The Prince's Script

Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Shadows in the Court

The hiss grew louder, the iron lock bubbling into a molten, blackened ruin. Kirun scrambled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic bird. He didn’t reach for the tainted sword; he grabbed a heavy metal candelabra instead.

"Who’s out there?" Kirun shouted, his voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in his veins. "If you’re looking for a tip, the service here is non-existent."

"Still mouthy, aren't we?" A voice drifted through the door—smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly familiar. "I expected you to be blind and screaming by now, Kirun. The craftsmanship on that hilt was supposed to be flawless."

Kirun’s blood turned to ice. "Rajasa? You’ve been busy. Did you pick up locksmithing between brewing poison and failing to assassinate me?"

"I’ve picked up a great many things," Rajasa chuckled, the lock finally giving way with a metallic snap. "Including a deep, abiding hatred for your survival instincts."

Kirun kicked the chair toward the door as it swung open. Rajasa stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space with the clinical detachment of a butcher. He held a slender, weighted garrote in his gloved hands.

"You’re early for my funeral, Rajasa. Or did you just miss the sound of my voice?" Kirun asked, circling the room to keep the desk between them.

"I missed the sound of your silence," Rajasa replied, his eyes narrowing. "Where is the sword, Prince? Don't tell me you figured it out. You were never the observant type."

"Maybe I’ve had a change of heart," Kirun said, feigning a relaxed shrug. "Or maybe I just don't like getting acid in my eyes. It ruins the complexion."

Rajasa twitched, stepping closer. "You aren't Kirun. The Kirun I served for ten years would have been dead three chapters ago. Who are you?"

"I’m the guy who’s tired of your lackluster service, Rajasa," Kirun snapped, eyes darting to the floor. "And for the record, your taste in weapons is incredibly dated. Garrotes? Really? How very nineteenth-century."

"It’s effective," Rajasa retorted, lunging.

Kirun ducked, the wire whistling over his head. He didn't hesitate; he shoved the heavy mahogany desk toward the servant. Rajasa stumbled, his boot catching on the uneven stone, and Kirun seized the opening.

"Effective? Tell that to the floor," Kirun quipped, swinging the candelabra with a guttural roar.

He caught Rajasa in the ribs. The man wheezed, falling back against the wall, but he didn't go down. He swiped at Kirun’s ankle, nearly tripping him.

"You think this is a game?" Rajasa hissed, blood trickling from his lip. "You’re a pawn, boy. A disposable, temporary variable in a much larger equation."

"Equation? Sounds like math," Kirun countered, keeping his distance. "I was always better at history. Let’s talk about your employer. Who paid for the fancy, acid-laced training sword?"

"Ask the walls," Rajasa spat. "They hear more than I ever will."

"You’re loyal to a fault, aren't you?" Kirun stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Too bad your loyalty is to a ghost. The Duke? The Princess? Or maybe someone a bit closer to the throne?"

Rajasa’s expression flickered. A crack in the mask. "They’re all going to feed you to the hounds, Kirun. I’m just trying to make it quick."

"I’ll take my chances," Kirun said, circling around. "But you’re coming with me to the dungeons. I have some questions about your pension plan."

"You’re going to be a martyr by lunch," Rajasa laughed, a hollow, rattling sound. "And I? I’m just the cleanup crew."

Before Kirun could lunge, a shadow detached itself from the alcove behind him. A heavy boot connected with the back of his knee, sending him crashing to his knees. A cold, steel blade slid under his chin, pulling his head back until his spine screamed.

"I wouldn't," a voice whispered in his ear—the voice of the High Advisor, Lord Wahid. "Rajasa is such a clumsy boy, but he does provide excellent entertainment."

Kirun squinted up at the man. Wahid’s face was a mask of cold, political indifference, his fingers steady as he pressed the razor-sharp edge into Kirun's skin.

"Lord Wahid," Kirun rasped, feeling the warmth of a thin trickle of blood. "Did you come to offer me a promotion, or are you just here to watch the cleanup?"

"I’m here to close the loop," Wahid purred, his eyes scanning the room. "You’ve caused quite the stir, Kirun. But the play has reached its final act, and the audience is getting bored."

"And the plot?" Kirun asked, his heart hammering against his chest. "Does the protagonist survive, or do you just write him out of the script?"

Wahid leaned closer, the smell of lavender and cold iron filling Kirun’s senses. "In this kingdom, the protagonist is whoever remains standing once the ink dries. And you, my dear boy, are currently running out of pages."

"I think I’ve got a few lines left," Kirun muttered, his hand inching toward his belt.

"Don't," Wahid warned, the blade deepening its bite. "The diary isn't here to save you, and your brother is currently occupied with a very inconvenient fire in the armory."

"A fire?" Kirun’s pulse quickened. "Valerius?"

"He always had a flair for the dramatic," Wahid smiled. "Which makes his funeral all the more predictable. Now, tell me... who really told you to check that sword?"

Kirun stared into Wahid’s cold, dead eyes, the knife at his throat buzzing with the threat of death. He smiled, a jagged, broken grin.

"I’d tell you, Wahid," Kirun whispered, his breath hitching as the metal pressed harder. "But I think you’d prefer to see for yourself."

Suddenly, the floor beneath them shuddered. A deafening crash echoed from the hallway, followed by the sound of splintering stone. The wall behind Wahid exploded inward, clouds of dust and debris filling the room.

Through the haze, a figure emerged, blade drawn, eyes burning with a violet, unnatural light.

"He’s mine, Advisor," Sartika’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a guillotine.

Wahid didn't flinch, his hand remaining locked on Kirun’s throat. "Sartika. You’re late for the execution."

"I’m exactly on time for the end of your tenure," she replied, raising her rapier to his chest.

Kirun felt the grip on his neck slacken for a split second. It was all he needed. He shoved his elbow back into Wahid’s stomach, dropping to the floor just as the steel arc of Sartika’s blade whistled over his head.

"Run, Kirun!" Sartika commanded, her focus fixed entirely on the Advisor.

Kirun didn't look back. He bolted for the door, his side screaming in protest, the scent of smoke and iron clinging to his skin. He hit the corridor, his eyes searching the darkness for a way out, but his feet stopped dead.

Standing in his path, holding a familiar, leather-bound book, was a man with his own face.

The real Kirun looked up, his expression one of bored, cold apathy. He closed the diary, the last page glowing with a blinding, terrifying crimson light.

"You’re late," the Prince whispered, holding out a hand. "The ritual is waiting."