The heavy doors of the western palace chambers creaked open as Prince Alistair stepped inside. The grandeur of the room—a blend of dark wood, gold accents, and heavy drapes—seemed to swallow him in its silence. His silver hair glimmered under the soft glow of the chandelier as he moved with deliberate steps toward an intricately carved chair.
With a deep sigh, Alistair sank into the seat, his head leaning back against the high backrest. His sharp, tired eyes stared at the ceiling for a moment, as though searching for answers in its intricate design.
His assistant, ever loyal and composed, stood at attention a few paces away. “What’s the update?” Alistair asked, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of impatience.
The assistant bowed deeply before responding. “Your Highness, we still haven’t located the divine egg.”
Alistair’s brows furrowed, his jaw tightening. “Not yet found?” His voice rose slightly, though still controlled. “What do you mean? You are fully aware of how crucial it is that we recover the divine egg as soon as possible. And yet...”
The assistant lowered his head further, his voice laced with regret. “My sincerest apologies, Your Highness. But rest assured, we are exhausting every resource available. We will locate the divine egg soon.”
The prince exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers drumming against the armrest of the chair. He closed his eyes briefly before nodding. “See that you do. There is no room for failure in this.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the assistant replied, his voice unwavering.
After a moment of silence, Alistair opened his eyes and straightened slightly. “We have an appointment with the King tomorrow, correct?”
The assistant nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. The meeting has been confirmed.”
“I see,” Alistair muttered, his tone contemplative. He waved a hand dismissively. “You can leave now.”
The assistant bowed deeply once more. “As you command, Your Highness.” He turned and exited the room, the sound of the heavy door closing softly behind him.
Left alone, Prince Alistair leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. His silver hair fell slightly over his face as he stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace across the room. The weight of his mission pressed heavily on his shoulders, and the urgency of the divine egg’s recovery seemed to echo in the quiet of his chamber.
The moon hung low in the sky, casting pale light over the grand West Palace. Despite the heavy presence of guards patrolling the grounds, two shadowy figures slipped silently through the night, their faces obscured by dark cloth. They moved with practiced stealth, evading every watchful eye as they made their way inside the palace.
Navigating the labyrinthine halls, they arrived at Prince Alistair’s chambers. The door creaked slightly as they pushed it open, the sound masked by the faint rustle of the wind. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the embers of a dying fire, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
One of the assassins whispered, “We have to finish him tonight. No mistakes.”
The other nodded, gripping a gleaming dagger tightly. They approached the large bed at the center of the room, its occupant seemingly sleeping soundly beneath the heavy blankets.
Without hesitation, the first assassin raised his dagger and plunged it down—once, twice, three times. The blade struck its target with dull thuds, but something was off. No blood stained the pristine sheets.
The second assassin hesitated, pulling back the blanket to reveal...a pile of pillows.
“What—?” one of them began, but a cold voice cut through the room, stopping him mid-sentence.
“So,” Prince Alistair’s voice drawled from the shadows, calm yet edged with steel. “She was right. Someone really is trying to assassinate me.”
Both men turned sharply, their eyes darting to the corner of the room. There, partially illuminated by the faint firelight, stood Prince Alistair. His silver hair glimmered faintly, his piercing eyes locked onto them, and a smirk curved his lips. In his hand, he held a gleaming sword, its edge catching the dim light ominously.
The assassins exchanged a glance, their hesitation replaced by resolve. Without a word, they lunged at him together, their daggers flashing.
Alistair sidestepped the first blow with ease, his sword swinging in a precise arc to parry the second. The clash of steel filled the room as the prince moved with practiced grace, his strikes calculated and deadly.
One assassin aimed for his chest, but Alistair deflected the attack and countered with a swift slice to the man’s arm, disarming him. The second came from the side, but Alistair ducked low, sweeping his leg to knock the attacker off balance.
The fight was over in moments. With a final strike, Alistair drove his sword through one assassin's chest, the other falling moments later with a deep wound across his torso. Both men crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Breathing heavily, Alistair wiped his blade clean with a cloth before sheathing it. He glanced down at the bodies, his expression unreadable.
“So predictable,” Alistair muttered under his breath. He turned to the door and called out, “Lorien.”
Within seconds, his assistant, Lorien, entered with a group of guards, their weapons at the ready. They froze at the sight of the two lifeless assassins sprawled across the chamber floor.
“Clean this up,” Alistair commanded coldly, his voice cutting through the silence. “And double the security.” His piercing gaze shifted to Lorien. “I want a full investigation by dawn. And…” His voice dropped slightly, carrying a weight of curiosity, “find out who Leticia is.”
Lorien blinked in surprise but quickly masked it with a respectful bow. “Yes, Your Highness.” He turned on his heel, issuing quiet orders to the guards, who moved swiftly to carry out the prince’s commands.
Alistair turned away, his eyes fixed on the fire’s dying embers. The faint flicker reflected in his silver irises as his earlier smirk gave way to a thoughtful frown.
“Who sent them?” he murmured to himself, his mind racing as he pieced together the fragments of the night’s events.
Alistair reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded letter, the one that had been delivered to him earlier that evening. His eyes scanned the delicate handwriting, his brow furrowing as he murmured the name softly to himself.
“Leticia…”
He traced the inked letters with his gaze, his mind replaying the events of the night. The warning she had sent now felt more significant, more urgent. She knew this would happen.
“Who are you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.
He turned the letter over in his hands, as if searching for some hidden clue. The weight of the name and the mystery surrounding it grew heavier in his mind. Whatever her intentions were, she had been right about the assassination attempt.
His thoughts sharpened, the faint embers of suspicion burning in his chest. Was she a friend? A foe? Or merely a pawn in someone else’s scheme?
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