-Good evening, Isla. – He spoke in a deep voice.

--It was Venceslav Sashel, another rival of Mr Fliss, and an Enksado. His beady, crusty, black eyes and grey, faded feathers did not add to the appearance of a trustworthy person. He was an old, shrewd crow, that one. And she could now see that the other one was the young, ginger man, Ranulf Fime.

-You summoned me?

-By now, you may have heard rumours of the prince’s disappearance. – Venceslav spoke with equanimity. – My associate and I are… aware of your special relationship with him. – Isla’s weariness vanished and her face turned to stone, as her full attention was suddenly focused on the nobleman’s words. – We assure you, we’ve had nothing to do with it. This peculiar situation is troublesome for us as well. But, I am afraid I cannot say anything else about this topic at the moment. What matters now is that the hierarchy within the castle is shifting, even as we speak. Certain… dark forces are at play. They seek to throw this kingdom into disarray, to weaken us. And we must act quickly to stem the flow from this wound. And you! You… are in a unique position to influence the outcome of this calamity.

-Tristan… is missing? It is true?

-Focus, please. Our futures are at stake. – Ranulf intervened.

-What do you mean, he is missing?

-He is gone. – Ranulf dismissed her. – And we have reason to suspect high treason is involved. High treason.

-Define gone.

-It does not matter right now, what matters…

-How does a prince just vanish?

--Isla interrupted Ranulf. He went silent.

-Are the walls of this palace made of paper?

--Isla spoke completely out of turn. She was a mere servant, in the presence of two of the twelve nobles from the King’s Counsel. The eager Ranulf became flustered, but Venceslav was very patient, and he responded, keeping his unwavering, calm tone.

-I urge you to look towards constructive thoughts. Perhaps you do not care of your own future, but the future of your mother should still bear some weight in your heart. No?

-Keep your serpentine words away from my mother. Sir.

-But who will take care of her and you in the prince’s absence? Your stay here has, without a doubt, been his doing. Now that he is gone, what reason is there to allow you to stay? To continue to pay for your employ? – Venceslav spread his left palm out as if requesting an offering.

-My master.

-It is touching that you feel loyalty towards him, but I am afraid he hired you merely as a gesture meant to win favour with the prince. And furthermore, he has, in a way, betrayed you. – Venceslav said, puffing his pipe with a worried look on his face.

-What do you mean?

-What I am about to tell you, for your own safety, you must tell no one.

--The nobleman looked into Isla’s eyes and paused. He was searching for a spec of credulity. He did not find it, but he did not doubt in his own ability to captivate an audience. Satisfied that he had paused long enough for dramatic effect, he continued.

-Your master, David Fliss, is the one behind the prince’s disappearance.

--He paused again, waiting for her response of disbelief, rehearsing his arguments in his head, but she was silently peering at him. Well, that works too, so he spoke on.

-It is all part of an intricate plot with the Goths to seize the throne. But we’ve been onto them, Mr Fimes and I. For a while now. We have ears in all the right places. And I assure you, they’re not getting away with it.

-And you need me to spy on my master? To provide proof of this, supposed, treachery?

-My dear girl, I fear the time for watching and listening has long past. Now, the time has come to take action.

-To take action? I… do not understand.

-You need to kill him. – Ranulf interceded crudely, to Venceslav’s dismay. He would have preferred to introduce the idea in a much more subtle way.

-To what? Why wouldn’t you just have him arrested? – Isla’s eyes widened, and her voice slightly cracked.

-The corruption runs deep. – Venceslav spoke before Ranulf could continue, and extended his hand in front of Ranulf, to try and underline that Ranulf should stay silent; that Venceslav shall take the lead. – We are certain that Mr Fliss is not alone in this plot. We suspect that in the event of his arrest, his accomplices would make sure that all of the evidence, in the form of written correspondences with Goth spies, would mysteriously vanish, leaving us looking like we’re trying to stain an innocent man’s honour.

-Hold on. Let’s assume for a moment that I believe this… this insanity. How is anyone going to find out where is Tristan, if the man who is supposed to be responsible for his disappearance is killed?

After a short pause, Venceslav replied – Ah, but we already know where the young prince is.

-Then, for heaven’s sake, why is he still missing? – Isla appeared confounded.

-Little servant girl, you ask too many questions. I have already shared more than I ought to have. You have not even stated whether you are a friend or a foe to our cause yet.

--Venceslav turned around. He too was starting to lose his patience. He placed his left hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. Ranulf left his pipe in his mouth and opened his crimson cloak, unveiling a sabre at his belt. He grabbed the red hilt and began to slowly pull it out.

-This plan has many more steps… with you, or…

--Before Venceslav could finish his sentence, Ranulf flew past him, blood gushing out of his throat, his pipe rolling on the floor.

--Venceslav’s eyes widened in horror. His beak was open, wordless, for what seemed as an eternity, as he watched Ranulf’s body slam, back first, into the fence of the terrace.

--The sound of his pipe dropping onto the floor snapped him into action. He turned to face Isla swiftly, his mind on fire with signals shooting left and right, forging the perfect words that would resolve this unexpected outcome, when he too, found the blade of Ranulf’s sabre lodged in his throat. It unerringly pierced him before he could caw a single word, and came out the other side, severing his spine. The light in his eyes extinguished almost instantaneously, and his form spilled onto the floor.

--And above their corpses, Isla stood, gripping Ranulf’s sabre, dripping with their blood.

--She brought it up, level with her eyes, and examined it. She was well familiar with this type of blade. It was a Fanelian officer’s sabre. The single-edge blade was masterfully crafted, slick and so long that it even slightly outranged a longsword. And yet, it was light and balanced so well that it could be wielded by either two hands, or just one. The hilt was coloured in the traditional Fanelian red, and bejewelled with a massive ruby stone, said to hold magical powers.