He leaves the party with a sour taste in his mouth. He’s fluent in the language of Zack’s frigid anger, and more was said in that silence than ever spoken aloud. Unnecessary! How many times has he gone off about being noble and when he finally does an honest thing; this is the response. Cast aside like a dog who pissed on the curtains. And yes, it was heroic. Despite what the knight’s going to say, chide, or straight out argue, the fact is the lady was in trouble, and he (the dirt on the bottom of society’s shoes) helped.

He throws his hands up in defeat. A few servants carrying dishes gives him a sideways glance, but he doesn’t care. He’s damn if he does, damned if he doesn’t. The funny part, he muses as a chuckle escapes his lips; I’m changing my life around. It’s true he gambled around Alexanderia, the taverns, and the officer quarters, cheating the suckers out of their coin.

But he got tired of it, and now he teaches those suckers how to cheat other dupes out of their hard earn coin. For a fee (or two) of course. A triumphant smile cuts his face, his chest swells; that’s right, I’m a businessman now. He’ll even introduce himself as an entrepreneur, next time. And Zack wants to treat him like some sleaze bag who takes advantage of a friend in distress?

He climbs the stairs to Sara’s bed chamber as the party hums from below. Reason sets in as the lights flicker against the wall panels. Remo’s return has the knight on edge. He tries to hide it, but he’s burying himself in work again. He’s the wettest blanket he’s ever seen. But then again, everything about tonight is off. Call him a cynic, but the evening has a too good to be true, atmosphere.

No doubt Zack feels it too. Everyone is dancing while their greatest nightmare lurks in the darkness. The only ones taking precautions are the men designed to kill. Who keeps them in check? You can’t be free when your salvation is your prison guards. He opens the door to discover Sara standing on the sofa while her servant folds a throw blanket.

“What do we have here?” he chuckles as she hops on the cushion in her dressing gown.

“She apparently plans to dance until dawn.”

“Ah! The after party after the curtain call huh?”

“Wasn’t tonight the best! Everything was so pretty! Moira was so pretty, like a princess.”

“She is the princess.” The maid corrects.

“But it’s different. You didn’t know her before. She fought soldiers and dragons!”

“Princesses don’t fight dragons, can you imagine? What a thought!”

“But she did! Tell her how you and her saved me from the kidnappers. She even fought against Zack, but Eclipse didn’t like it. Tell her!”

“It was quite the adventure,” he lifts her in the air and spins her around the room.

“It was the best! We slept under the stars, hid in trees, and fought the bad guys!”

“Sleeping in the dirt?” the maid retorts. “Well, I never. It’s a good thing the princess returned home; now she can put all that behind her and have a normal life.”

“Is that true?” She asks as he returns her to the couch, “are the adventures going to stop now?”

“Moira’s busy doing her princess thing. I doubt she’ll have time to sleep under the stars. Ah cheer up buttercup, it’s alright. There’s a whole new adventure waiting for you right here.”

“What kind of adventure?”

“You know all those stories you read dragons kidnapping the princess—"

“Dragons don’t kidnap princesses.”

“Anyway, Moira’s the princess now, and it's important to protect the princess from the bad guys. And that’s where you and Zack and the boss man come in.”

“What about you?”

“Sorry kid I ain’t much of the protecting sort. Come on, as much as I hate being the responsible one, I’m shutting down this after party and putting you to bed little lady.” He throws her over his shoulder as she laughs before tosses her on the bed. “Now I order you to go to sleep and stay in this bed until the sun peeks through that window.”

He opens the door, ready to say goodnight to the tired maid, but freezes in the doorway. A soldier stands over her, sword to her throat and forces her to her knees. The blue uniforms with silver buttons are unfamiliar. You're not one of ours.

“Get to your knees!” the intruder motions him out of the doorway.

“Alright, don't get your sword twisted.” He closes the door before joining the other hostage. “No one needs to get hurt.”

“Where's the girl? Give her to me!”

“You got one man, isn't that enough. Trust me, two aren’t worth the trouble.”

“The one from the village with the dragons, you idiot.”

“Oh, she's definitely not worth the trouble.”

“Shut up!” He shoves the maid; she crashes into a table breaking a flower vase. He charges but Chris swings his legs from under him knocking him over. The door crashes off the hinges; soldiers file into formation with shields poised, blocking the only exit.

Shit.

Scrambling to his feet, he retreats to Sara’s bedroom; slamming the door shut. Her bedding spills over the floor but he spies a tiny foot poking from under the bed. Tossing pillows in her direction, her small hands bury herself further. Fists rock the door, next boots, then bodies. Every time they make contact, it slams into his back. The doorknob jiggles, holding on by hope and prayer. Despite using all his weight against it, the hinges creak as they’re ripped from the wall. He jumps away as it shatters into pieces over the floor.

“Quit playing games, where is she?” he snarls, grabbing his shirt collar, and hurling him against the wall.

“What’s going on, she owe you money or something?”

He swings his fists but Chris slips from his grasp. Drawing his dagger, he catches the enemy’s sword, using all his strength to keep it from slicing his nose clean off. The soldier grunts pushing his weight against his. There are old burn scars from ear to nose, and new soft hair on his scalp. He’s never seen that type of damage before. Chris slides his blade free, breaking the stalemate, and knees him in the gut. He leaps on the table as another soldier replaces the first.

Their sword swings; he jumps, kicking the balding head, and sends him flying. But he loses balance and crashes backwards against the wardrobe. As the enemy charges, a new idea forms; he yanks the furniture, spilling it (and its contents) over them. A third soldier rushes in, ignoring the writhing comrade, but Chris vaults over him and the shattered wardrobe, but trips over Sara's slippers and hits the floor.

