The masked figure lunged.
Clara stepped back, nearly losing her footing on the stone stairs. The lantern crashed to the ground, plunging them into near darkness.
Alaric drew his sword in one swift motion, meeting the assassin's blade with a sharp clang.
"You're not touching her," he growled.
The masked figure was quick—too quick. Their movements were smooth, trained. This wasn't a common thug. This was a royal-class killer.
Clara scrambled to the wall, her fingers brushing cold stone until she found a rusted sconce. She yanked it—click—and a faint torch lit on the far side of the chamber.
Enough to see.
Enough to fight.
Alaric blocked a strike to his chest and countered, blade slicing the figure's side. Blood bloomed through the assassin's black shirt, but they didn't make a sound.
They just...smiled.
"You'll regret protecting her, Your Highness," the assassin hissed. "The truth won't save you. It'll bury you."
Alaric's expression turned ice cold. "Then we bury them first."
With a final shove, he slammed the attacker against the archive shelves. Scrolls rained down like leaves. The assassin vanished in the chaos, darting through a hidden exit.
Gone.
But not before dropping a single gold pin.
Clara picked it up slowly.
A hawk with ruby eyes.
Her breath caught.
"…This is the Chancellor's seal."
Back in her chambers, Clara pressed a cold cloth to her temple. Her hands still shook.
Elise sat close by, pale. "They sent an assassin. That means...they're scared."
Clara nodded. "We've rattled them."
She opened her journal and tucked the hawk pin inside. Next to it, she added the names: Chancellor Varrick. Cedric Thorne.
Her enemies were revealing themselves.
But she needed allies.
Real ones.
The next morning, Clara stood in the palace gardens in full view of the noble court.
Her dress was plain. Her posture was not.
She held the ancient record book high, her voice steady.
"This kingdom erased my mother. Labeled her a traitor. But the truth is right here. She was silenced—because she saw what the crown was becoming."
Gasps spread through the crowd.
"She was Lady Evelyn Whitmore. And I am her daughter."
Silence.
Then—
"You've just signed your own death sentence," a cold voice said.
Cedric Thorne.
He stepped forward from the shadows of the court, a scroll in his hand.
"I hereby request a formal trial by council," he said smoothly. "Let the nobles decide if you're worthy of the crown's trust—or the gallows."
Clara didn't flinch.
"If truth is the crime, then let them judge me," she replied. "But this time, I'll speak for myself."
She turned, meeting Alaric's eyes across the courtyard.
He gave a slight nod.
She wasn't alone anymore.
[ To be continued…]