. Even if he wasn't a refined spellcaster, simply unleashing that force would be enough to crush someone who had no way to defend against it.
Victor had no answer to those two mountains.
And the one closest of all—the Blue Stripes commander with a black headscarf wrapped around his head. Victor didn't know who the man was, but he clearly wasn't someone you could handle casually.
In other words, sorry. If Victor tried to attack the king, he wouldn't succeed—and he would almost certainly die slowly, painfully, and in public.
To have any chance at all, he'd need to ensure the Grand Master and the sorceress weren't at Foltest's side. Ideally, the Blue Stripes commander wouldn't be there either. He would need a setting where the king was alone, careless, and unguarded.
Because if you didn't kill him immediately, in a world with extraordinary power, those reactive wards on a king's person wouldn't be simple trinkets.
Yes, in a feudal age, regicide was unforgivable treason. That didn't mean nobody ever thought about it. And if people thought about it, then defenses would naturally evolve and flourish. Even now, cases of successfully assassinating a king and escaping unscathed were still rare enough to count on one hand.
The last such incident had happened in Redania. Radovid V's father had died to an elf or half-elf assassin—and while the assassin succeeded, he was caught afterward and died horribly.
While his mind wandered, Victor's eyes drifted across the crowd, picking out familiar figures: Director Thaler, Jean-Pierre and his friends, Captain Vincent, and Keira Metz. She wore an absorbed, attentive expression as she listened to the singing—so Roderick had been right. She truly did love this kind of glittering, ornamental nonsense.
The ballad Dandelion was performing—his newest work—had been inspired by a night of drinking with Victor, the two of them trading complaints and barbs until the sparks became lyrics.
After three consecutive songs and thunderous applause, the poet bowed elegantly and stepped down, returning to their corner. He let out a long breath and immediately started fussing over Victor, who would be going on next.
"Hey, Victor, don't be nervous. I know you must be terrified right now, but it's really nothing. Just use your usual skill—like the last time we drank together…"
Half-turning away, Victor covered his mouth with one hand and yawned slightly. "Don't worry. If you wanted a local epic, I might not shine. But if you want an exotic heroic song, you've got the right person."
When he turned back, Victor happened to catch Keira Metz's eyes. Her gaze was cold—not hatred, but just as dangerous. She was clearly hoping for a "surprise" for him: not lethal, but definitely unpleasant.
//Check out my P@tre0n for 30 extra chapters //[email protected]/Razeil0810