Brestiv, evening

  Irshava dismissed the guards herself. She said she had matters that could not tolerate outside eyes. The chambers were left empty and quiet.

  Her dress was loosened to the waist. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, exposing pale skin in the dim candlelight. A man’s hand held her firmly, drawing her closer.

  “I have waited too long,” she whispered.

  His palm covered her lips, silencing the sound. The palace had ears.

  She stilled for a moment, then moved more slowly, more carefully, trying not to betray herself with her voice.

  When it was over and the last breath of tension dissolved into the quiet of the room, Irshava rose from the bed first. For a moment, she closed her eyes, allowing herself a brief, restrained satisfaction—not so much physical as the awareness of control over the moment.

  The candles trembled in a faint draft, casting soft shadows across her bare shoulders. She brushed her hair back and stepped barefoot onto the cold floor, as if returning from a hidden world to the reality of the palace.

  The passion was gone from her face—replaced by focus. She had long since learned to return quickly to the role demanded by this house, this bloodline, this throne.

  She reached for the dress lying nearby and began to put it on, as though nothing unusual had just occurred.

  “Faster,” she said quietly. “We cannot be late.”

  The man gathered the clothes scattered beside the bed in silence.

  “Sometimes I wish your grandfather many long years,” he said, almost without a smile.

  Irshava adjusted her dress before the mirror.

  “So do I. But nothing lasts forever.”

  He embraced her once more, kissed her temple briefly, and moved toward the door.

  Irshava opened it carefully and listened to the corridor. Once she was certain it was empty, she gave a subtle nod.

  The man disappeared into the darkness.

  Dinner, later

  After several goblets of wine, Vladur stepped away from the gathering and approached Serain.

  “It seems tomorrow will bring us a difficult morning,” he smiled.

  “A small sacrifice for an easy evening,” Serain replied evenly.

  Vladur chuckled softly and nodded toward Syra.

  “An interesting girl. Such ones are rare.”

  “I knew you would like her.”

  “But you did not bring her for me, did you?”

  Serain raised an eyebrow slightly.

  “You already know more than you should. Where am I heading? Why is Syra with me? And what I need from you.”

  “Good.” Vladur lifted his goblet a little. “Then I will name my price.”

  He leaned closer.

  “We will provide men and supplies. But only on the condition you already know.”

  “Viscol must hold the border with Gravell,” Serain answered quietly.

  “Exactly. And what will Darinus say when you ask him for troops?”

  Serain exhaled heavily.

  “That we must first settle their border with Hieros.”

  Vladur laughed louder.

  “That is what I wanted to hear. I can already imagine how you will reconcile them.”

  He took a sip of wine.

  “And then you still have to travel with Syra to Gannud, yes?”

  “Do not remind me. That gives me more of a headache than the wine.”

  Vladur narrowed his eyes.

  “So that is why you were late to dinner.”

  His gaze drifted slowly across the hall.

  “Strange. Usually, grandsons are the ones who lack punctuality. Here it is the opposite—Cael arrived on time.”

  Serain stilled for a moment. Barely. Only for a heartbeat.

  “My apologies,” he said calmly. “Fatigue, perhaps.”

  He inclined his head and stepped away from the table.

  Vladur remained standing alone. His gaze settled on Irshava. She was laughing at something Syra had said — light, effortless. Yet her fingers gripped the stem of her glass a little tighter than the role required.

  On the other side of the table stood Nikol — the only one who had barely touched his wine that evening. He was not looking at her. He was watching Serain. Too closely. For too long.

  Serain was answering one of the guests, his voice calm. Too calm.

  Irshava laughed again — and this time her eyes drifted in that direction. Only for a moment. A moment that was enough.

  Nikol looked away first.

  Vladur did not see that. He was watching only his granddaughter — the way a landowner inspects his own soil, searching for cracks.

  But he noticed something else.

  Nikol was no longer looking at Irshava. He was looking at Serain. And there was no courtesy in that gaze.

  Vladur slowly set his glass down on the table.

  “Nikol,” he said casually, without raising his voice, “you are unusually quiet tonight.”

  There was no suspicion in his tone. Only a reminder.

  Nikol immediately lifted his glass and took a sip — his first of the evening.

  “I am listening carefully, my lord.”

  He did not look at Irshava again. Nor at Serain.

  Vladur smiled back at the guests. But something in the hall had grown slightly colder.

  Leshina Rapids.

  Morning. Late autumn.

  The land here birthed nothing but stone.

  The soil was hard, cut by rises and descents, strewn with gravel and jagged rock outcrops. Scattered trees stood bare — the cold wind had long since torn away their leaves. This was the border between the world of men and the mountain clans.

  The road stretched along the river, running from the clan territories toward Korets. Between Ceredan and the mountains lay a strip of dead land — unfit for large encampments, riddled with natural ambush points, and offering too few level grounds.

  Here, the Leshina carved into stone, roaring between boulders, breaking itself against the rapids. It was the natural boundary of Ceredan.

  The bank on the kingdom’s side rose higher — from there, one could command a broad view of the road and the crossing.

