Once night fell, he took action. Obtaining the pelt was easy enough – he just had to ask politely, and the guard on-duty gave it to him without question. There was no reason to deny his request. After that, he met up with Cleo who informed him that the wolves would arrive within the hour. It seemed the monster pelt would be unnecessary bait, but he hung it on a tree branch anyway.

Next was freeing the prisoners of Rove. From here on, he couldn’t afford to be identified. Before approaching the prison wagon, he shed his conspicuous armor and donned a dark garb and a long, trailing cloak. The soldier standing guard wasn’t one he recognized, and he easily snuck up on him and knocked him out.

Then, he wrapped his right arm within the cloak and invoked a moderate amount of the Lord’s Favor onto the arm. The cloak was thick enough to hide the aureate glow of the blessing, and he grabbed the prison wagon’s door and ripped it off its hinges.

The prisoners immediately woke up at the commotion. Keeping his head down, he pulled out the large sack that he had prepared earlier. It was full of swords and spears of varying quality that he had scavenged during his nightly walks around the camp. He threw the bag down, and the weapons spilled out onto the ground with a loud clatter.

At the same time, he heard the distinct howl of the Berine wolves in the distance. With Lady Cleo’s help, they had drawn in more wolf packs than he had originally planned for. Casualties would not be light.

He was worried that fire and smoke would scare off the wolves, so he had ordered Lady Cleo to wait to set fire to the tents until the wolves started attacking, and even then, to target tents farthest away from the wolves. What happened next for the people of Rove depended on how quickly they could react.

As he turned away, he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“Wait!” It was Jocelyne. “What do you want from us?” Her voice didn’t contain gratitude but suspicion. Of course, he ignored her. However, someone else spoke up and said something that caught his attention.

“Saintess, this is our chance to escape!” It was Florence, the long-haired blond man who had previously threatened him. “Thank you, kind sir! We people of Rove never forget a favor and will repay you this debt one day, I assure you!”

“Florence, that’s not –”

Roel didn’t catch the rest of Jocelyne’s words as he quickly left. However, he mulled over what Florence had revealed. He had called Jocelyne “Saintess,” confirming his suspicions that that woman was someone particularly important in the group. He wondered if it just meant that she was the leader of their council or if it was something more to it than that. However, those thoughts could wait.

He needed to keep a careful eye on the prince’s movements. He hid behind a nearby tent and stilled his breathing. Prince Ghislain was currently in his tent with Joseph, and there were three guards standing outside. Once the chaos started, it was very important to see what he would do and where he would go.

Ideally, there would be a moment in which Ghislain was alone. The soldiers would be too distracted by the chaos to realize that the prince was the real target, and Joseph would be away, giving orders and fighting off the wolves.

In the unlikely scenario that Joseph or a few soldiers stayed with Ghislain for the entire time, he had hashed out a rough plan with Lady Cleo. Less likely to be recognized, she would draw their attention and he would approach from behind to kill the prince. However, unless they were able to kill all witnesses, they wouldn’t be able to openly use their blessings.

There were a lot of things that could go wrong, but Roel wasn’t worried. Or if he were, he couldn’t feel it. When it came down to it, his body would always force him along and complete whatever task needed to be done.

Soon enough, the chaos started, and the prince and Joseph emerged from the tent. He saw the confusion and then horror on their faces. He reached into one of the leather pouches hanging on his belt and pulled out three throwing knives.

That was another benefit of having a conspicuous weapon like Durendal. No one would ever anticipate that Roel’s specialty was actually ranged weapons. He had long realized that the Lord’s Favor only excelled in close combat, which meant melee weapons weren’t much help. Of course, there were exceptions, like Lady Cleo, whose staff gave her a reach that compensated for her height, and Sir Orlando, whose gift with swords and control of his blessing was extraordinary.

A throwing knife’s weakness was that it lacked force, but he had honed his skills for twelve years. If he conjured the right amount of strength into his arm, he could almost guarantee the direction and impact of the knife.

As usual, Roel’s body operated itself. It held up the knife, poised to throw it the moment Prince Ghislain and Joseph were far enough away from each other. To land a killing blow was too optimistic, so his legs were bracing themselves to rush forward and slit the prince’s throat with the embedded knife if necessary. His left arm was holding onto the other two knives in the case that his first throw somehow failed. Quickly, efficiently, and ruthlessly.

Ah, he thought, it’ll all be over again.

There was a sudden change in the prince’s composure. He took a step forward, and then a step back, and yelled something at Joseph before rushing off westward.

Roel couldn’t understand what had caused the change in Prince Ghislain’s behavior, but his body didn’t stop to think. It chased after the prince, still carefully hidden behind the shadows of the tents, and his right hand maintained a careful grip on the throwing knife.

For some reason, the prince took one of the horses and headed straight into the forest. He hadn’t predicted such an action, but unfortunately, that would only make it easier to kill the prince. He sensed that Lady Cleo was nearby, following them into the forest, but he didn’t say anything to her. Or rather, he couldn’t. His body wasn’t interested in the 24th Divine Paladin. All it focused on was killing the prince.

His right hand became a soft golden blur, and the knife sailed into the air and landed perfectly in the horse’s neck. The horse whinnied in pain, but it wasn’t enough, so the second knife was thrown closer to its head. That elicited the reaction he wanted, and with a shrill cry of pain, the horse threw the prince off.

“I didn’t know you were so skilled at throwing knives,” Lady Cleo said with admiration. She was standing next to him by the shadow of a tree.

“It’s useful for chases,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded cold, detached. “You should go back. Make sure Joseph stays alive.”

“You fuckers!” the prince yelled. He had recovered from his fall already, but it didn’t seem like he knew where they were. “Where are you?!”

“Poor Prince Ghislain,” Lady Cleo muttered. She had a sad frown on her face.

He agreed, but his body didn’t care for either of their feelings. “Go back,” it spoke for him, worried that she’d interfere with the assassination. “I’ll be fine.”

Lady Cleo looked back and forth between him and the prince before nodding her head. As she left, she carelessly stepped on some dead leaves.

“Show yourself!” the prince shouted in his direction. In his hand was a spindly tree branch, and Roel felt more pity for the man. The prince’s dark brown hair was disheveled from his fall, and his eyes were angry slits. His stature, which had made him look so intimidating before, was dwarfed by the massive trees around him. He was now nothing but a thin robe and powerless anger, and perhaps that was how all men truly were – just an article of clothing and whatever paltry emotion defined them at the moment.

Roel stepped out from behind the tree. It wasn’t his body that instructed him to do so – it was by his own whim. He could feel his body screaming against his actions, insisting that it’d be quick and simple to just kill the prince from the shadows, but he ignored it. The prince, someone he had barely known but wanted to know, had offered him help; it was only right that he should know his murderer.

“You…” The prince seemed confused to see him for a moment. And then the anger returned to his face. “You…fucking…”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and he knew what he must’ve looked like to the prince. He was nothing more and nothing less than a dark garb and repulsive cowardice. “There’s never another choice.”