That day, under the waning glow of the afternoon sun, Belin trained tirelessly with Varek and the guards of Lord Gruhl. The rhythmic clash of swords echoed across the courtyard as sweat dripped from their brows. Each strike and parry were a testament to their discipline, but Belin's mind remained restless, burdened by the weight of unanswered questions.
Suddenly, a guard approached in a hurry, his breath laboured as if he had sprinted from the farthest corner of the land.
"My prince," the guard gasped, struggling to catch his breath. "I saw an Alassin in the tavern. I cannot tell whether he is a mercenary or an assassin."
Belin froze, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. The mention of an Alassin was enough to send a jolt of anticipation through him. It was his chance—perhaps his only chance—to find Liria. Without hesitation, he strode toward the stables, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Your Highness!" Varek called out, breaking into a run behind him.
"Varek, this is my chance to find Liria. I will offer him gold for information," Belin said, his voice firm as he mounted his horse.
Varek's face contorted with worry. "But don't you think it's dangerous, my prince?"
Belin shook his head. "Stay, Varek. If there is any news from Lord Gruhl's men, you must be here to receive it. You're the only one I trust. I can take care of myself."
With a swift pull of the reins, Belin spurred his horse forward. The steed galloped across the castle grounds, kicking up dust as it sped toward the village.
… … …
The village was a stark contrast to the grandeur of Lord Gruhl's castle. Narrow, winding streets were lined with wooden stalls where merchants shouted their prices, and the scent of roasted meat mingled with the damp earth. Belin dismounted near the tavern, his sharp eyes scanning the bustling crowd.
A sudden commotion caught his attention. A young boy darted past him, clutching a half-eaten loaf of bread to his chest. Behind him, a furious vendor brandished a knife, his face red with rage.
"Hey, return my bread, you filthy thief!" the man bellowed.
The boy skidded to a halt as Belin caught his arm, his thin frame trembling beneath the prince's grip.
"You can let go of that little piece of filth," the vendor growled. "I'll give him what he deserves."
Belin slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a coin, tossing it toward the man. "Here, for the trouble he's caused."
The vendor's scowl softened as he snatched the coin from Belin's palm. He examined it, eyes widening. "This is worth more than a loaf of bread."
Belin's lips curled into a smirk. "Then give him what he deserves."
With a reluctant nod, the vendor turned and retrieved two more loaves, thrusting them into the boy's hands before stomping away. The boy's eyes gleamed with gratitude as he clutched the bread.
"Thank you, my lord," he murmured.
Belin nodded. "I was told there's an Alassin in the tavern. Do you know which one?"
The boy hesitated, then nodded eagerly. "Yes, my lord. He's a regular. I can show you."
Belin followed him into the dimly lit tavern. The air was thick with the scent of ale and unwashed bodies, and laughter rumbled from the corners where drunken men slumped over tables. The boy pointed toward a shadowed booth where a man lounged with two women draped over him. He was younger than Belin had expected—perhaps even younger than himself. His dishevelled dark hair and the lazy smirk on his lips suggested he had already indulged in more than his fair share of drink.
Belin stepped forward. "I'm sorry, ladies. Would you mind sharing your master with me?"
One of the women, a sultry blonde, slid closer to Belin, running her fingers across his chest. "Do you need company, my lord? You're handsome, and I don't charge for men like you."
Belin gently pushed her away. "No, thank you."
The Alassin chuckled. "Hush, girls. Leave us for a moment."
The women pouted but obeyed, retreating to another corner. Belin took a seat across from the man, who took a leisurely sip from his tankard.
"So," the mercenary said, his words slightly slurred. "State your business."
"Which one are you? Mercenary or assassin?" Belin asked.
The man grinned. "I'm afraid to disappoint you, but I'm a mercenary. Sorry, I can't kill your enemies."
Belin ignored the jest and placed a pouch of coins on the table. "I'm not here for that. I need information."
The mercenary's eyes gleamed at the sight of gold. "What information?"
Belin leaned in, lowering his voice. "Who ordered the attack on Red Castle?"
The mercenary's grin widened. "Oh, I see. You're the one they're hunting."
He abruptly stood, raising his glass high. "Behold, the prince of—"
Belin lunged forward, yanking the man back into his seat with a forceful grip. "I'll double it if you tell me what I need to know."
The mercenary exhaled heavily, considering the offer. "Alright. Truth is, I don't know much. In Alash, we have rules. Mercenaries don't take assassination jobs, and assassins don't take mercenary work. We don't mingle."
Belin's jaw tightened. "I need to know where my sister is. We got separated in the way. If one of your kind captured her, I need to know."
The man sighed, rubbing his temple. "Come back in three days, same time. I'll have something for you—if you bring the gold."
Belin stood, ready to leave, when the mercenary called after him.
"Wait. I heard it was a high-risk job. Only the most seasoned assassins took part in it. No young ones were involved."
Belin's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He placed a few more coins on the table before walking away, his mind clouded with doubt and worry.
As he stepped into the night, the weight of his kingdom, his sister's fate, and his own uncertain future pressed down on him. The road ahead was dark, but he had no choice but to walk it.