The palace glittered with lanterns that night — gold, crimson, and emerald flames swaying gently in the warm wind. Musicians played soft lyre melodies, nobles exchanged forced smiles, and servants poured wine until the very air smelled sweet.
A celebration, they called it.
A feast to "restore confidence" after the assassination attempt.
Roland knew the truth.
Celebrations were perfect places for traps.
He entered the grand hall wearing polished chainmail beneath formal robes. Lucien shadowed him quietly, hand never far from his sword.
The council sat at the long central table, dressed in rich fabrics and jeweled collars. Some watched Roland with curiosity. Others watched with fear.
And one… watched with calculation.
Lord Eberhardt.
His eyes locked onto Roland the moment he stepped in.
Too quickly.
Too intensely.
Roland filed that away.
If there was a traitor among them, Eberhardt was climbing to the top of the list.
Whispers in the Crowd
As Roland moved through the hall, nobles approached him.
Some out of respect.
Some out of strategy.
Some simply because they liked the sound of being near a man whispered about in every corridor.
A merchant-lord bowed. "Sir Roland, your training reforms have made the southern gates more secure. My caravans owe you a debt."
A lady from a wealthy family leaned in. "Rumor says you fought off the assassin alone. Is it true?"
A knight clapped him on the back. "If war comes, we will follow your command."
Roland heard every word — not as flattery, but as information.
Training reforms…
Trade stability…
Loyal knights…
Jerusalem was growing stronger.
And a stronger kingdom needed a leader who wasn't blind.
People were beginning to realize that.
But for every ally he gained, he made an enemy.
The more the city improved under him, the more someone wanted him buried.
The Trap is Set
Midway through the feast, the bishop rose.
"Tonight," he announced, "we honor the resilience of our great city — and those who defend it. Sir Roland, please join us."
A spotlight.
Public attention.
Roland stepped forward carefully.
The bishop lifted a golden goblet filled to the brim with wine.
"We drink to his courage, and to the hope he brings Jerusalem."
A noblewoman near Roland whispered, "A dangerous toast."
Roland took the goblet.
He didn't drink.
Instead, he watched Eberhardt.
The lord's jaw tightened.
His hand froze around his own goblet.
His eyes flickered toward a servant carrying a tray of wines.
There it was.
A flash of fear.
Roland raised the goblet slowly — and at the last second, handed it to a nearby guard.
"Drink," Roland commanded.
The guard hesitated, confused.
Eberhardt shot up from his seat. "He cannot—"
Too late.
The guard took a sip.
Set the goblet down.
And after a heartbeat…
He was fine.
Alive.
Healthy.
Eberhardt exhaled sharply — not with relief, but with anger.
Roland now understood:
The trap wasn't poison.
It was politics.
If Roland had refused the toast, he'd insult the bishop.
If he'd drunk it, he'd seem arrogant.
If he'd reacted as though he expected poison, he'd appear paranoid.
The test wasn't to kill him.
It was to see how he behaved.
Someone wanted to study him.
To measure him.
To decide whether he was a threat… or a target.
The room watched him now with sharper eyes.
Roland drank the wine himself — calm, steady, unfazed.
And the hall broke into applause.
He passed the test.
But the real fight was just beginning.
A Shadow Revealed
After the feast, Roland slipped onto a balcony overlooking the torchlit city. Lucien joined him, face tense.
"You handled that well," he said. "Too well, maybe. Now they know you're not easily cornered."
Roland leaned on the stone rail. "And we learn something too."
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
"Look," Roland said quietly, nodding toward the feast hall.
Inside, through the open doors, Lord Eberhardt spoke to a group of nobles — whispering urgently. His gestures sharp. His voice fierce.
And on the far side of the hall — a servant who'd hovered near the wine tray earlier — exchanged a quick nod with one of Eberhardt's men before disappearing down a side hall.
Roland's voice hardened.
"That servant was at the caravan attack site. I saw him in the distance leaving the scene. He's connected. Eberhardt is our traitor — or at least part of the plot."
Lucien cursed. "He's getting bold."
"He has to," Roland said. "Jerusalem is stabilizing. The kingdom is strengthening. If we keep gaining influence… he'll lose everything."
Lucien crossed his arms. "Then what's our next move?"
Roland didn't hesitate.
"We build allies. Quietly. Strong ones. Jerusalem is my responsibility now — and its enemies are becoming mine."
He turned, cloak catching in the night breeze.
"We're done reacting. It's time to act."
A New Alliance Begins
Before leaving the balcony, Roland found the bishop waiting behind the column.
"You saw everything," Roland said.
The bishop smiled softly. "I see much, Sir Roland. Including the fact that you have enemies… and that Jerusalem needs someone who does not fear them."
Roland frowned. "And what do you want?"
The bishop stepped closer, voice dropping.
"I want a kingdom that survives. And men like you are rare."
Roland studied him. "Are you offering an alliance?"
"I am offering a… mutual investment," the bishop said. "You gain influence. I gain security for the church. And together, we protect Jerusalem."
Roland didn't respond immediately.
This was a powerful man.
A dangerous man.
But also someone who understood the stakes.
"Very well," Roland said finally. "We move together."
The bishop bowed.
"Then your rise begins."
The First Step Toward the Throne
Roland walked back through the empty hall as torches burned low. The echoes of the feast still lingered.
Jerusalem was changing.
Enemies were revealing themselves.
Allies were stepping forward.
He could feel the path forming beneath his feet — a path that led not just to battle, not just to reform, but to power.
To a crown.
Not yet.
Not soon.
But in time.
And Roland knew one thing for certain:
If he was to become king…
He would earn it not by birthright,
not by prophecy,
but by surviving men like Eberhardt
and saving a kingdom collapsing on its own weight.
The war in Jerusalem had begun long before he arrived.
Now it had a new contender.