Duke's finger hovered over the mental command: [LOAD SAVE POINT]. One thought, and this nightmare resets.
He would be back in his room, safe. The chapel, the soldiers, the capture—all of it would be erased. He would have the knowledge of Elara's warning, of Duke Marlowe's treachery. He could avoid this meeting, find another way. It was the smart play, the efficient play. It was the gamer's choice.
But then his eyes fell on Princess Elara. A thin trickle of blood ran from her lip where the soldier had struck her. Her eyes, though wide with fear, burned with a defiant fire. She had trusted him. She had come to him with a truth that could get her killed, a truth born from the echoes of his own failures. If he loaded the save, that trust would be gone. Her memories, the very thing that had brought her to him, would be wiped clean. He would have to start from scratch, trying to convince a wary princess of a conspiracy she no longer remembered.
He thought of Gareth, bound and helpless beside him. He thought of Seraphina's tormented dreams. Every time he reset the board, he left scars on the people he was coming to care about. He was winning battles for himself but making them pay the price in phantom grief and fractured memories.
He made a decision. No. Not this time. This time, he would see it through. He would accept the consequences.
"Wait," Duke said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. The lead soldier, who was about to haul him away, paused. "I can prove she came here willingly."
"Nothing you say matters, traitor," the soldier sneered.
"Then let me show you something," Duke said calmly. He looked at Gareth, then nodded his head toward his own chest. "The letter. It's in the inner pocket of my coat. Check it. You'll find it's written in the Princess's own hand, sealed with her personal signet."
***
The soldier hesitated for a moment, then roughly searched Duke's coat. He pulled out the folded parchment. He broke the seal—an act that was in itself a minor crime—and read the contents by the moonlight. His expression shifted from smug certainty to confusion.
"This… this could be a forgery," he stammered, though the intricate royal seal was nearly impossible to replicate.
"It is not," Elara said, her voice regaining its royal authority. She had wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand. "I wrote that letter. I summoned Duke Theron here because I needed his help."
"Princess, you have been deceived by his lies—" the soldier began.
"I have been investigating treason," Elara cut him off, her voice ringing with cold fury. "Real treason. A plot against my father, the King. Duke Marlowe is planning a coup, and you and your men are his unwitting pawns."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. They were loyal to their Duke, but the Princess's words carried the weight of the crown. Accusations of a coup were far beyond their pay grade.
"These are serious accusations, Your Highness," the lead soldier said, his tone now far more respectful.
"Then take us to my father," Elara commanded. "Let me tell him directly. Let him be the judge of who is telling the truth."
The soldier was trapped. To refuse a direct order from the Princess to see the King was an act of treason in itself. After a long, tense moment, he gave a curt nod. "Very well. We will escort you to the palace." He gestured to Duke and Gareth. "But these two remain in custody until the King himself decides their fate."
***
The journey back to the palace was a tense, surreal procession through the sleeping city. Duke and Gareth, still bound, were marched between the soldiers. Elara walked alongside them, no longer a captive but still closely guarded. The midnight streets were empty, their footsteps echoing off the stone buildings.
"I'm sorry," Elara whispered to Duke as they walked. "I didn't think they would follow me. I put you in danger."
"You couldn't have known," Duke whispered back. "You were brave to come at all."
"What happens now?" she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty.
"We tell your father the truth," Duke said grimly. "And we hope he believes us over one of his most powerful Dukes."
"My Lord," Gareth murmured from Duke's other side, his voice a low rumble. "The guards. They look nervous. Something's wrong."
Duke scanned the soldiers escorting them. Gareth was right. Their professionalism was gone, replaced by a twitchy anxiety. They kept glancing into the dark alleys and shadowy doorways that lined the street. They weren't just escorting prisoners; they were expecting trouble. They were being followed.
***
The ambush came without warning. They were in a narrow street in the palace district, the high walls of noble estates boxing them in. Suddenly, dark figures melted out of the alleys, silent and swift. There were six of them, clad in black leather and wearing masks that obscured their faces. These were not soldiers; they were assassins.
