The Bastard and the Prince

The group moved as one, the royal knights and Shadow Blades working in practiced silence as they approached Lord Halvard's private quarters in the heart of the manor. Lysandra's movements were fluid and precise, her daggers drawn but held low, her sharp eyes scanning every corner for signs of trouble.

Alaric walked beside her, his sword unsheathed, his every step purposeful. Behind them, Roderic led the Shadow Blades while the royal knights secured the manor's key exits.

As they reached the large oak door of Halvard's quarters, Alaric held up a hand, signaling the group to stop. He turned to Roderic. "Your Blades will ensure no one escapes from the inner hall," he said quietly. "My knights and I will handle Halvard."

Roderic smirked faintly, his scarred face etched with confidence. "Understood. If he tries to run, he won't get far."

Alaric's gaze shifted to Lysandra. "You're with me."

She nodded, her grip tightening on her daggers. "Wouldn't miss it."

The door to Halvard's chambers swung open with a crash, Alaric's armored boot striking it with enough force to rattle the hinges. The room beyond was lavishly appointed, its high ceilings and ornate furnishings a stark contrast to the tension simmering in the air.

Lord Halvard stood near a wide desk laden with papers, his expression a mixture of surprise and thinly veiled anger. "Your Highness," he said smoothly, though the tightness in his voice betrayed his unease. "To what do I owe this intrusion?"

Alaric strode into the room, his sword glinting in the firelight. "To your betrayal," he said coldly. "You are under arrest, Lord Halvard, for conspiring with enemies of Voltaria."

Halvard's face paled slightly, but he held his ground. "Betrayal?" He scoffed, though his hands twitched as if searching for a way out. "This is a grave accusation, Your Highness. I trust you have evidence to support such claims?"

Lysandra stepped forward, her daggers gleaming in her hands, her voice laced with venom. "We do. Shipments, coded letters, and testimony from your own men. We know everything, Halvard. And we know about Selric."

The name struck like a blow, and Halvard's composure cracked for a split second before he recovered. "This is absurd," he spat. "You have no right to barge into my chambers like this. I am a loyal servant of Voltaria!"

"You're a traitor," Alaric countered sharply. "And you'll answer for your crimes in the Voltarian court."

Halvard's eyes darted toward the door, then the windows, desperation flashing across his face. "You don't understand," he said, his voice rising. "I was forced into this—Selric threatened me! If I hadn't cooperated, he would have ruined me."

"You ruined yourself the moment you chose treason," Alaric said coldly. "Knights, take him."

The royal knights stepped forward, their movements precise and unyielding. Halvard recoiled, his hand darting toward a small dagger hidden in the folds of his robe, but before he could act, Lysandra was there.

Her dagger was at his throat in an instant, her voice dangerously soft. "Don't," she warned. "I've been waiting for an excuse to end you."

Halvard froze, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the knights moved to restrain him. The dagger clattered to the floor as his arms were bound tightly behind his back.

As he was dragged past Alaric, the prince's voice carried a final, cutting blow. "You will face justice for what you've done, Halvard. And you will answer for every life you've endangered."

Halvard didn't respond, his head hanging low as the knights led him away.

Once the room cleared, Lysandra stood still, her daggers sheathed but her fingers lingering at her sides, twitching slightly as the tension refused to release. The flickering firelight played tricks on the walls, but it wasn't enough to soften the hard angles of Alaric's face. He stood near the desk, his sword still in hand, his expression taut and grim.

"It's done." he said, his voice steady but low. "Halvard is in custody, and soon his network will unravel."

Lysandra let out a slow breath, her lips curving into a faint smirk, though the weight of the moment pressed against her chest. "One step down," she replied, her voice quiet but edged with her usual dry humor. "A thousand more to go. Selric won't go quietly."

"No, he won't," Alaric said, nodding, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked to her. "But we'll make sure he doesn't have the chance. This is far from over."

She held his gaze longer than she intended, the flicker of determination in his eyes pulling at something she didn't want to examine. His face was lined with tension, his features sharp, but there was something beneath the command—a quiet, unyielding resolve that steadied her in a way she wasn't used to. The prince trusted her, not as a tool, not as a pawn, but as an equal.

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate yet hesitant, and his hand brushed lightly against hers. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt through her, her breath catching for just a moment. He didn't speak immediately, his presence filling the room as the fire crackled softly, its heat brushing against her skin.

"What is it?" she asked, breaking the silence. Her voice was sharper than she intended, a defensive edge creeping into her tone as she fought against the strange, unsettling tension curling in her chest.

For a moment, he didn't respond. His gaze lingered on her, searching her face as if weighing the right words to say. The silence stretched, the only sound the faint popping of the firewood. His hand remained close, but not quite touching hers again, the space between them charged with unspoken meaning.

"It's you," he said finally, his voice low and steady. The simplicity of the statement made her heart skip, though she immediately pushed the reaction down.

"What about me?" she asked, her tone sharper now, a shield against the vulnerability she felt creeping into the moment.

Alaric's gaze didn't waver, his expression steady but softer than she expected. "You see the pieces no one else does," he said quietly, his voice carrying an almost reverent weight. "And you don't give up, even when the odds are stacked against you. You fight, Lysandra, with everything you have. You make it look easy."

The sincerity in his words struck harder than any blade, and for a moment, her carefully constructed defenses faltered. Her lips parted, but the retort she wanted to throw back—the sarcastic quip that would brush it all aside—died in her throat.

"That's because I don't have the luxury of giving up," she replied, her voice quieter now, though a trace of bitterness lingered. "It's survival, Alaric. That's all it is."

"No," he said firmly, stepping closer again. His tone softened, but the conviction in it remained unshakable. "It's more than survival. You see paths no one else does. You make moves no one else can predict. You make the impossible feel possible."

His words settled between them, heavy and undeniable, and Lysandra felt her chest tighten. The way he was looking at her, like she was something more than a weapon, more than a shadow—they made her want to believe him.

"I'm not some hero in this story, Alaric. I'm just trying to make it to the next chapter without getting killed."

His lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. "Maybe you don't see it yet," he said. "But I do."

Lysandra's gaze flicked away, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as if to shield herself from the weight of his words. The sincerity in his voice was too much. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to push past the strange, unsettling tension curling in her chest.

"Enough," she said abruptly, her voice cutting through the thick silence between them. She turned away from him, her movements sharp and deliberate, as if distance could somehow dull the effect he had on her. "Let's look for more evidence."

Alaric didn't move immediately, but she could feel his eyes lingering on her back. The intensity of his gaze seemed to burn through the space between them, making her skin prickle. She hated how aware she was of him, of the way his presence seemed to anchor her even as it unsettled her.

"Lysandra," he said softly, his voice steadier now, but she didn't turn to face him.

"We're not done here, Alaric," she said firmly, her tone regaining its usual edge. "If we're going to take Selric down, we need more than Halvard's confession. We need every piece of evidence we can find."

His sigh was almost imperceptible, but she heard it, felt the tension in the room shift slightly. "You're right," he said finally, his voice calm and measured. "Let's keep moving."

She nodded, her back still to him as she steeled herself, forcing the storm of emotions swirling in her chest into submission. Without waiting for him to say anything further, she moved toward the far side of the room, her sharp eyes scanning the shelves and the scattered papers on Halvard's desk.

Alaric followed, his footsteps deliberate but quieter than usual. Though he said nothing, she could feel the weight of his presence behind her, the unspoken tension between them lingering like a shadow. She focused on the task at hand, pulling open drawers and rifling through documents with practiced precision.