Chapter Text
The Grand Hall of the palace gleamed with opulence. Chandeliers dripped with crystals that caught the flicker of hundreds of candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the gleaming room. Silk banners in the royal colours of emerald green and gold hung from the arched ceilings, and the air hummed with the sound of a string quartet playing an elegant waltz, its sweet melody weaving between the murmur of the crowd and the clinking of glasses.
At the heart of it all stood Prince Chanse of Amakiir, every inch of him radiating royalty: his tailored coat, shaping his frame in perfect symmetry, was adorned with intricate embroidery that matched his kingdom’s insignia; the jewelled circlet resting on his head caught the light with every slight turn, and his chocolate curls bounced with every dignified step. He smiled and accepted gloved hands as guests approached, showering him with compliments and bows he bashfully refused to accept. Yet, deep beneath his practised grace, a restless energy brewed; he had always found these gatherings suffocating, the masks of politeness barely concealing the scheming eyes of his mother’s court. He knew of their ulterior motives—which of their daughters could he be married off with? How many children should they have? Which was the best move to checkmate, to ensure their continued comfortable reign over the western isles?
None of these conversations about his future required Chanse’s input, obviously.
Across the vast space full of lush ballgowns and glittering pearls, there stood a noble knight whose gaze never left the prince. Sir Shayne leaned casually against a pillar, holding a half-assed conversation with one of the hundreds of nameless guests, belying the sharpness of his focus. His best armour gleamed under the warm light, though he’d removed the bulkier pieces to blend in more easily with the nobles (even if he personally preferred practicality over something as futile as his image). His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers drumming lightly—a habit that betrayed his readiness for action. This night wasn’t just sparkling drinks and effortless beauty for everybody, after all.
As the music swelled, yet another noblewoman approached Chanse, offering a hand to dance. She curtsied low, her silk gown pooling like spilt ink around her feet, and glanced up towards him shyly. With a well-rehearsed, charming smile, he accepted, leading her to the centre of the polished marble floor. The crowd seemed to collectively sigh at the display and parted to admire their dance; the prince moved with effortless elegance, his every step in perfect time with the music, and all the while he was able to keep up a polite conversation with his partner. Shayne’s lips twitched in a faint smile of approval—Chanse knew how to play his role well.
But then, something shifted.
It started as a whisper at the edge of his awareness—a flicker of quick movement on the balcony above. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his deeply rooted instincts flaring to life. A shadow shifted before dissolving into the architecture, and Shayne’s jaw tightened. He pushed off the pillar after excusing himself from whomever, his electric gaze scanning the crowd for any signs of unease. Nothing seemed amiss. And yet, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the indiscernible whispers buzzed louder.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. Heads snapped upward as a guard on the balcony toppled over the railing, his armour-clad body striking the floor with a sickening thud; gasps erupted when a crimson pool began to blossom across the marble. Across the other end of the hall, another guard fell with a cry, their sword clattering with a metallic rattle. Shadows danced across the balcony, swiftly shoving past the horde of guests as though they had practised this countless times before. It was an orchestrated attack, he realised, a group of assassins. Shayne had to move.
Springing into action, he immediately hunted the hall for Prince Chanse; the string quartet had abruptly stopped, and Chanse stood still amongst the audience of guests who had made space for him and his dance partner, exposing him easily to the eyes of the attackers. Somewhere between the shrieks of horror and the desperate clicking of heels, Shayne managed to call out orders to the guards lined against the walls to protect the prince. He wasn’t moving fast enough. There were too many bodies, too many obstacles.
A cloaked figure cascaded down from the balcony railing, then another, a third, with glints of steel flashing in their hands. They moved with deadly precision, cutting through the crowd toward Chanse, who was shooing the noblewoman at his side away to safety. A swarm of guards advanced towards him, circling him in a protective barricade, and they began to shuffle towards the main doors. It was only as Shayne drew closer that he noticed the discrepancy: amidst the ordered wall of soldiers, one guard had a face he didn’t recognise.
Shayne knew every single knight in the palace—he had trained within its grounds since he was a teenager, had fought beside them, and trusted those men with his life. Hell, more than half of them operated under his command.
He did not know the man disguised in their royal uniform, whose blade was different to any other guard’s, whose arm was slowly drawing closer to Chanse’s exposed back, whose expression twisted from feigned caution to unwavering fury. His blood ran cold.
“Chanse!” His voice boomed across the hall, cutting through the chaos. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword and charged forward, shoving panicked nobles aside. The assassin lunged, their dagger aimed directly between the prince’s shoulder blades.