  The clans understood this.

  So before the rapids, they had built fortifications — small, but deliberate. Stone embankments, wooden shields, and shelters for archers. A few guard houses stood farther back — places where observers or a small garrison could hide, ready to stall the first strike.

  It was toward these positions that the detachment led by Navren advanced. At his side rode Varek and Hukan.

  Navren knew this place. But knowing was not the same as seeing its present state.

  They needed to inspect everything with their own eyes — to assess the change in elevation, the width of the riverbed, the depth of the ford, the possibility of passage for bison and supply wagons.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  They approached quietly.

  Hidden behind rock outcrops, the detachment observed the fortifications by the river.

  Two guard houses stood ahead. Before them — a barrier of logs and shields, arranged to block the view from Ceredan’s side. Those standing below could not see what happened beyond the obstacle.

  But from the height of the rocks, the entire scene lay exposed.

  And Navren watched closely, measuring where the first blood would spill when the frost struck.

  — This is the place, — Navren said quietly. — The clans abandoned the post a few months ago. We can take it. But first, we check what’s inside. Quietly. There may be Ceredan sentries on the other bank. No need to draw attention.

  Hukan nodded.

  He, Navren, and Varek dashed in a short burst toward the first guard house and pressed themselves against the wall, waiting for the rest of the detachment that remained behind the rocks.

  Then voices carried from within.

  The house was not empty.

  Navren sharply raised his hand, signaling those behind to hold.

  Too late.

  Three fighters broke from cover and sprinted across the open ground toward the fortifications.

  Someone shouted inside. The door flew open, and warriors spilled out of the house.

  Arrows came immediately.

  One of the Rejected fell, pierced through the chest. The other two wheeled around and ran back toward the rocks.

  Navren, Hukan, and Varek remained unseen — the wall shielded them from sight.

  The enemy rushed forward, trying to finish off the retreating men. That was when the three by the wall burst from cover.

  The strike was close and sudden.

  Their enemies were mercenaries of the Red Breach. It seemed they, too, had come to seize these fortifications before the frost. They did not expect a Vishap, a Rejected, and an Oaken to charge into their backs at once.

  The first fell to an axe blow. The second did not have time to turn — a spear drove clean through him. The third tried to retreat toward the door, but Varek caught him on the threshold.

  The fight lasted seconds.

  More mercenaries were already running down from the road.

  Navren hesitated for a split second — and that was enough. One of the Red Breach fighters parried his strike, slipped to the flank, and began to press. The blows came fast, relentless. Navren fell back, unable to rebuild his guard.

  A blade skidded along his armor, knocking him off balance.

  He went down.

  The mercenary lunged forward to finish him.

  Hukan burst between them. His blade slashed across the enemy’s arm. The man screamed and staggered back — but another fighter was already closing in.

  Hukan barely managed to raise his shield, caught the strike, twisted, and drove straight into a counterattack. Steel rang against steel. Harsh breaths. Dust. Blood.

  A few paces away, Varek was already finishing one opponent and collided with a second. He moved in short, precise motions — no wasted swings.

  Within minutes, this group of mercenaries lay on the ground. Two were dead. Two were still breathing — not for long.

  — Back! — Hukan snapped.

  He and Varek hauled Navren to his feet and began falling back toward the rocks where the rest of their detachment had remained.

  But as soon as they rounded the outcrop, everything became clear.

  More mercenaries were already there. Their men lay dead by the rocks. All of them. Of the detachment, only three remained: Navren, Hukan, and Varek.

  They barely had time to register it before four more Red Breach warriors stepped into their path.

  This time, Navren was ready. He surged forward and took the first one head-on.

  Mistake. It was an officer.

  The officer moved faster than he looked. He parried, pivoted, and slammed his shield straight into Navren’s head. The world before Navren’s eyes flared white — then went dark. He fell again.

  Meanwhile, Varek and Hukan dealt with the other three swiftly. They struck in rhythm, without wasting words.

  Now they stood facing the officer. One against two. And behind them lay their entire detachment.

  The officer began to withdraw slowly. Another group of mercenaries was already running down from the road.

  Hukan and Varek exchanged a glance — they would not survive that many. They had to pull back. But Navren lay unconscious.

  — Get up. We have to run, — Hukan snapped, shaking him by the shoulder. — Wake up.

  — We fall back. Now. In a moment it’ll be too late, — Varek said shortly.

  — Navren! Wake up!

  The officer was no longer retreating. He stopped, waiting for reinforcements, ready to surge forward with the fresh fighters and finish them.

  Then suddenly, shouts erupted from behind the guard houses. Not theirs.

  The officer turned sharply. Then looked back at Hukan and Varek, as if weighing what mattered more.

  The shouts drew closer. A dull roar, splintering wood, war cries. The officer turned and ran back toward the camp. Something else had struck the mercenaries.

  Hukan and Varek did not wait for explanations. They hauled Navren up and ran from the fortifications, dragging him between them without looking back.

  When they had put enough distance between themselves and the rapids and slipped behind a stone outcrop, they stopped and carefully peered out.

