Blood on the throne

Chapter 3: Shadows in the Maize

The maize field stretched endlessly, its towering stalks rustling in the wind. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the land. It was one of the many farms Shakur claimed as his own, though none were legally acquired. Darius’s influence had made these acquisitions possible, often through coercion or outright theft. The people who once owned these lands had long disappeared, their voices silenced under the weight of royal connections and whispered threats.

In the center of the field stood five figures. Four of them were strangers to this land—hardened men with weathered faces and the cold, detached eyes of those who had seen too much bloodshed. The fifth was Shakur, his stance casual but his expression tense as he addressed the group.

“These are your targets,” Shakur began, holding out a scroll. “This man we’re talking about is dangerous. He’s always armed, even when he sleeps. And his personal guard? Some of the best swordsmen in the kingdom. You’ll need more than brute strength to bring him down.”

The leader of the assassins, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, stepped forward. Jagaban, they called him—a name whispered with equal parts fear and respect in the darker corners of the world. He took the scroll without hesitation, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Leave that for us,” Jagaban said, his voice low and gravelly. “We’ve dealt with kings, generals, and warlords. Your prince will be just another name on our list.”

Jagaban squinted, tilting his head. “And who is this employer? Does he have the coin to pay for what we deliver?”

Shakur hesitated before pulling a small pouch from his cloak. The clink of gold within silenced any further questions. Jagaban took it, inspecting a coin before passing it to his men.

“This is only the first half,” Shakur added, his tone sharpening. “The rest comes when the job is done.”

The other three assassins exchanged glances, their confidence evident. This wasn’t their first time, and it wouldn’t be their last.

“Good,” Shakur said, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed his unease. “You understand that my… employer must remain anonymous. If anyone traces this back to him—”

Jagaban held up a hand, silencing him. “We know how to keep secrets. You just make sure we get paid.”

Shakur nodded, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to emerge from the shadows. “The payment will be waiting as agreed. Just… make sure it’s done cleanly. No mistakes.”

The group dispersed shortly after, slipping into the night like shadows. Shakur lingered a moment longer, staring into the darkness before making his way back to the village.

Confidences in the Library

The grand library was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of parchment and ink. A single candelabra flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across the rows of ancient tomes. Darius sat at a corner table, pretending to be engrossed in a thick volume about Zathrea’s history. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes betrayed his restlessness.

The door creaked open, and Shakur entered, his steps brisk and purposeful. He carried a satisfied grin, his eyes glinting with excitement as he approached.

“What’s the update?” Darius asked, his tone sharp and clipped. He didn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the pages before him.

“All is done,” Shakur replied, sliding into the chair opposite him. “We just have to wait for the information. It will happen, trust me.”

At this, Darius finally lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable. “And they’re trustworthy?”

“Flawless,” Shakur replied. “They’ve never failed a mission.”

Darius leaned back, rubbing his chin. “Lucian is no ordinary target. He’s a seasoned warrior, always surrounded by guards. Even his instincts are sharper than most.”

Shakur waved off the concern. “That’s their problem. They’ve handled worse. Trust me.”

Darius’s voice dropped into a growl. “I don’t trust anyone. Not even you.”

Shakur’s smirk faltered briefly before he leaned forward, his voice softer but firm. “You’ve come this far. Doubt won’t serve you now. Focus on what comes next.”

“And what would that be?” Darius asked bitterly.

Shakur shrugged, his smile returning. “Celebrate. You’re about to be the only prince left.”

Shakur left soon after, his footsteps fading into the halls. Darius remained seated, his fingers lightly tapping the surface of the table. For a moment, he was just a boy again—staring into the reflection of a polished goblet, remembering childhood lessons, stolen moments in the gardens, the rare days Lucian had actually treated him like a brother.

His grip tightened around the goblet, twisting it so hard he almost bent the metal. The past was a ghost, and ghosts had no place in the future.

He stood and walked toward the window, staring into the darkened city. “It has to be done,” he murmured. “It has to be me.”

The Assassins’ Approach

Jagaban and his men moved like wraiths through the outskirts of Zathrea, blending into the night. Dressed as merchants and travelers, they slipped past the city’s gates with ease. The marketplace bustled even at this hour, and no one paid them much attention.

From a shadowed alley, Jagaban watched the palace in the distance, his gaze calculating. “We wait,” he murmured to his men. “We study his movements. And when the time is right, we strike.”

Lucian’s World

In a sunlit garden behind the palace, Lucian sat with his sisters and mother. The space was filled with laughter as the siblings shared stories and teased one another. Queen Elyra watched them fondly, her regal demeanor softened by the warmth of their moment together. It was a rare sight—Lucian, free of armor and duty, simply enjoying the company of family.

“You always smell like iron and sweat,” one of his younger sisters teased, wrinkling her nose.

“Better than smelling like perfume and flowers,” Lucian shot back, grinning.

Their laughter carried through the air, mingling with the gentle rustling of the garden trees. But even as he joked, a shadow lingered in his mind—an unease he couldn’t quite place.

Elyra, ever perceptive, caught the fleeting change in his expression. She raised a hand, silencing the conversation. “Lucian,” she said gently, her voice carrying the weight of her years, “you’ve grown into a fine warrior. But there is more to being a king than strength on the battlefield.”

Lucian leaned back in his chair, his smile fading slightly. “I’ve never cared much for royal parties or council meetings, Mother. The people don’t need a king who sits on a throne and dines with nobles. They need someone who will fight for them.”

Elyra’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her smile remained. “And yet, a king must also lead with wisdom and diplomacy. Wars cannot be won with swords alone, my son.”

Lucian exhaled, his gaze drifting to the horizon. “I don’t care for the crown, Mother. All I want is to protect Zathrea and ensure its people can live in peace.”

His eldest sister, seated beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll make a great king, Lucian,” she said, her voice steady and sincere.

Lucian offered her a small, grateful smile, but deep down, the unease inside him grew. Something was coming. He could feel it.

Elyra reached out, brushing his hair back like she used to when he was a boy. “Just promise me you’ll trust your instincts,” she said. “The throne is not just a responsibility—it’s a burden. And you must be ready for whatever it brings.”

Lucian nodded, but the words weighed heavily on him.

Far beyond the palace walls, hidden within the shadows of the city, men sharpened their blades. Plans were already in motion. And soon, the echoes of laughter in the royal garden would be replaced with something far darker.