Jerusalem had always been a city of noise — merchants shouting, soldiers drilling, priests chanting — but tonight, the silence was sharp enough to cut.
Roland walked the palace's inner courtyard alone, thoughts still on the hooded messenger's warning. The moonlight spilled over the stone benches, the olive trees, the ornate pillars. Everything looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
A faint hiss cut through the air.
Roland didn't think — he moved.
He twisted aside as a dagger flashed past his neck and buried itself in the wooden column behind him.
Another whisper of wind — another blade.
Roland dropped to the ground, rolled behind a pillar, and drew his sword.
Footsteps.
Soft but precise.
Someone trained.
A figure lunged from the shadows wearing a mask of dark cloth, a curved shortblade in hand.
Roland parried the strike, sparks snapping from steel. The attacker moved quickly — too quickly for a common thug. Every motion was controlled, lethal, as if he'd practiced the kill a thousand times.
"You're council," Roland growled between blows. "Or hired by them."
The attacker said nothing.
But the precision of his strikes told Roland everything.
This wasn't fear.
This was extermination.
Roland angled his blade, took a risk, and stepped into the assassin's swing rather than away from it. The attacker faltered — just a fraction — and Roland caught his wrist, twisted, and slammed him into the courtyard floor.
The mask shifted, revealing sun-browned skin and a thin scar across the cheek.
A former knight.
One of Jerusalem's own.
Roland's grip tightened. "Who sent you?"
The assassin spat blood. "Someone who knows what you are. Someone who won't let a foreigner take the Holy City."
He jerked suddenly — not at Roland, but toward his own belt.
A small flash of metal.
Roland recognized it too late.
A hidden knife.
The assassin stabbed himself through the ribs, collapsing instantly. A suicide guarantee.
Roland knelt slowly beside him. "So it begins."
The Council in Turmoil
By dawn, the palace was bursting with alarm. Guards ran through corridors, nobles argued in every chamber, and rumors spread like wildfire.
Some claimed Saracens were inside the city.
Others whispered demons.
Most blamed Roland.
He stood in the council chamber facing a semicircle of nobles. Some glared at him openly; others seemed shaken.
Eberhardt pointed a trembling finger. "Your arrival has brought nothing but chaos!"
Roland held his ground. "A knight of Jerusalem attempted to kill me. That is not chaos I brought — it is corruption you ignored."
"Enough!" shouted Sir Aldred, stepping forward. "If someone within our ranks hired a killer, then Roland is not the problem — the traitor is."
The bishop spoke last, eyes narrowed with calculation. "This assassination attempt concerns us all. Sir Roland should be given a role in internal investigations. He has proven competent."
The room erupted with mixed shouts.
But Roland heard what mattered:
The bishop had publicly acknowledged him.
A dangerous move.
A powerful one.
Even those who hated Roland now had to consider him a force inside Jerusalem.
The kingdom's balance shifted — not dramatically, but undeniably.
The First Loyalists
Later that day, Roland sat in a stone chamber beside Lucien, reviewing patrol charts and guard rosters spread across the table.
"They hid the assassin well," Lucien muttered. "He's not listed on any active rolls."
Roland nodded. "Whoever hired him has influence. Real influence."
A quiet knock came at the door.
Two young knights entered — both from the training program Roland had reshaped.
"Sir Roland," the taller one said with a steady voice, "word has spread of the attack. We… many of us… wish you to know that we stand with you."
Roland raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"You've improved us," the second knight said. "Made us stronger. You care more for Jerusalem's future than some who sit on the council."
Lucien crossed his arms. "Bold words."
The knight didn't flinch. "Bold times."
Roland held their gaze. "If you stand with me, it will put you in danger. Maybe worse."
"We know," the taller knight said. "But the city grows safer because of you. If someone wants you dead, then someone wants Jerusalem weak."
Roland folded the patrol map slowly, thinking.
He had not asked for followers.
But now, for the first time, he had them.
Not because of titles.
Not because of politics.
But because they believed in his leadership.
A seed planted.
A faction forming.
An Omen at Nightfall
That night, Roland climbed the tower overlooking the Holy City. Lamps flickered in the streets. Distant chanting from churches mingled with the calls from the walls.
Jerusalem was changing — for better, and for worse.
Lucien joined him quietly. "You know this means war, don't you?"
Roland didn't look away from the skyline. "Everything here means war. Every grain shipment. Every council vote. Every training session."
"Yes," Lucien said softly. "But I mean your war. Within Jerusalem."
Roland exhaled slowly.
He had tried to stay small.
He had tried to simply survive.
But survival no longer aligned with reality.
Someone wanted him dead.
Someone feared what he could become.
So be it.
"Then I'll win," Roland said.
Lucien smirked. "We'll win."
Roland clasped his friend's shoulder.
Below them, Jerusalem glowed faintly with torchlight. A fragile kingdom… slowly stabilizing under Roland's guidance.
Above them, dark clouds gathered, heavy with the coming storm.
The first assassination attempt had failed.
The next would be bigger.
Smarter.
Maybe even political rather than violent.
The war for Jerusalem's future — for its throne — had begun.
And Roland stepped into the darkness willingly.