The sewers beneath the royal palace were a nightmare of cold sludge and suffocating darkness. Kaia led the way, her hand brushing the slimy stone walls to keep her balance. Behind her, she could hear the heavy, rhythmic breathing of Alaric and the quiet clink of the knights' armor. Every splash of water felt like a thunderclap in the narrow tunnel.
"We're directly beneath the Great Hall," Kaia whispered, pointing to a rusted iron grate above them. The muffled sound of music and drunken laughter filtered down, a stark contrast to the filth they were wading through.
Alaric looked up, his jaw set. Lord Thorne was celebrating his stolen crown while the real King was crawling through the waste of his own castle. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Let's go," he grunted, reaching for the grate.
With a collective effort, they pushed the heavy iron aside and pulled themselves up into the servant's pantry. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and expensive wine. Kaia peeked through the door. The hallways were nearly empty; most of the guards had been moved to the western gate to fight off Silas's diversionary attack.
"Thorne is in the throne room," Kaia said, her eyes narrowing as she spotted a group of mercenaries patrolling the far end of the corridor. "He'll have his personal elite guard with him. We won't be able to sneak in."
"Then we won't sneak," Alaric said, drawing his sword. The steel glinted like a shard of ice in the candlelight. "I am the King of Aethelgard. I don't enter my own home through the shadows anymore."
They moved through the palace like ghosts of a forgotten war. When they reached the massive gilded doors of the throne room, Alaric didn't hesitate. He kicked them open with a force that sent a boom echoing through the entire palace.
The music stopped. The laughter died.
Lord Thorne sat on the obsidian throne, the ancient crown of Aethelgard resting awkwardly on his head. He was surrounded by nobles and mercenaries, all of whom froze at the sight of the blood-stained, mud-covered King standing at the entrance.
"Alaric?" Thorne gasped, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. He clutched the armrests of the throne, his knuckles white. "You... you were dead! The scouts reported your body was lost in the Northern Pass!"
"The scouts were wrong, Thorne," Alaric said, his voice dropping to a low, deadly growl. He stepped into the room, Kaia at his side, her father's sword leveled at the usurper's throat. "And you are sitting in a chair that doesn't belong to you."
"Seize them!" Thorne screamed, regaining his voice. "He is an impostor! A rebel spy in disguise! Kill them all!"
The mercenaries drew their blades, but the royal guards in the room hesitated. They looked at Alaric—his eyes burning with the fire of a true Lion—and then at Thorne, who was trembling with fear.
"I am your King!" Alaric roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of the hall. "Whose side are you on? The man who seeks peace for our children, or the coward who hides behind walls while others die for his greed?"
One by one, the royal guards lowered their spears. The mercenaries, realizing the tide had turned, began to back away.
"No!" Thorne shrieked, drawing a hidden dagger. He lunged toward Kaia, his eyes wild with desperation. "If I fall, the daughter of Valerius falls with me!"
Kaia didn't flinch. She parried his clumsy strike with ease, her blade flickering like a serpent. With a swift movement, she disarmed him and sent him sprawling to the floor at Alaric's feet.
Alaric looked down at the man who had nearly destroyed his kingdom. He raised his sword, the tip touching Thorne's chest. "You wanted a throne of blood, Thorne. Now, you'll have a cell of stone."
As the guards dragged Thorne away, the silence in the room was absolute. Alaric turned to Kaia, his chest heaving. The war for the palace was won, but the real challenge—ruling a divided land—was just beginning.