Page 72
From the high, shadowed windows of the trade arcade across the square, two heavy black-iron canisters fly through the twilight, striking the stone balustrade with a loud, metallic clatter. Their lit fuses spark for a second before the canisters detonate in a blinding flash of orange fire and thick sulfur smoke. The shockwave shatters the stone railing, sending jagged shrapnel through the air and throwing the vanguards against the ground.
Cael moves with desperate precision. He does not look toward the fire or his guards. Throwing his frame over Elara, he locks her against his chest, using the wool folds of his dark gray coat to shield her from the blast and falling debris.
Knights shout. Fleeing people scream. Smoke clogs the air, filling Elara's lungs. Guards protect the royal family, but Elara focuses on the man shielding her body with his own.
By the corner of Elara’s eyes as the smoke fades, she can make out a familiar tall knight. His hair black, skin sun-kissed with a black cloth draped over his mouth. He is far in the distance, hazel eyes deep. Suddenly, she coughs and blinks her eyes rapidly, burning from the heavy material.
Cael cradles her face, his gaze searching her for injuries. Seeing none, he pulls her to her feet, guiding her frame to the guards who rush the family back toward the castle. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure Cael remains close behind her, her eyes land on another figure. Standing in the middle of the chaos, his gaze fixed on her retreating form, is the knight from the garden, black fabric draped over his mouth.
“Cael,” she reaches for him. “Cael, I saw—”
She cuts off when Cael shakes his head, pressing his palm against her lower back to urge her to run.
Guards sprint across the courtyard, barking orders to secure the perimeter while helping the scattered citizens away from the smoke. Medics tend to the fallen on the stone steps, binding wounds and clearing the pathways. Once the initial panic subsides and the courtyard achieves a guarded stability, the focus shifts inside the secure hall.
“Your Majesty! Your Highness!” Two knights rush toward them, breathing heavily. “The border guards are injured, though not dead. They are weak, unable to support themselves.”
The other knight assists his words, the details of the breach unfolding. “Someone forced a passage past the gates prior to the attack. We lack certainty regarding the identity, but the remaining guards and knights will search Riverath to the limits of our strength.” She clears her throat. “No physical evidence remains behind to identify who penetrated the perimeter and harmed the guards.”
Far behind, knights assist the injured guards by using their own strength as support. A few carry the fallen, while others use the steeds to bear the wounded. Each one has crimson dripping off their shield and clothes onto the fresh, polished green grass.
“Let us return,” Kaera says, her arms holding King Raelith with desperation while he continues coughing, gasping for air. Tears stream down her cheeks. “Father, please.”
Queen Maereth presses her hands onto his shoulders, her concern a vulnerable display. “Dear?” Her voice trembles, her eyes widening while his face turns red. “Someone escort us back!”
The horses remain near the anxious circle of the wounded and their companions. The white steed nudges her nose against Cael to ensure he is well. Cael brings his trembling hand to settle on her nose. Kaera stands beside him, stabilizing her frame while she hugs her brown steed close. “You are alright,” she whispers.
Elara swallows the bile rising at the back of her throat, hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. She cannot panic now. People watch their movements. She shifts closer to Cael, both to maintain the facade of unity and because his proximity calms her frame.
Cael turns toward her, the unreadable depth in his eyes shifting into clarity. His hands catch her by surprise as he hooks them beneath her arms and lifts her effortlessly. Elara has no time to protest before he places her gently onto the saddle of his horse. His touch is an unvoiced reassurance that anchors her spinning thoughts before she can even grasp the edge of the ledger.
Leaving her secured, Cael shifts toward his father. While the knights establish a defensive perimeter to manage the heavy crowd, Cael steps between them, sliding his broad shoulder beneath King Raelith’s arm to hoist him onto his own mount.
Queen Maereth watches the display from her own saddle, her jaw locking so tightly the muscles along her throat strain. The insults and anger she forces herself to hold back are evident, her calculating eyes darting from her stepson’s capabilities to the silent, watching crowd.
Cael avoids her.
Turning toward Kaera, who is struggling to stabilize her footing against her stirrup, he extends his bare hand and gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She offers a nod in return, keeping her composure intact despite the tears still marking her cheeks.
The horses break into a synchronized stride back toward the upper fortress gates. Hartwell rides ahead, his posture tense and his hands gripping his reins. Throughout the entire ride back, Cael sits directly behind Elara. He leaves no distance between them, his chest pressing against her back.
Every time the horse adjusts its footing on the steep stone paths, Cael’s body absorbs the movement, keeping her securely against him. Elara’s eyes remain ahead, terrified. Just when she expected this new kingdom to be freer, more peaceful, filled with genuine people, everything had turned horrendous. She wonders whether living in such a harsh community, beneath the appearance of great care, is truly better than remaining locked within her father’s castle, spared from such roles and dangers. Her father’s negligence towards her is better than what is happening now.
The moment they burst through the palace gates, the main courtyard floods with movement while household staff, gardeners, nurses, and servants from both wings rush toward the royal family. Elara finds Asma, Celestia, and Claire near the interior garden arches, stepping away from the soil and flowers to watch their appearance of stained skin and uneven breathing.
Cael does not wait for the servants to intervene. His hands grasp her waist, and he lifts her from the saddle before lowering her onto the stone floor of the courtyard. Keeping his palms on her upper arms, he scans the white and pink floral dress for tears or blood. His fingers shake, a tremor betraying his internal terror while he lifts her hands, turning her bare palms over beneath the daylight to ensure no crimson marks her skin. He offers a gesture to the approaching nurses, waving his hand to command them to bring items to heal her.
Nearby, knights deploy with a wooden litter, lifting King Raelith to transfer him past the palace thresholds. They carry him through the grand entryways and into the safety of the lower hall to escape the smoke. Turning from the crowded courtyard, Cael maintains a firm grip on her arm to guide her dazed demeanor away from where the physicians surround his coughing father. He leads her on foot past the threshold and down a quieter, adjoining stone corridor, away from the roaring panic of the main hall, until he pushes open the heavy oak doors of the palace infirmary.
Inside the vestibule, the staff scrambles to attend to the incoming wounded. “Your Majesty! Please, lay him here!” an old nurse cries out, her hands trembling while she helps guide the king onto a cushioned cot, her voice breaking with distress. Hartwell accompanies them, ignoring his own steed while he slips off the saddle outside. “Bring the warm tonics! There are more who are struck!”
One of the nurses rushes toward Elara, her eyes landing on her fingers and her stained dress. “Your Highness, are your hands burned?” A young kitchen servant approaches Elara’s side, her eyes wide with worry while she reaches out to steady her arm. “Princess, are you harmed? Did the shrapnel reach you?”
The rapid questions only fuel the illness coiling in her throat. She shakes her head, her voice trapped inside her throat while she looks at the surrounding staff, realizing that despite the hatred of the outer marketplace, these inner walls hold the protective loyalty of people who care.
Cael maintains a firm grip on her arm to guide her dazed demeanor up the stone steps of the palace. His knuckles turn white against her sleeve, his frame tensing with the effort to remain her support. They pass through the entrance and cross the expanse of the grand hall where the physicians surround his coughing father. Steering her past the initial crowd, he leads her down an adjoining stone corridor until he pushes open the doors of the palace infirmary.
Two elderly nurses follow them inside, their arms laden with fresh linens, water basins, and jars of soothing winter green salve. Cael does not retreat to his own quarters, nor does he allow the servants to tend to his own dirt-stained tunic.
