Chapter Text
The festival was in glorious, unapologetic full swing.
Bright banners snapped and fluttered in the warm Mallorcan breeze — scarlet, sapphire and molten gold — strung high between mock-stone turrets that gleamed almost too brightly beneath the afternoon sun. Music rang through the air in jubilant waves: shrill medieval pipes trilling over the deep, thudding heartbeat of drums, their rhythm weaving through the excited chatter of families, the lilting laughter of tourists, and the high, breathless squeals of children darting between stalls with sticky fingers and shining eyes.
Everywhere, colour.
Everywhere, noise.
Everywhere, movement.
Actors swept through the crowds in lavish costume, cloaks billowing, boots striking the packed earth with theatrical purpose. Not one of them broke character — not for raised phones, not for shouted greetings, not even when a toddler nearly became entangled in the trailing hem of a knight’s cape.
“Make way, good folk, make way!” boomed a burly guard, thumping the haft of his halberd against the ground with exaggerated authority. “The noble court of His Majesty approaches! Clear the path, lest ye be trampled by destiny itself!”
A ripple of delighted laughter followed him.
Two ladies-in-waiting glided past in a rustle of silk and lace, chins lifted regally as they whispered loudly enough for half the crowd to hear.
“I heard the prince was seen with a milkmaid—”
“Again?”
“Scandalous, truly. Positively unroyal.”
They shook their heads in perfect synchronisation, scandal and amusement dancing in their eyes.
At the stalls, the vendors were just as committed to the illusion.
“Enchanted amulets, blessed by moonlight and maiden’s tears!” cried one, flourishing glittering glass pendants that caught the sun and scattered it into tiny rainbows. “Guaranteed to ward off heartbreak, curses and dreadful in-laws!”
Nearby, another stallholder sloshed vibrantly coloured liquids in corked bottles with dramatic flair.
“Potions of courage! Potions of love! Potions of excellent hair days!” he proclaimed, winking shamelessly at a blushing couple. “Two for one, if thou darest to risk romance!”
The scent of roasting meat drifted thick and mouth-watering through the air, mingling with the sweetness of sugared almonds and warm spiced pastries. Smoke curled lazily above sizzling grills, clinging to clothes and hair, wrapping the entire festival in a heady, comforting haze. It was warm and crowded and intoxicating — the sort of place where it was dangerously easy to forget that the modern world existed at all.
Above it all, the castle loomed.
Restored and magnificent, its towers rose over the grounds like silent sentinels, beautiful and faintly eerie in equal measure, their shadow stretching across the fair in long, creeping fingers. Even dressed in bunting and banners, it carried a gravity that made the laughter below feel somehow smaller… more fragile.
Then, above the music and chatter, a trumpet blared.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The crowd began to shift instinctively, excitement rippling through them like a living thing as people were gently funnelled towards the central arena. A grand wooden stage rose ahead, framed by painted battlements and swathed in royal purple. Torches flickered dramatically at each corner despite the bright sunlight, because subtlety, clearly, was not part of today’s programme.
The announcer strode forward, resplendent in velvet doublet and a ludicrously feathered hat, arms flung wide as though personally embracing every single soul present.
“Good people of the realm!” he thundered, voice booming with joyous authority. “Pray, still thy chatter and ready thy hearts, for thou standest upon the brink of legend!”
Drums rolled — low now, ominous, vibrating through the wooden benches and into the soles of feet.
“Today, we bear witness to loyalty tested… to honour betrayed… to the tragic clash of brother against brother in the most infamous tale our kingdom has ever known!”
Gasps and delighted murmurs rippled through the audience.
“The legendary betrayal scene!”
Cheers erupted. Children bounced on their toes. Phones rose in eager unison, recording, capturing, preserving the moment. From opposite sides of the arena, armoured figures emerged.
From the left, one knight strode forward with easy, swaggering confidence, sword resting casually against his shoulder as he acknowledged the crowd with a cocky tilt of his head. Sunlight gleamed along the polished steel of his armour, turning him into something almost heroic, almost impossibly perfect. He soaked in the applause, flashing a grin that drew another wave of cheers.
From the right, his opponent advanced more slowly. His posture was rigid, movements precise, each step measured and heavy, as though he carried the weight of an entire kingdom upon his shoulders. His gaze never left the man opposite him, jaw clenched, expression carved from pure, simmering fury.
The announcer’s voice dropped, rich with theatrical gravity.
