The morning sun crept over the jagged teeth of the city walls, but its pale light brought no warmth, nor any peace to Daker. Swathed tightly in his frayed woollen cloak, he buried his face in its coarse weave to blot out the biting mist, flitting like a wraith through the choked, filth-strewn alleys. His boots stepped softly over frozen mud and discarded slops, his eyes scouring the stones for the glint of King Argus's crimson banners. Every corner was a threat; every shadow could hide the polished steel plates and blood-red cloaks of the royal knights. In the span of a single turn of the moon, he had become a fox in his own hound-infested forest. After a grueling and nerve-wracking game of cat-and-mouse through the city's underbelly—doubling back through tanners' lanes and ducking under rotting timber arches—he finally neared the verges of the great market plaza.
Far above the squalor of the lower town, within the high, vaulted stone keeps of Evergard, King Argus was a tempest made flesh. His heavy velvet robes trailed behind him like black smoke as he paced the long gallery, the torchlight catching the madness and fury etched deep into the lines of his face. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, scoured every dark alcove and tapestry as if the boy might appear from the masonry itself.
"Scour the city!" the King roared, his voice bouncing off the high rafters like thunder. He spat upon the hearth, turning his wrath upon the line of armored captains who stood with heads bowed. "I care not if he has crawled into the gutters or hidden beneath the skirts of some tavern wench—drag him before the dais. Bring him to me in irons if you must! Inform the boy his true liege demands his presence, and the Crown does not brook delay!"
The guardsmen scattered like quail before a hawk, the heavy thud of their iron-shod sabatons clattering loudly against the stone flags as they rushed to join the hunt.
Down below, near the pulsing heart of the square, Daker slipped into a narrow, quiet lane where the stench of woodsmoke hung thick. A faint scrape of leather against stone from above caught his ear. He froze instantly, his back pressing hard against the rough-hewn stone of a towering manse. Looking up, his eyes caught a narrow iron-barred vent nestled high in the masonry. Without a second thought, he bent his knees, gathered the desperate strength in his thighs, and leapt.
His fingers caught the cold, pitted iron grille. He groaned, the strain tearing at his shoulders as he hoisted his chin over the ledge to peer through the grime into the gloom within.
Through the dancing dust motes and heavy shadows of the locked chamber, his breath caught. A maiden sat there. I know that face, Daker's heart hammered violently against his ribs like a trapped bird. She was no stranger; she was a companion of the training fields—one of their own pack who had bled on the same tilted yards.
In that fleeting heartbeat, their gazes locked through the iron bars. The maiden gasped, her small hand flying to her throat. Startled by the sudden recognition, Daker's grip faltered on the weathered stonework; the ancient, corroded iron snapped entirely beneath his weight with a sharp crack.
He crashed down into the dirt with a heavy, bone-jarring thud. Gritting his teeth against the white-hot pain blooming in his shoulder, he tarried not to see who followed. He scrambled to his feet and bolted back into the dark, never looking behind him until he safely melted into the swelling crowd of smallfolk gathering at the fringes of the main square for the royal decree.
He wedged himself tightly into a dark, recessed nook behind a baker's stall, his chest heaving as he stared out at the high wooden dais erected for the king's men. Suddenly, the air around him grew ice-cold. The sharp, biting line of a steel blade pressed firmly against the skin of his throat.
Daker did not flinch against the cold metal. He merely let a thin, bitter smile touch his lips. "So," he whispered, his voice steady despite the blade, "the hounds have the scent after all."
"They do," a low, resolute whisper hissed directly against his ear. "Now, speak, my lord. Why does a Prince of the realm peek through high lattices like a common cutpurse?"
The stranger ruthlessly dragged him deeper into the absolute dark of the alley recess, away from prying eyes. When the dagger was finally lowered from his neck, a sliver of gray morning light cut through the gloom and illuminated her features. It was she—the maiden from the stone chamber. She was a striking vision, with hair the color of dying embers, clad in the silver-grey mail and armor of a sworn knight.
"Daki," Daker breathed, a heavy sigh of relief finally draining the tension from his shoulders. "By the Seven, how fare you?"
"Well enough," she retorted, her amber eyes narrowing as she sheathed her blade. "But what of you, Daker? Why do you skulk in the muck and mire like a branded criminal?"
Daker looked her square in the eyes, his gaze unblinking. "I shall give you the whole truth of it, Daki. Every word. But I require a compact. Take me to a place of sanctuary—somewhere safe where I might hear the herald's cry without being dragged to the chopping block."