  The camp was already boiling with battle. The mountain clans had struck suddenly and in force. There were too many of them. The Red Breach mercenaries tried to form a line, but they were pressed from the flanks. There was nowhere to retreat — the passages were blocked.

  Within minutes, it was over. The last of the Red Breach fighters fell. Those still breathing were bound by the clans.

  Hukan, Varek, and a now half-conscious Navren watched in silence.

  The enemy of their enemy had done the work for them.

  Only one question remained: under whose control would the rapids stand now?

  Brestiv. The day after the evening meal.

  The stable smelled of hay, sweat, and damp stone. Light filtered through narrow openings beneath the ceiling, but the far corners remained in shadow.

  Nikola stood among the horses, running his hand along the mane of one of them. His gaze slid over the entrance, the doors, the cracks in the walls.

  Once he was certain no one lingered nearby, he circled the animal and approached a large stack of hay where the sun barely reached.

  — How are things? — he asked quietly.

  A voice answered from the shadows.

  — I found out everything. You were right.

  — Do you have proof?

  — I do. On his boots. Pour this over the sole — and a little beside her bed. The color will match. For comparison, you can drip some onto other footwear. The kind that definitely couldn’t have been there.

  Nikola listened in silence.

  — How much time do I have?

  — Until they clean it up. I’d say at least until tomorrow.

  — He won’t be able to claim the boots aren’t his?

  — No. He arrived wearing them. They weren’t issued here.

  A pause.

  — Good. Well done. Take it.

  Metal clinked softly in the dark. A small parcel disappeared into another hand.

  Nikola allowed himself a faint smile.

  — I still don’t understand how you do it.

  — Because I’m the one no one notices.

  — Seems you’re right.

  The shadow withdrew deeper into the hay. No footsteps could be heard.

  Nikola returned to the horse as if nothing had happened. He picked up a small container, quickly checked the lid, then slipped it into a pocket beneath his cloak.

  After that, he calmly left the stable and headed toward Vladur’s chambers.

  The sun was already climbing higher.

  And the day promised unrest.

  A few minutes later, Nikola stood outside Irshava’s chambers.

  He intercepted a maid in the corridor.

  — Tell me, have the guest rooms been cleaned yet?

  — No, my lord. We were ordered not to disturb their rest until tomorrow.

  He nodded and waited until she walked away.

  Then he quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

  The room still held the warmth of the night. The curtains were half drawn, light falling in a narrow band across the floor. Nikola approached the bed and carefully splashed a small amount of liquid onto the stone beside it.

  Within seconds, the surface began to darken.

  The outline emerged clearly — the sole of a boot, its distinctive tread pattern.

  He leaned closer. A faint smile touched his lips.

  It works.

  Nikola quickly wiped the stain away with a cloth, leaving no trace behind, and stepped out.

  He found the same maid again.

  — Where is the king now?

  — I haven’t seen him today, my lord. But he was supposed to see the guests off.

  — They’re leaving today?

  — Yes. Something urgent happened.

  Nikola’s expression shifted.

  He moved quickly toward Vladur’s chambers — they were nearby — and looked inside.

  Empty.

  He stepped out into the courtyard.

  In the square, Serain’s delegation was nearly ready to depart. Horses saddled, people assembled. But Vladur was nowhere in sight. Nor were his guards.

  Only Irshava stood there with her own escort.

  Something had gone off script.

  — Where is our king? — Nikola asked sharply.

  — He’s gone, — Irshava replied calmly. — And why aren’t you prepared?

  — Gone where?

  — To the border with Gravell, to prepare the transfer of Viscol.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  — Why are you still here? Everyone is waiting.

  Nikola glanced around.

  The Ceredan delegation was indeed ready to ride. Horses saddled. Men in formation. And their eyes — on him.

  — Where exactly am I supposed to go? — he asked quietly. — No one told me anything.

  — You’re riding with King Serain, — Irshava answered. — You’ll be present at the talks with Viscol. We sent for you. Where were you?

  — Perhaps we shouldn’t waste time on that, — Serain interjected. — Nikola, prepare yourself quickly. Vladur has decided everything. You’ll see him after we return.

  Nikola froze for a moment.

  — If the king has left, and I’m riding with you… Who remains here? And the princess? Who will guard her?

  — Stepeth and Cael, — Serain replied calmly. — They will ride with her to Korosten to deliver reinforcements to the soldiers.

  He leaned forward slightly.

  — Prepare yourself. We won’t wait.

  — As you command.

  Nikola turned sharply and strode toward his chambers.

  Once inside, he closed the door and took out the small container of liquid. He looked at it.

  The king was gone. There was no one to report to. And there was little time.

  By the time they returned, the traces would be gone.

  His plan — refined, calculated — was beginning to dissolve along with the chance to use it.

  And his hidden desire to claim Irshava was fading too, slipping away with every precious minute spent preparing to leave.

  He tightened his grip on the container.

  She had laughed yesterday. Looked past him. Chosen others. One more day — and he would have made her look differently. Not with contempt. Not with indifference. But with need.

  Now there was no time.

  Voices sounded outside. Time had run out.