"Hand over the Princess," the lead assassin hissed, his voice a rasping whisper.
Marlowe's lead soldier drew his sword. "Identify yourselves! By order of Duke Marlowe—"
"Duke Marlowe's orders don't matter anymore," the assassin cut him off. "The Princess has learned too much. She does not reach the King."
The attack was a blur of motion. The assassins moved with a deadly, coordinated grace, their blades flashing in the moonlight. Chaos erupted. Marlowe's soldiers, though well-trained, were caught off guard and outmatched.
In the confusion, the soldier holding Duke's ropes was cut down. As he fell, his grip loosened. Duke wrenched his hands free. At the same time, Gareth snapped his own bonds with a surge of brute strength and snatched a sword from a fallen soldier.
"Run!" Duke yelled to Elara, shoving her toward the end of the street. "Get to the palace!"
"I won't leave you!" she cried, her fear warring with a stubborn refusal to be a damsel in distress.
An assassin lunged for her. Duke intercepted him, tackling him to the ground. They grappled on the cobblestones, the assassin trying to bring a wicked-looking dagger to bear. Nearby, Gareth was a whirlwind of steel, single-handedly holding off two other attackers. But Marlowe's men were falling fast.
Duke struggled, his own dagger lost in the fall. The assassin gained the upper hand, pinning him down, the dagger raised for a final, killing blow.
Suddenly, the assassin's eyes went wide. He gave a choked gasp and stiffened. Then he collapsed on top of Duke. Standing over them, her hands shaking, was Princess Elara. She was holding a fallen soldier's shortsword, its blade dripping with blood. She had driven it straight through the assassin's back. The shock of her first kill was stark on her face, but she had not hesitated.
Before Duke could even scramble to his feet, two more assassins closed in on them.
***
A loud, clear blast from a horn cut through the night. A moment later, the street was flooded with the light of torches and the thunder of hooves. A dozen Royal Guards on horseback charged into the fray, their armor gleaming. At their head, sword drawn, was Elias Brightblade.
"Protect the Princess!" Elias roared, his voice a clarion call.
The Royal Guards crashed into the assassins. The tide of the battle turned instantly. The masked killers, realizing they were hopelessly outnumbered, tried to disengage. Two of them managed to melt back into the alleys and escape, but the other four were quickly cut down or captured by the elite guards.
Elias leaped from his horse, rushing to Elara's side. "Your Highness, are you hurt?"
"I'm… I'm fine," she stammered, still staring at the dead man at her feet.
Elias's gaze then fell on Duke, who was getting to his feet, covered in dust and blood—none of it his own. "Theron? What in the name of the gods is going on here?"
"Long story," Duke said, his adrenaline starting to fade. "The short version is that the Princess needs to speak with the King. Urgently."
Elias looked from Duke's grim face to Elara's shaken but resolute one, then to the carnage in the street. He nodded, his expression serious. "Then let's go. All of you."
***
The throne room was lit by only a few candelabras, casting long, dancing shadows. King Aldric had been summoned from his sleep and now sat on his throne, wearing fine silk robes instead of his royal regalia. He looked tired, old, and deeply angry.
"Elara, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his eyes taking in his daughter's blood-spattered dress, the grim faces of Duke and Gareth, and the determined expression of Sir Elias.
Elara stepped forward, her fear gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. "Father," she said, her voice clear and strong. "There is a plot against you. A coup. Duke Marlowe is the leader."
The King's expression darkened. "Explain," he commanded. "Everything."
And so she did. She told him of her suspicions, of the shadow council, of the plot to use Duke as a scapegoat, and of the assassins sent to silence her. Duke watched as the pieces finally fell into place, not just for him, but for the King. He had made the right choice. He had stayed the course.
A quiet notification pinged in his vision.
**[QUEST UPDATE: UNCOVER THE CONSPIRACY]**
**Progress: 60%**
**New Objective: Convince the King of the threat.**
For the first time since this all began, Duke felt like he was actually ahead of the game. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the game wasn't over yet.