The Grand Melee — Day Three
The field was a sea of steel and fury.
Champions in gleaming armor surged forward, their weapons blunted but still deadly.
The rules were simple: last one standing wins.
Valeris leaned forward slightly on her throne, eyes sharp. She could feel it—
—the wrongness slithering under the surface.
The champion she watched wasn't the strongest.
Wasn't the flashiest.
But he moved like death.
Too perfect for a mere knight of the lower banners.
His lips barely moved as he spoke:
"There. Black surcoat. No sigil. South quarter."
"Alive," she ordered quietly. "I want to know who trained him."
Asher grinned, a wolf's grin.
Leaping from the dais like a hawk.
The crowd roared, thinking it part of the spectacle—Valeris's personal knight entering the fray!
But this was no game.
The fight was brutal.
The black-surat knight sensed Asher instantly, pivoting to meet him with a strike aimed for the throat.
Asher parried smoothly, sliding inside the man's guard—and smashed the pommel of his sword into the knight's helmet.
The man staggered—but recovered too fast.
Poison gleamed faintly along the edge of his blade.
"Definitely an assassin," Asher thought grimly.
They clashed again, a whirlwind of blows, too fast for most spectators to even follow.
The assassin tried to break away toward the dais, toward Valeris.
Asher wouldn't let him.
He drove the man back, step by step, cutting off every retreat.
Finally, in a brutal, perfect movement, he slammed his foot into the assassin's knee—shattering it sideways—and drove his sword hilt-first into the man's throat.
The assassin collapsed, gasping, weapon slipping from nerveless fingers.
Asher kicked the fallen blade away and dragged the man up by his collar.
All around them, the melee slowed.
Fighters lowered their weapons, staring.
Valeris rose to her feet.
And the people saw it: their Queen unshaken. Their Queen victorious.
Later — Deep in the Dungeons of Mimir
The assassin hung from iron chains, stripped of weapons and armor.
Valeris stood before him, Asher beside her.
She crouched low, tilting her head slightly.
The man's mouth twitched. Blood smeared his lips.
Valeris smiled coldly.
"Then tell me anyway."
Asher moved without a word—gripping the assassin's jaw in one hand, forcing his mouth open.
A glimmer of something black nestled in the assassin's mouth.
Foamed black at the lips—and died.
Valeris rose, slow and composed.
"Cowards," she said softly.
Asher stepped back, wiping his gauntlet clean.
"Good," she said. "They should."
But this was only the beginning.
The vial placed at the conspirators' meeting was still out there. If you want to read more chapters, please visit Novel~Fire. (n)et
And the true assassin... the one with the cursed weapon... had not yet made their move.
The real storm was still gathering.
And Valeris and Asher were ready to meet it.
And the steel of sovereigns.
The torchlight outside the dungeon flickered in the growing wind. A storm was building out over the cliffs—a real one this time, heavy with rain and thunder.
Inside the cold stone corridors, Valeris and Asher stood over the dead assassin's body, their silhouettes thrown long against the walls.
A physician rushed in moments later, the old man bowing hastily.
Valeris barely acknowledged him.
"Examine him," she commanded, her voice cutting through the chill. "Find out what poison he carried. Find out if he was marked."
The physician nodded frantically and set to work, muttering incantations under his breath.
Valeris turned away, her gown whispering along the stones.
Asher followed at her side without a word.
They both knew: this had not been the real strike.
This was just the first blow—a warning, a testing of the waters.
The true dagger was still in play.
Word of the attempted assassination spread like wildfire through Mimir by dawn.
Whispers filled the high halls.
Some said it was House Calven.
Others blamed House Verrin, or the exiled cousins of Sarraneth bloodline.
A few suggested foreign agents from beyond the kingdom.
Valeris allowed the rumors to flourish.
She appeared before the court in mourning black—not for the assassin, but for the innocence of the realm now stained by treachery.
She announced an inquiry, summoning all major and minor houses to present oaths of loyalty once again before the throne.
And beneath it all, she watched.
Every trembling voice.
Every secret flicker of hatred.
They could not hide from her.
Behind closed doors, Melina Mimir—the woman who had once been Valeris's sister in this story-world—offered tearful pledges of support.
But even she looked strained, eyes too bright, fingers twisting her handkerchief in tight knots.
Asher stood silent through it all, his mere presence behind Valeris a silent threat.
A reminder: the Queen was not alone.
The courtiers bowed deeper. They lied better. They plotted harder.
Valeris smiled sweetly through it all.
That night, thunder rolled across the mountains, rattling the glass towers of Mimir.
Valeris stood at her balcony, the storm wind tangling her hair, the silk of her night robe clinging to her body. The rain had not yet come, but the air smelled of it—sharp and electric.
Asher leaned against the stone pillar behind her, arms crossed, watching her.
"You're baiting them," he said quietly.
Valeris turned her head, a sharp, gleaming smile on her lips.
"Of course," she said. "Fear makes them move. Panic makes them show their true faces."
The lightning lit her face from below, throwing shadows into the hollows of her cheeks, the depths of her eyes.
Asher pushed off the pillar and crossed the space between them in three long strides.
He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her against his chest.
She leaned back into him with a sigh, closing her eyes.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured into her hair.
"I am the dangerous game," she whispered back, a wicked chuckle in her throat.
He kissed her temple, his hands splaying possessively across her belly.