“Once brothers in arms… now mortal enemies. Their blades shall decide the fate of the crown!”
The music swelled, strings shrieking, drums pounding harder and faster. The knights circled, boots crunching against the earth, steel whispering softly as swords were drawn. The crowd leaned forward as one. Laughter. Cheers. Breathless anticipation. No one suspected that anything could exist here except spectacle and make-believe. For now, it was only pageantry and bravado and beautifully staged illusion. A fairytale, unfolding beneath the blazing Mallorcan sun.
***
Backstage was a world away from the glittering fantasy outside.
Behind the painted battlements and flowing banners, the air was thick with sweat, metal and nerves. The canvas of the tent trapped the heat, turning every breath heavy and close. Costumes lay strewn across battered benches — velvet sleeves tangled with chainmail, plumes shedding feathers onto the dusty floor — while half-drunk bottles of water and abandoned goblets of fake mead cluttered every available surface.
Actors paced.
Armour creaked and clinked as performers tugged at straps and buckles, muttering lines beneath their breath, running through choreography with phantom blades slicing the air in sharp, nervous arcs. Somewhere, someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere else, someone swore under their breath as a clasp refused to fasten.
At the far end of the tent, Sir Lucas — hero of the hour and painfully aware of it — stood before a narrow mirror, polishing an already spotless gauntlet with exaggerated care. He adjusted his plume, tilted his head, admired the angle of his jaw.
“Packed house again,” he announced, voice pitched to carry. He didn’t bother to look at anyone in particular. “Told you the betrayal scene would draw them in. They come for the drama.” A beat. A grin. “They come for me.”
A couple of younger actors laughed obligingly, eager and a little nervous.
Near the weapons rack, Tomas — today’s designated traitor — tightened the strap of his breastplate, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. The leather creaked under his grip. He said nothing, but his knuckles had gone white around the buckle.
Lucas finally turned, smirk already in place.
“Try not to miss your cue this time, yeah?” he said lightly. “Wouldn’t want the audience thinking the villain can’t keep up.”
Tomas’s eyes flicked up, dark and sharp.
“I hit my marks.”
“Eventually,” Lucas replied, breezily. “After I had to improvise half the scene.”
Something ugly flashed across Tomas’s face — gone almost as soon as it appeared, buried beneath control. From a nearby table, the King — or rather, the man playing him — slouched in his throne-like chair, crown tilted precariously as he drained the last of something amber from a battered flask.
“Ah, youth,” he sighed theatrically. “Always at each other’s throats. In my day, we respected the script.”
Lucas snorted. “In your day, you probably wrote it.”
The King wagged a finger, nearly losing his balance in the process.
“Careful, boy. Regicide never plays well with the critics.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the group — thin, uneasy, the sort that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.
Tomas stepped closer to the weapons rack, selecting his sword with slow, deliberate care. His fingers lingered along the hilt, testing the grip, the weight, the balance. He drew it partway from its sheath, metal whispering softly, then slid it back again.
“Funny,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the blade. “How everyone loves a hero.” His jaw tightened. “But no one cares what happens to the traitor once the curtain falls.”
Lucas rolled his shoulders, stretching like a man about to step into a spotlight he believed belonged to him.
“That’s the job,” he said. “You die so I can save the kingdom. Try not to take it personally.”
Tomas finally looked at him then.
And for a brief, unsettling moment, the hostility was no longer playful, no longer performative. It was real. Raw. Burning just beneath the surface.
The stage manager burst through the tent flap before anyone could speak, clipboard clutched to her chest, headset slipping sideways in her haste.
“Positions, everyone! Duel in two minutes! Remember — big, bold, dramatic. Give them a show!”
As if on cue, Lucas’s expression shifted instantly back into charming bravado.
“Always do,” he said, already moving, cape swishing grandly behind him as he strode towards the exit, soaking up the distant roar of the crowd as though it were already his applause.
Behind him, Tomas followed more slowly.
His expression was calm now.
Too calm.
As he passed the weapons rack, his gaze flicked once more to the remaining swords — then away again, decision already made, whatever it was.
The King struggled to his feet, crown wobbling dangerously.
“To glory, gentlemen,” he declared, lifting his flask in salute. “And may the gods favour the brave.”
One of the men did not return the toast.
He merely adjusted his grip on his sword and stepped into the blaze of sunlight pouring through the tent opening, face carefully schooled into the mask of a loyal knight about to commit a most theatrical betrayal.
