Mira is caught completely off guard by your blunt response. After recomposing, she turns to Elya, and in a jarringly sweet voice, asks, "Dear, what did Arthur Hornraven tell you?"
Elya shoots you a wide-eyed glance, and you can already tell the outcome before it even happens. Elya has been barely holding grief in silence. She hesitates, then opens her mouth to respond. Then, just as you expected, she lets out a small sob as tears run down her cheeks.
Mira turns to you with fire in her eyes. In an ice-cold voice with each syllable drawn out, she states, "You told her."
At this, a new ripple of whispers spreads throughout the spectators, and you become keenly aware of your predicament. Surrounded… your brain provides unhelpfully.
She raises a hand to her face, slowly runs it across, then says to the guardsmen, "Take him back to his guest room."
You can sense the ripple of hesitation that spreads over the guards. Technically, they have no obligation to follow the orders of a queen consort, but know that Mira has incredible sway over King Sobik. Refusing such an order could be bad for them once Sobik returns.
But he won't.
But they don't know that.
None of them do…
Their apprehension melts, and you can only watch as a rough circle of four guards assembles around you, wielding spears and shields. The ring of spectators remains, turning this into what could almost be described as a betting ring. The whispers grow in intensity. Mira pulls Elya off to the side, but stays to watch the show. Elya stands there, still stricken mute from grief.
The guards, while they may accept Mira's orders, aren't happy about it. They approach with such hesitation, it's safe to say that they're terrified of you.
Your blood starts to rush. Adrenaline courses through you. The soldier part of you steadies your mind and makes you focus.
Four guards. Very hesitant. Weapons are spears, flipped around to be non-lethal. Carry themselves with little discipline.
You take a deep breath. And another.
And then…
You drop to one knee, quickly drawing the dagger from its sheath in your shoe. You spin it around in your hand before turning to face the approaching guards.
You catch a flicker of fear in the eyes of one of the older guards. He recognized the very professional flourish you just performed. But the fear is extinguished as he approaches alongside the three others.
Muscle memory kicks in as you raise your weapon. You've no intention of killing the guards, but also have no intention of going down easily. You hold the dagger out almost like a sword, keeping the point forward and a constant threat.
The eldest guard gives a small nod to one of the younger ones, who drops his shield and clutches his spear with both hands. You can tell he isn't happy with being the test subject to prod you. He approaches slowly, nervously glancing at his comrades, who maintain a safe distance from the two of you.
And then he strikes.
Using the blunt end of his spear, he thrusts straight for your head.
You duck and crouch down before unfurling like a serpent's tongue as you dive forward. You crash, shoulder first, into the guard's torso. He stumbles and falls. You quickly seize the advantage and deliver a blow with your dagger's pommel into the side of his helmet.
The crowd audibly cringes as his helmet rings out like a gong. The shock from the blow travels up your arm.
The guard collapses like a marionette cut from its strings, going limp as his spear drops from his hand. His helmet is visibly dented from your assault.
Then disaster strikes you.
As you take a step back to prepare for the next attack, your unfamiliar footwear causes you to misstep.
But it's too late. Your legs slip out from under you, and you fall onto your back, dagger flying from your grip.
The guards are upon you in seconds. Quickly, you roll backwards, pain coursing through you as you take blow after blow from the attackers. Then you brace yourself on your knee, turning your eyes up. You watch as another spear blow arcs down for your head.
You attempt something you've rarely tried in a real combat scenario. You raise your hand up, wrist bent around. The blow lands hard onto your palm, sending shocks of white-hot pain coursing through your hand. Then you close your palm and grip hard, before pulling with as much strength as you can manage.
But the pain is too much. The guard wrenches his weapon, hard. You desperately hold on. All that results in is you being pulled onto the ground, belly down.
Then the predators truly strike. Blows land over and over.
And over.
And over.
And over…
And…
Consciousness fails you…
Next
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Lada sits in the back of the banquet hall, eyes trained upon the man being hauled out, unconscious.
He's a strange case, Lada thinks.
He knows how to dance. But he doesn't know how to dance. It was the way he stiffened uncomfortably at every touch. The way he avoided eye contact throughout the whole thing.
She had heard the rumors of this bastard, of course. She had heard about how paranoid and jumpy he was. But she had also heard the rumors of how skillful he was on the battlefield.
He brought the first one down sound, but then tripped over his own shoes. She smirks. But he still fought and stood up for himself. He still held his ground.
Her eyes follow him until he disappears through the doors.
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