A hard toed boot punts his gut. The pain courses through his torso, but as the third kick makes contact his hands twist it; the soldier screams as Chris staggers to his feet. The taste of iron lines his lips, clutching his abdomen he staggers to the balcony. But the limping soldier follows, trapping him between himself and the curtains; his fist smashes against his jaw. The ringing in his ears makes the blurriness around him worse.

But he takes a swing, it bounces off the intruder’s cheek. The second hits its mark; ramming into their stomach. He reels over, gasping for breath, and Chris takes it as his cue to leave. Yanking the curtains off the wall, he drapes it over the hunched man, before pushing the screaming mass through the balcony glass door. The body crumples over the railing hitting the ground with a thud.

The rush of cool air revives him, chilling the sweat over his face. But three floors are too high, however the balcony to the left is close enough. A gasp behind him directs his attention to a whimpering Sara, who climbs from her hiding place. He puts his finger to his lips and she nods before carefully stepping over the splintered debris.

“Not this time!” Shouts the scarred soldier, “gotcha now! You deal with him.”

The balding soldier climbs from the debris, ripping garments from his armour. He glances at the escape route, but three more soldiers pile onto the balcony. That way is blocked, and down isn’t a good option. There’s a grunt beside him, something hard smashes him in the face. Blood trickles from his temple to his lips. His own punch falls flat. Another punch. His left ear rings. Another and the room spins. His legs wobble. Delight dances in the soldier’s eyes as the hilt of his sword smashes him in the temple.

~~~*~~~

The exterior windows crash open; raining shards over the guests. Archers in black leather armour swing into the throne room on ropes. The knights mobilize, ushering people towards the back of the room. While positioning themselves between the guest and intruders. But where are Lex’s guards? If there’s one at every entrance, then they should be filing in at any moment. Their absence means one thing, they got picked off first. Moira darts off, past the panic and screams towards Allan who stands at the throne. Lex’s head bobs between the feathers and wigs but he’s still meters away from his post. He sticks to her, keeping a hand on her back, and guests out of her way. The intruders draw their arrows, forcing the crowd from the exits. They reach the king as the wide doors burst open. Two ranks of Bellaverian soldiers march in file and force the crowd their way towards them. Lex reaches Allan’s side, out of breath but ready for battle.

“I know you can defend yourself,” he pulls Moira from her father’s side, “but humour me.”

“If you insist,” she takes her position behind him. “I don’t like this.”

“Stay close.”

A shrill laugh floats over the chaos, summoning his attention to the entrance. The soldiers rank separate allowing a wide column for someone to walk through. Queen Winterman steps onto the red carpet, draped in a white gown and travelling cloak. Her cadence, like an elegant bird on the lake, sweeps her black locks across the floor behind her.

“Allan, how careless of you, offending me like this.” Her sickly-sweet voice proclaims to the crowd. “Forgive me but I refuse to miss the party of the year,”

“Ah, Margaret, always a pleasure.” He can’t help the sarcasm dripping from his tone, like father like daughter.

“I see the rumours are true, the little princess returns. Hoping to put aside her wild ways and be a good daughter, are we?” Moira squeezes his shoulder, her palm emitting an unnatural heat. “Let’s hope she learned to keep her ignorant tongue silent.”

“Congratulations. You successfully interrupted this celebration, insulted my daughter and by association insulted me. If you please, reach your point so we can return to the festivities.”

“Allan, how crass of you. I come with a proposal; our kingdoms were once close—”

“Margaret, your point.”

“Abdicate the throne old man,” She barks. “The title, land, and Moira’s claim to it. Give me Alexanderia and I won’t kill you all where you stand.”

“You bitch!” Moira lunges but he holds her back.

“If you desire Alexanderia, you must take her by force.”

“If you insist,” Margaret smirks. The hair at the nape of his neck stands straight as Remo Kipling, the man responsible for his family’s death, enters the throne room. Her gentle squeeze on his shoulder doesn’t comfort him; especially when he notices what Kipling drags behind him.

“Sara!” she shouts. The child’s hogtied and gagged. “You bastard!”

“Apparently I missed one,” Remo chuckles, “finally the whole family can be together.” His heart thumps in his chest; remembering burying the victims of the massacre. His sword pulsing to life, flickering as the magic mixes with rage and floods the blade.

“Not here,” her breath kissing his ear, “I can’t protect everyone from both him and you.”

“Remo,” Allan, despite the chaos descending over the crowd, grins, “how do we proceed?”

“Honestly Allan, I don’t give a damn who rules this rock quarry. I am here to settle a score. What do you say, like old times?”

“Father, no!”

“I choose the palace courtyard as our battleground. Your blood can pay homage to the slain. The weapon; I use my favourite and you use yours. Finally, we begin at dawn.”

“The prize?”

“The satisfaction of victory.”

“Ah, a true duel,” Kipling muses, “then I agree to the grounds set by you. My business is complete.” He drops Sara on the carpet but no one moves to retrieve her.

“Kipling!” Margaret screeches. “This is not what we agreed! Kill them!” He draws his short knife, holding it to the light and studies the reflections in the steel. There’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he grasps her arm and hovers the blade over her neck.

“Don’t do anything rash.” he grins, “she’s my security until I exit the Gate.”

“Kipling you’re a dead man!” but her mouth slams shut when he traces her lips with the steel.

“Come, My Queen, you can have Alexanderia once the duel is over.”

It’s agony watching their exit. Kipling makes a show of taunting them with slashing her throat. Not that he cares for the queen, but it’s the soldiers he watches. One by one, they file out. He’s stuck there, no orders, no direction. He’s a wanted man, and the king let him just walk out. He glances at Lex who’s as dumbstruck as the rest of them. Once they’re gone Allan steps from the stage and leaves. Followed close behind by a frantic clicking of Moira’s heels.