Only now, beneath the clashing music and roaring cheers, something darker moved quietly beneath the pageantry.
Waiting.
***
The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, glinting off polished armour and gilded banners as the crowd pressed closer to the central arena, their laughter and cheers surging with the blare of trumpets and the relentless pounding of drums. Heat shimmered above the packed earth, the air thick with the mingled scents of roasting meats, spiced pastries, leather and metal — the perfect theatre of illusion.
On the stage, the two knights faced one another, swords raised, bodies coiled with practised tension.
The traitor prince stood opposite the hero, chest lifted, chin high, eyes blazing with theatrical defiance. Every movement had been rehearsed to the heartbeat, every feint and parry timed to perfection — a deadly dance of make-believe that promised spectacle and guaranteed safety.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, rich and rolling.
“Behold, the final duel of the day! Witness loyalty betrayed and honour torn asunder!”
A ripple of applause swept through the crowd. Children shrieked with delight. Tourists lifted phones. The moment crackled with eager anticipation.
Steel met steel.
Swords clanged with perfect precision, sparks skittering where blades kissed. The hero lunged. The traitor spun away, cape flaring. A dramatic stumble. A desperate parry. Exactly as choreographed.
The traitor prince was meant to fall beautifully — a graceful collapse, a tragic bow to the earth that would earn gasps and then laughter before the victorious knight claimed the crown.
Instead—
The blade drove in far too deep.
A sharp, strangled sound tore from Tomas’s throat, nothing like the rehearsed cry. His body jerked, eyes flying wide, shock written nakedly across his face as steel pierced flesh instead of hidden padding. His footing failed. His fall was ugly, uncontrolled, limbs tangling as he crashed hard against the boards.
The crowd applauded.
Cheers rang out, bright and confident, carried on the music and the lingering belief that this was all part of the show.
Then the blood came.
Not stage-dark and theatrical, but vivid, terrible red, blooming fast across the white of his tunic. It spread beneath him in a slick, shining pool, catching the sunlight like a grotesque mirror. The metallic tang cut viciously through the sweetness of pastries and smoke, sharp and unmistakable.
A child cried, confused.
A woman screamed, clutching at her partner’s arm.
And then, slicing through the music and applause, a panicked whisper burst into a shout—
“That’s not part of the act!”
The drums faltered.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as delight curdled into dawning horror. People froze mid-step, faces draining of colour. Someone knocked over a chair. A horse reared, shrill with alarm, its rider swearing as they fought for control.
On the stage, Tomas sagged, body twitching unnaturally, breath coming in wet, broken gasps. The sword still jutted from his side at a wrong, impossible angle.
The applause died.
Replaced by screams.
A young squire rushed forward, dropping to his knees so hard they struck the boards with a crack. His hands hovered uselessly over the wound, trembling violently.
“Somebody—help!” he shouted, voice cracking, raw with terror. “Please—he’s hurt—he’s really hurt!”
Panic exploded.
Families clutched children. Tourists shoved backwards, eyes wild. Vendors abandoned stalls, trinkets and cups scattering across the ground. The rich festival scents were swallowed by fear and blood and sweat, thick and choking in the heat.
For a heartbeat, some still hesitated — trapped between instinct and disbelief.
A few nervous claps sounded, faltering and wrong, before stuttering into silence as reality finally, brutally, took hold.
Medics broke through the edge of the arena, white coats flashing amid the chaos, voices sharp and urgent as they knelt beside the fallen man. Hands pressed hard against the wound. Someone checked for a pulse.
Too long passed.
A medic shook their head. The truth landed like a physical blow. He was dead. A collective cry rose from the crowd, raw and horrified. Staff screamed for barriers. Horses bolted, dragging panicked riders. The banners snapped violently in the hot wind, casting frantic shadows over the motionless body at the centre of the stage. And already, cameras were pushing forward. Microphones. Flashing lenses. Reporters shouting over one another as the sunlit horror was broadcast to the world. CURSE OF THE CASTLE STRIKES AGAIN. The headline had already been written.
***
Backstage, just beyond the frantic swarm of performers and stagehands, a figure lingered in shadow. Still. Watching. The screams, the blood, the sirens beginning to wail in the distance — none of it seemed to touch him. His eyes tracked the chaos with measured calm, something cold and intent flickering in their depths.
At the corner of his mouth, barely visible. A smile. The laughter that had filled the festival only moments ago was gone, swallowed by terror, and the faint echo of applause still ringing