A Royal Obligation
Chapter 252: Red Handed

Chapter 252: Red Handed

Drystan lay sprawled on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer some answers, though his mind refused to quiet. Each passing second felt heavier than the last, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him like an unseen force.

The room, though silent, seemed alive with memories and ghosts of the past. The faint creak of the window swaying in the night breeze blended with the echoes in his head, memories of Sadiki, Carl, and everything else he had lost. They circled him relentlessly, like vultures over a carcass, refusing to let him rest. The stillness felt suffocating. Sleep wasn’t just elusive, it was impossible.

With a frustrated sigh, he sat up abruptly, running his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to ground himself. The tension in his chest only grew, refusing to loosen its grip.

There was no solace to be found, no reprieve from the storm raging inside him. Rising from the bed, he moved to the desk, lighting a second lantern to chase away the oppressive shadows lingering in the corners.

The warm glow spilled across the cluttered surface, illuminating a neglected stack of maps, old scrolls, and notes marked with hasty sketches and scribbles.

Drystan pulled one of the maps free and spread it across the desk. His eyes scanned the well-worn lines of familiar terrain, following the routes with practiced precision. His fingers lingered on the borderlands, the last place Prince Carl had been seen, a treacherous region of dense forests, craggy cliffs, and narrow mountain passes.

Drystan’s fingers traced the winding paths etched into the map, his jaw tightening. His thoughts churned, a tangled storm of anger, regret. If Carl thought he could slip from him, he was mistaken.

Hours seemed to slip by unnoticed as he stared at the map, lost in his own internal battle. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he blew out the lantern and turned back toward the bed. The mattress felt cold as he lay down once more, his gaze shifting to the window.

"Wait for me," he murmured into the quiet, his voice barely more than a whisper. It was a promise, though whether it was meant for Carl, for Sadiki, or for himself, he wasn’t certain.

---

The faint light of dawn spilled into the room, illuminating Drystan’s face as he stirred from restless sleep. He sat up abruptly, his mind already racing. Today was the day. Carl’s time was running out.

He splashed cold water on his face from the basin near the desk, the chill shocking him fully awake. As he strapped on his armor, piece by piece, the weight of his mission settled heavily on his shoulders. He tied his sword belt securely and glanced at the map on the desk one last time. It was ingrained in his memory now, he knew exactly where he was headed.

A knock at the door broke his focus. This time, it was a palace guard.

"Sir Drystan, the men are assembled and awaiting your command," the guard informed him with a crisp salute.

Drystan nodded, his expression resolute. "I’ll be there shortly."

As the guard turned to leave, Drystan caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the basin. For a brief moment, he hesitated, his own eyes staring back at him, shadowed by the weight of guilt and determination.

The training yard buzzed with quiet activity when Drystan arrived. Rows of Zephyros warriors stood at attention, their armor gleaming in the morning sun. These men and women were the finest the kingdom had to offer, handpicked for their loyalty and skill. Among them were the famed Warcrest Seintel, known for their unmatched tracking abilities.

General Alaric stood near the front, his stern expression softening slightly when he saw Drystan approach. "You’re late," Alaric said, though there was a hint of teasing in his tone.

Drystan smirked faintly. "Just making sure I’m ready to lead your best into battle, General."

Alaric chuckled, clasping Drystan’s shoulder briefly. "They’re eager to follow you. I’ve already briefed them on the mission, but they’ll be looking to you for leadership."

Drystan turned to the assembled warriors, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. "We leave immediately," he announced, his voice strong and steady. "Our target is Prince Carl. He’s on the run, but he won’t get far. Not with us on his trail."

The warriors saluted in unison, their resolve palpable. Drystan mounted his horse, the leather creaking under him as he gripped the reins. Alaric handed him a small sealed pouch.

"This contains a secondary set of orders," Alaric explained in a low voice. "Directly from King Reagan. You’re to open it only if necessary."

Drystan frowned slightly but tucked the pouch into his saddlebag without question. "Understood."

Alaric stepped back, watching as Drystan and the warriors began to move out. The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed through the palace gates, a sound that carried with it a sense of purpose and determination.

As their silhouettes faded into the horizon, a male palace staff, concealed behind a tall marble pillar near the courtyard, stepped further into the shadows. His sharp, calculating gaze followed their departure with an intensity that betrayed more than mere curiosity.

The man, Jareth, was of medium height with a wiry frame that made him unassuming among the bustling palace staff. His sunken eyes darted nervously, and the faint stubble on his chin suggested sleepless nights.

Clad in a simple brown tunic and trousers, he blended easily into the background, a quality that had served him well in carrying out covert tasks unnoticed. But tonight, his movements were more purposeful than usual.

Once the last trace of Drystan and his warriors disappeared over the horizon, Jareth turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the servants’ quarters. He moved briskly but carefully, his leather boots making muted thuds on the stone paths. Arriving at the quarters, he pushed the creaky wooden door open, his eyes darting left and right to ensure no one was watching.

Inside, the dimly lit space smelled faintly of damp wood and hay. Jareth rummaged through a small chest at the foot of a narrow cot, pulling out a neatly rolled piece of parchment and a vial of ink. With quick, practiced movements, he scribbled something onto the parchment before rolling it up and securing it with a thin string. He tucked the letter into his pocket, straightened his tunic, and slipped out of the quarters as quietly as he had entered.

Jareth made his way toward the edge of the forest at the back of the palace grounds, his steps hurried yet measured. The dense trees loomed ahead, their silhouettes dark and foreboding under the fading light of dusk. He glanced over his shoulder several times, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with a sense of unease.

Upon reaching a small clearing surrounded by thick bushes, Jareth let out a sharp, low whistle. A few moments later, a hawk descended from the canopy above, its dark feathers glinting faintly in the twilight. The bird landed gracefully on his outstretched arm, its piercing golden eyes staring at him with an almost uncanny awareness.

"Good girl," Jareth murmured, his voice a mixture of nerves and urgency. He fumbled in his pocket, retrieving the rolled parchment and securing it to the hawk’s leg with trembling fingers.

Just as he whispered a command to the bird, a sharp twang echoed through the forest. In an instant, the hawk screeched and fell to the ground, an arrow piercing its side. Jareth froze, his heart lurching in his chest as his eyes darted toward the direction of the shot.

Emerging from the shadows, General Alaric stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the dying light. Behind him stood an archer, bow still in hand, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Well, well," Alaric drawled, his tone mockingly casual. "Out for a stroll, Jareth? Or should I say, out on treacherous business?"

Jareth’s face drained of color as sweat beaded on his forehead. He took an instinctive step back, but the archer raised his bow again, nocking another arrow with ease.

"Going somewhere?" the archer taunted, his voice laced with amusement.

"I–I was just..." Jareth stammered, his eyes darting around desperately for an escape route.

Alaric’s smirk widened as he raised his sword, the sharp edge gleaming ominously. "Save your excuses for the dungeon," he said coldly. "You and I are going to have a very enlightening conversation."

Panicked, Jareth tried to turn and run, but Alaric was faster. With a swift motion, the general stepped forward and pressed the flat of his blade against Jareth’s chest, forcing him to halt. The archer moved to block the only other exit from the clearing.

Jareth’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground, his hands trembling as he raised them in surrender. "Please! I didn’t mean..."

"Didn’t mean to send a letter to our enemies? Didn’t mean to betray the crown?" Alaric’s voice was low and venomous, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You’ve been caught red-handed, Jareth. There’s no use pretending."