King Olaf's plan was already in motion.
When the Scorched Earth protocol was initiated, hundreds of outer-farmers had rushed into the Citadel. Amidst the chaos, a handful of Swedish mercenaries, dressed as freezing peasants, had slipped past the Yellow Paper checks.
They knew they couldn't assassinate the Giant. He was always surrounded by the Elite 70.
But they had watched the family. They saw that little Nura often visited the lower granaries to feed the barn cats.
The plan was brutal: Grab the girl, drug her with poppy-sap, and lower her down the newly built Roman sewer chutes that emptied into the river outside the walls.
It happened in the late afternoon. Nura was alone in the grain store, petting a stray cat.
Three men stepped out from behind the massive flour sacks. They didn't speak. One held a burlap sack; the other held a rag soaked in sleep-sap.
Nura froze. Her desert instincts flared. She didn't scream—she knew from her trauma that screaming in an ambush gets you killed. She bolted for the door.
A heavy hand clamped onto her shoulder, spinning her around. The man with the rag lunged for her face.
GRRRRRRAAAW!
The sound was not human.
From the shadows of the rafters above, a massive, 50kg Norwegian Elkhound—one of Bilal's armored war dogs—launched itself through the air. Bilal had trained the dogs to recognize the scent of the Royal Family.
The hound's jaws clamped onto the attacker's throat, taking him to the ground in a fountain of blood.
Nura scrambled backward as the other two assassins drew their daggers. Before they could step toward her, the door to the granary exploded inward.
It was Torik.
The sixteen-year-old heir did not hesitate. He had spent the last year carrying stones in the quarry, learning the brutal weight of the world. He drew his short-sword.
"Wardens!" Torik roared, charging the assassins.
He moved with the exact biomechanical precision his grandfather had taught him. He slipped a dagger thrust, stepped inside the man's guard, and drove his sword upward into the spy's ribs.
By the time Bilal and Runa reached the granary thirty seconds later, the fight was over. Two spies were dead. One was pinned to the floor by Torik's boot.
Bilal scooped Nura into his massive arms. She buried her face in his neck, trembling but unharmed.
Bilal looked at Torik. The boy was covered in blood, his chest heaving, his sword dripping. He had just taken his first human life to protect his aunt.
"He tried to take her to the sewer drains, Jarl," Torik panted, his eyes locking onto Bilal. "They wanted a hostage."
Bilal looked down at the surviving spy. He realized instantly what King Olaf was trying to do. It wasn't a random attack. It was a psychological strike.
"They know they cannot break the stone," Bilal said, his voice a terrifying, quiet rumble. He held Nura tighter against his chest. "So they tried to break my heart."
Runa stepped forward, her crossbow raised, aiming at the surviving spy's head. "Give the order, Father."
"No," Bilal said. "Bind him. Send him back out the sewer drain alive. Let him walk back to King Olaf's camp."
Torik frowned. "Why let him live?"
"Because," Bilal said, his eyes burning with the cold fire of a supreme tactician, "he is going to tell Olaf that his smartest plan failed. He is going to tell the Kings that the children of Axiomra do not need the Giant to protect them. They protect themselves."