Time slowed to a crawl, each second stretching agonisingly long. Chanse spun just in time to see the figure bearing down on him, his hazel eyes growing wide with shock. But before the blade could strike, Shayne was there to intercept the blow. His sword met the attacker’s with a deafening clash of steel, the force of the impact reverberating through the hall.
“Get back!” Shayne yelled at Chanse, his voice taut with a mixture of command and desperation. The prince hesitated, his regal composure faltering as he stumbled away from the fray. Shayne pressed forward, his movements offensive and unyielding as he drove the enemy toward the centre of the room, away from the crowd.
Their fight was a blur of motion, brief but brutal. Behind him, the remaining guards subdued the other intruders, the air ringing with the clash of swords and the cries of the wounded. With a final, decisive strike, Shayne disarmed his opponent, sending the dagger skittering across the floor. The assassin crumpled, unconscious, as reinforcements stormed the hall to secure the scene.
The room buzzed with frantic whispers as Shayne turned and marched towards the barricade of soldiers, pushing past until he came face to face with Chanse, his chest heaving from exertion. Chanse could only stare back at him, his brows raised with worry and his gaze slightly glossy.
“Did they hurt you?” He demanded, his blue eyes searching the prince for any sign of injury.
Chanse shook his head, finally finding the voice that had been trapped in his throat. “No. Thanks to you.”
For a moment, their gazes locked, the weight of what had just transpired hanging heavy between them. Shayne’s grip on his sword tightened as he muttered, “We need to talk with the Queen. Now.”
Wordlessly, Shayne escorted Chanse through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, the prince’s heeled boots echoing against the polished stone. The muffled chaos of the Grand Hall began to fade behind them, replaced by the heavy silence that always seemed to linger in the royal family’s private chambers. Chanse walked briskly ahead, his back straight and chin raised, but Shayne’s sharp eyes caught the tension in the set of his jaw. His brow furrowed as he kept a measured pace behind him, his instincts still on high alert.
They reached the Queen’s study, its massive oak doors looming in the flickering torchlight, the brass serpent-head knockers gleaming like watchful sentinels. The two guards standing at attention immediately stepped aside upon their approach, their expressions steely. Chanse hesitated, his hand hovering over the brass handle, ever so slightly trembling. For a fleeting moment, Shayne thought he saw something crack beneath the prince’s composed exterior—a rare flicker of fragility or fear. He felt something twist in his chest.
But just as quickly, he blinked and it was gone, replaced by the same poised expression Chanse had worn all night.
He pushed the door open.
The room was bathed in a warm, vanilla glow, the gentle swaying of candlelight casting long shadows across shelves lined with priceless books; the faint scent of ink and beeswax swirled through the air. Queen Amanda sat at her desk in a regal maroon chair that framed her like a throne, her brow pinched in concentration as she read over a parchment. The resemblance between mother and son was undeniable—the same warm eyes, though hers were hardened by maturity; the same dark brown curls; and the same incessant, stubborn ambition. At the sound of the door, Amanda looked up, her fierce expression softening into concern as she took in the sight of her son and Shayne.
“Chanse,” the Queen breathed, rising to her feet. “What’s happened?”
Before the prince could answer, Shayne stepped forward, his voice steady and precise. “Your Majesty, there was an attempt on the prince’s life during the ball. Several of our guards were killed. The assassins have been apprehended and are being interrogated as we speak.”
The Queen’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she processed the news. “They’ve never made it past the palace gates before.” Her gaze moved to Chanse, her stern resolve melting into something far more maternal. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Mother,” Chanse replied. “Shayne intervened in time.”
Amanda faced the knight, sweet relief flickering briefly in her warm but wary eyes. “You have my gratitude, Sir Shayne. Once again, you have proven your worth to this family.”
Shayne dipped his head respectfully in silent acknowledgement.
The Queen waltzed around her desk closer to her son, but before she could speak, Chanse interrupted, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Mother, this has to stop,” he said, his voice carefully measured but simmering with underlying fervour. “We can’t risk more of our people getting hurt. There has to be a way to end it—permanently.”
“And what would you have me do?” Amanda’s tone was calm, but it carried a strong undercurrent of authority, one of the qualities that made her such an effective ruler. “Every precaution has been taken. I’ve doubled the guards, fortified the perimeters, and sent envoys across the four seas to negotiate with our rivals. None of it has stopped them from targeting you.”
