The cellar smelled of mold, oak, and impending death.
Sir Marcus threw the wooden paddle to the ground. It clattered loudly against the stone, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the confined space.
"Did you really think the King is blind, Ciro?" Marcus drew his longsword slowly. The steel hissed against the scabbard. "He has known about your little midnight strolls for weeks. He found it amusing. Like watching a mouse trying to build a nest in a cat's den."
Elara stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. "Father... knows?"
"He wanted to see how far you would get," Marcus smirked, his eyes fixed on Ciro. "He placed a bet with the Treasurer. He bet you wouldn't make it past the river. I'm afraid I'm about to win him some gold."
Ciro didn't speak. He didn't make a joke. The Jester was gone.
He gently pushed Elara toward the shadow of a large wine cask. "Stay down," he whispered. "Cover your eyes."
"Ciro, he is the Captain," Elara pleaded, her voice trembling. "He is fully armored. You have nothing but..."
"Stay down."
Ciro turned to face the giant knight. Marcus was clad in the King's plate armor—heavy steel that could stop an arrow. Ciro wore only thin fabric. One mistake, one graze from that broadsword, and he would be cut in half.
"Come then, funny man," Marcus taunted, raising his blade. "Make me laugh."
Ciro moved.
He didn't charge. He exploded into motion. He threw his dagger—not at Marcus, but at the lantern hanging above the knight's head.
Shatter.
Glass rained down. The flame sputtered and died, plunging the cellar into semi-darkness. The only light now came from the faint glow of the hallway at the top of the stairs.
"Coward!" Marcus roared, swinging his sword blindly. The blade cleaved through a wine barrel.
CRACK-SWOOSH.
Dark red wine exploded outward like a geyser, drenching the floor. The stone became slick instantly.
Marcus stumbled, his heavy boots losing traction on the wet stone. That was all Ciro needed.
He was on the knight's back in a heartbeat. Ciro didn't try to stab the steel plate; he knew better. He aimed for the gaps. The joints. The soft spots.
His second dagger flashed, aiming for the gap under Marcus's armpit.
Clang!
Marcus was fast for a big man. He slammed his elbow back, catching Ciro in the ribs. Ciro gasped, the air knocked out of him, and was thrown against the stone wall.
"You are nothing but a street rat in a costume!" Marcus shouted, lunging forward with a thrust meant to skewer Ciro to the wall.
Ciro rolled. The sword sparked against the stone where his head had been a second ago.
He scrambled up, his ribs screaming in pain. He grabbed a heavy glass bottle of vintage Southern red from the rack.
As Marcus turned to swing again, Ciro hurled the bottle. It smashed against Marcus's helmet, blinding him with wine and glass shards.
Marcus roared in frustration, wiping his visor. "Stop running and die!"
"I don't want to ruin your suit, Marcus," Ciro whispered. He was behind him again.
This time, Ciro didn't miss. He kicked the back of Marcus's knee—the joint behind the greaves. The big knight buckled, dropping to one knee in the puddle of wine.
Ciro wrapped his arm around Marcus's helmet, pulling his head back to expose the throat—the one place where the armor had a gap.
"Tell the King," Ciro hissed into the knight's ear, "he lost his bet."
Shing.
Ciro drew his blade across the exposed neck. It was a clean, precise cut.
Marcus gurgled. The sword fell from his hand with a heavy clang. The Captain of the Guard collapsed face-first into the spilled wine, the red liquid on the floor now turning a darker, thicker shade.
Silence returned to the cellar, broken only by the dripping of wine from the broken barrel.
Ciro stood over the body, breathing hard. His black tunic was soaked in wine and sweat. He wiped his blade on his sleeve and turned to Elara.
She was standing by the cask, her eyes wide. She hadn't covered them. She had watched everything.
She looked at Ciro—at the blood on his hands, the cold efficiency of the kill. For a moment, Ciro feared she would scream. He feared she would look at him and finally see the monster he truly was.
Instead, she ran to him.
"You're hurt," she whispered, touching his side where Marcus had elbowed him.
"Ribs are bruised. I'll live," Ciro winced, pulling away gently. "We have to go. The noise... someone will come."
He grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the drainage tunnel door. Marcus had said he destroyed the boat, but Ciro had to check. Maybe there was driftwood. Maybe they could swim.
He kicked the tunnel door open.
Empty.
The water bobbed gently against the stone quay. But there was no boat. Just splinters of wood floating on the surface. Marcus had been thorough. He had taken an axe to it.
"It's gone," Elara whispered, her voice hollow. "The boat is gone."
Ciro stared at the wreckage. His plan. His careful, meticulous plan. Gone.
From the top of the cellar stairs, heavy footsteps echoed. Not one man. Many.
"Search the cellar! I heard glass breaking!" a guard shouted.
Ciro looked at the dark water, then at the stairs. They were trapped.
He gripped his daggers. There were too many footsteps. He could kill five, maybe ten. But eventually, they would overwhelm him. And then they would take Elara.
He looked at the Princess. She wasn't crying anymore. She looked at the water, then at him, a strange resolve hardening her face.
"Ciro," she said, squeezing his hand. "Can you swim?"
Ciro blinked. "Yes. But the current... it's too strong for you. You'll drown."
"Better to drown free than live in a cage," she said.
The footsteps were getting closer. Shadows lengthened on the staircase wall.
Ciro looked at the black, rushing water of the underground river. It was suicide. But staying here was a death sentence.
He holstered his daggers and wrapped his arm around her waist.
"Hold your breath," Ciro commanded.
"I love you," Elara whispered.
Before the guards could burst into the room, Ciro and Elara jumped into the darkness.