Daki studied his face for the space of a heartbeat, searching for a lie in the hard set of his jaw, then gave a sharp nod. "Very well. My kin's dwelling is close at hand. 'Tis the safest roof for a man whose head is worth a sack of dragons and wishes to remain a ghost."
They slunk like twin shadows through the hidden back lanes until they reached her stone home, ascending the narrow spiral stairs immediately to the highest floorboards. Daki stepped to the heavy wooden shutters that overlooked the teeming square, cracking them just enough for the low, dull roar of the gathering smallfolk to drift into the solar.
"Now," she said, leaning her mailed shoulder against the damp stone wall, her arms crossed over her breastplate. "Speak. Or I shall call out your name loud enough to rouse every guardsman in the market."
Daker's expression turned utterly grave, the youthful light entirely gone from his features. "Daki, you are a true companion. We have shared salt and steel and bled together in the training yards during the trials. But if I reveal what lies beneath this cloth, and the King learns you gave me shelter, your life is forfeit to the crows. I would not have your blood upon my conscience. Let me but hear what the Crown proclaims this morn, and I shall vanish into the wilds. Forget you ever looked upon my face, lest they put your head on a spike beside mine."
Daki's eyes widened, a scoff escaping her lips in sheer disbelief. "Who would dare put a spike through me? Speak sense, Daker! Who in this city would dare touch you? The whole host looks to you; you are the warrior who broke Captain Seraphina's shield and brought her to her knees in the dirt! Why are you running now like a cowed cur with its tail tucked?"
Daker drew a long, heavy breath and let the dam break. He poured out the bitter truth—the heavy weight of the curse, the madness festering in King Argus's mind, and the dark reality that the blood in his veins was not the royal lineage everyone believed it to be, but just a boy with a hollow title and no throne.
Daki stood rooted to the floorboards, the color draining from her cheeks as if frozen in ice. The "Prince" she had revered and wrestled with in the yards, the boy she thought destined for a crown, was nothing more than a lad stripped of a kingdom, with a target painted upon his breast.
Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth twitched upward, and a strange smile spread across her face. Daker shifted uncomfortably on his feet, a hot, angry flush of shame creeping up his neck. "Daki... why do you mock me with that look?"
"I am marvelled," she said softly, her voice losing its sharp edge. "It requires a rare mettle to cast aside such a lie. Any other highborn fool would have clung to his false crest and royal pride until the axe caught his neck. But you... you are fashioned from different iron. I find I like that well, Daker."
She stepped across the chamber, her iron gauntlet coming down in a heavy, friendly clap upon his shoulder. "If the world and the King are against you, then you bide your time right here within these walls. I shall keep you hidden from the crows, and I shall see that you have bread and salt from my own table. No more running through the gutters." She offered him a mischievous, cat-like grin. "But mark this well—consider this a heavy debt you owe me. When the wheel turns and you eventually take your seat upon a throne, you shall name me your High General!"
She let out a short, bold laugh, a bright sound that rang clear against the timber rafters. "What say you to that? A masterly plot, is it not?"
Daker brought his palms together, clapping in a slow, measured rhythm, the sound dull in the damp air of the loft. A thin, sharp smile cut through the grime on his face, though it scarce reached the coldness in his eyes. "So be it. 'Tis a pact, then. But the commons grow restless below. If your mind is done wandering through the clouds, Future General, let us discover what malice the King hath written upon his parchment."
"Listen well then," Daki murmured, her fingers tightening.
"Open the shutter wider," Daker urged, stepping forward to see. "Let the air in."
"Nay," Daki commanded, catching the sleeve of his boiled leather jerkin and pulling him back into the gloom. "Tarry in the shadows. A blade in the dark is never seen. I shall take the ledge; you remain upon the floorboards. Your ears will catch the words well enough through the timbers."
She stepped into the gray light and pushed the heavy wooden shutters outward.
Down in the square below, the sharp, rhythmic ring of iron horseshoes cracked loudly against the wet cobblestones. A troop of horsemen, faces grim beneath their steel caps, reined in their heavy destriers. The lead rider, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak bearing the King's mark, reached down to unroll a great, lead-sealed scroll of yellowed parchment that crackled in the wind.
As the seal was broken, the murmuring of the smallfolk died away. The press of bodies in the market plaza went utterly still, save for the stamping of a stallion and the low, heavy breathing of the crowd.
The herald cleared his throat, raised the scroll, and began to roar the King's command.
[End of Chapter]