“If I’m the one they are all targeting, then you should let me help,” Chanse pressed, his words growing sharper. “What if—”
“With respect, Your Highness,” Shayne interjected, stepping forward, “the prince’s safety cannot be compromised further. The immediate priority should be to remove him from danger.”
Chanse shot him a glare, his hazel eyes blazing. “I am standing right here, Shayne. Perhaps we could discuss my fate without treating me like a chess piece?”
Shayne didn’t flinch under the prince’s accusatory remark, though he took a moment to compose himself fully. “I’m speaking as your protector, not your subordinate. You are the sole heir to the throne, your life carries far more weight than any of us in this room, and until we understand who’s behind these attacks, you’re in danger every moment you remain here.”
Queen Amanda nodded gravely, stepping towards her son and catching his eye. “Shayne is right. I cannot stand to lose you, Chanse. You are the future of this kingdom—this family.”
Chanse turned away, running a hand through his curls. “So what, then? Do you plan to lock me away in some tower until they grow tired of trying?”
“Not a tower,” Amanda said, quiet but resolute. “There is a sanctuary—a hidden community, far from the reach of our enemies—in the Barrenlands up north. You’ll stay there until it’s safe to return.”
“You can’t be serious,” he retorted. Shayne watched the shades of disbelief, frustration, and perhaps even betrayal flicker through his burning eyes. His chest tightened.
The Queen sighed softly, taking the prince’s hands into hers. “This is something I have been preparing for since the moment you were born, Chanse. It is my duty both as your Queen and as your mother to protect you. Now, I wasn’t planning on sending you there until you were much closer to your coronation, but with these attacks growing more and more frequent, I don’t think we have that much time. You aren’t safe here anymore.”
Chanse’s brows furrowed, refusal embedded on his tongue. “And who will accompany me? A battalion of guards? That won’t exactly keep me inconspicuous.”
“No,” Amanda said, her gaze slowly shifting to Shayne. “He will.”
The severity of her words landed squarely on Shayne’s shoulders. He stiffened, suppressing his initial hesitation. “Your Majesty—”
“You are the only one I trust with this, Shayne,” she continued, cutting him off. “You’ve proven your loyalty and skill time and again. If anyone can keep my son alive, it’s you.”
Chanse’s eyes narrowed, and he let out a bitter laugh as he pulled away and shook his head. “Mother, this is absurd. I am more than capable of handling myself here; I don’t want to be shipped away like I’m some fragile artefact collecting interest. Shayne may be an excellent knight, but—”
“Chanse.”
“—you aren’t listening to me! Let me help!”
“Chanse, this is not up for debate,” Her Majesty said, her tone brooking no argument. “You will leave tomorrow at dawn.”
The finality in the Queen’s words left the study steeped in silence. Chanse’s jaw clicked, his shoulders rigid and his fury radiating in waves, but he said nothing further. Without so much as another glance, he stormed out of the room with a harsh slam of the door, leaving Shayne and the Queen in his wake.
Escorting the prince across territory as treacherous as the Barrenlands was a task he wouldn’t take lightly. But the idea of being alone with Chanse, solely responsible for his survival, dealing with his sharp tongue and stubbornness—it was a challenge he hadn’t anticipated. Still, he had sworn under the sword all those years ago to fulfil his responsibilities as a knight of Amakiir, and he wasn’t going to change his mind now—not when the stakes were so high.
Shayne bowed deeply. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
Amanda’s gaze lingered on the door, her expression clouded with a concoction of worry and resolution. After a moment, she murmured, “Protect him, Shayne. No matter the cost.”
“As always,” he replied.
He followed the prince into the dim corridor, the tension between them palpable. Shayne quickly fell into step beside Chanse, but he was only met with unbearable silence. The discontent practically sparked from Chanse’s body, jolts of rage flinching from his shaking fists. Finally, Shayne spoke.
“I know you’re upset—”
“Upset?” Chanse challenged, his voice low but biting. “My life is being stripped from me, piece by piece, and you think this is about me being upset? I am being carted off to the other side of the western isles like a helpless child, while my people are left here like sitting ducks as our enemies tear into our kingdom.”
“My duty is to keep you alive, Your Highness,” Shayne said evenly. “Whether you approve or not.”
Chanse abruptly stopped in his tracks, facing Shayne with spiteful contempt. “Well, I don’t. And I’ll make one thing clear, Shayne: just because you’re tasked with protecting me doesn’t mean you get to control me.”
Then, he turned on his heel and stormed up the staircase, leaving Shayne standing alone.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Tomorrow would bring a storm of new trials. For now, he needed to rest.