While Eleonora was discovering the depth of the pitfall she had fallen into by the prince's courtesy, the streets outside The Velvet Pearl stayed as calm as the weather is just before an unfortunate storm.
The sun shone high up in the air, bright and scorching. The heat, indemnified by the perennially snow capped mountains surrounding the city of Ilyndor — creating a pleasant weather for a nice stroll. The usually bustling market district, however, remained free of any pedestrian walking, except for the guards patrolling near the wooden barrier.
Arthur stood on the shaded balcony of the upper floor of the inn, watching in silence as a royal soldier lent to the duke by the king, ran up ahead and disappeared at the corner of the street. He was sent to inform the guards of the duke's departure. The wooden make believe barrier would need to be removed, the area cleared of the people; the duke wouldn't allow his carriage to be moved unless it was secured of every threat.
Despite the protection offered, Duke Winslow has been on the knife's edge ever since his breweries went up in flames. Arthur wouldn't blame the man for it, though. When Prince Callahan sets someone on his target, it was only a matter of time until the gates of hell welcomed you in. But of course, Duke Winslow did not know that yet — perhaps he never would. He wouldn't have dared to stalk the duchess to the inn, if he knew.
Arthur moved his eyes over every building in the vicinity, observing and assessing every nook and cranny. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, but Prince Callahan had told him to look out for anomalies.
With a deep breath, he leaned against a pillar. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The soldiers seemed to be doing their jobs. The duchess looked frail, almost lifeless as she sat next to the duke, who seemed to be chastising her for going behind his back to set a meeting with the prince. He might hit her once — or twice — to prove a point. But that was hardly a surprise. Arthur had gotten used to seeing the bruises on her face every time he accompanied Prince Callahan on his visits to his aunt.
'Why do you not help her?' he had asked him on one of those visits.
The prince had shrugged. 'She made her choice. It's rude to interfere where you aren't required.'
'If it keeps going like this, he will kill her one day,' Arthur had said. Every time they saw her, the bruises were bigger than the last time.
'And lose his connection to the throne? Winslow might be a coward, but he was never a total twit. He married her for it. He would stay with her as long as he requires her title. Isabella knows it, and so she bears it.'
Arthur had looked at the prince in that moment, noticed the calm on his face, the lack of concern. 'Does it not anger you? She has always been like a mother to you.'
Not a muscle on Prince Callahan's face had given away his thoughts as he climbed the steps of his royal carriage. 'What I feel, would in no way influence her choice of staying with him. She lives in the hope of him becoming a better man. However, if someday, she chooses to free herself, she can always send me a word.'
'And would you help her?'
'I might think about it,' Prince Callahan had replied before disappearing inside his carriage.
That day as they rode back to the palace, Arthur had felt his response to be cold. He had no memory of his own mother. But growing up with Prince Callahan in the palace with Isabella treating him the same as she did the prince when everyone else saw him as nothing more than a traitor's spawn, he had come to care for the duchess. Maybe it was why he had hoped for a little more warmth for her from the prince.
She had written to him, eventually. However, it had taken her twelve years, and a dying soul, to send that word — to wish for freedom. When the letter arrived three days ago, Prince Callahan had read it with his usual placid face. Then, without a word, he had left the letter on the table and went into his study to finish off the day's official paperwork that needed his attention.
Arthur had not found his calm reaction to be cold, this time around. The twelve years in between had taught him to read the prince a little better.
There weren't a lot of people in the haunted chambers of the prince's heart, but the ones that lived there were guarded like gold behind a thousand doors.
As it was, that night, the duke's prized brewery had gone up in flames — and his death sentence, announced.
This wasn't to say that the prince's personal feelings were the sole reason for the duke's upcoming downfall. Duke Winslow had been digging his grave for years, one spadeful of dirt at a time. But the illicit breweries, the drugged ales had set the stage for him, and the duchess' letter was the curtain call.
Arthur took delight in understanding it all. He understood why Prince Callahan had to play this game. A silent death of a noble would have given rise to many speculations, but it would have also led to burying of more vital information. Duke Winslow would be gone, for sure, but the breweries would be taken over by someone else. The ales would still be circulated, consumed by people with no knowledge of the drugs. King Malcolm would ensure it.
But the burning brewery had ignited curiosity among the people. Minister Frederik's absence from the royal court had prompted rumours of a connection. The duke's public death would bring about a necessary chaos. There's only so much a king could do when his people seek the truth.
Arthur understood why the theatrics were necessary. What he didn't understand was why a stranger like the apothecary had to be included in something like this.
For the briefest instance, Arthur entertained the thought of the prince being infatuated by the woman. But the thought had barely gained a foothold when it was swept away by another, a more reasonable one. I met someone I shouldn't have.
Arthur jerked to attention, away from the pillar he was leaning on. It was like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. Everything could have gone in a much smoother way without the strange woman's involvement, but Prince Callahan had intentionally crafted everything around her. Arthur had felt his reasons and motives shift the moment she had walked inside the inn. The prince was testing her, indeed. But for a man in his power, he hardly needed to do that.
Unless...
Before he could ponder further over his new discovery, Arthur's focus was snatched back to the guarded street below. The soldier had returned, bringing with him the news of the cleared streets of the market. Duke Winslow had his left arm wrapped around the duchess' shoulder as he spoke to her. For someone who didn't know better, the gesture might look affectionate, but Arthur could see his fingers almost burying into her flesh even from such a distance.
The duchess didn't free herself, she never had. Instead, when the soldiers moved around the carriage to their designated positions before setting off, she looked over her shoulder at the shadows casted on the cobblestones. Duke Winslow followed her gaze as the wheels to his carriage rotated forward. Perhaps if the soldiers had noticed it then, they might have had a different story to tell to King Malcolm when they would be called upon to narrate the incident, but at the time, they were only looking out for material threats.
From the aerial view of the balcony, Arthur was the only one who saw the most. It happened in a few quick moments. The shadow's casted by the carriage wheels — the exact spot where the duchess was staring at — was the first to move.
Arthur was familiar with Prince Callahan's shadow self, had seen it on several instances, had interacted with the prince through it. He knew how it moved. Like a ghost in motion — caught in the corner of the eye and gone before certainty could take hold. What was happening with the shadows on the street was not the same.
They stretched like ink spilled across the cobblestones, bleeding slowly into every creak and corner. It started like crawling creeper tendrils moving in every direction, and spread like black smoke by the time the soldiers noticed it.
'Halt!' ordered the duke, looking around himself frantically as the darkness engulfed his carriage. The soldiers pulled out their sword, alert, but the confusion overpowered their readiness for combat.
Arthur could imagine what it would be like for them down there — as if standing in a dark room with no visible window or door. However, for him, it was like peering into a pond filled with black ink. The soldiers and the carriage appeared to be like silhouettes against the darkness, almost nondifferentiable. He had to strain his eyes, stare intensely, to identify their frantic movements inside the huge, black deformed block of smoke. The temperature dropped, despite the sun roaring overhead.
Then he saw something more.
Shapes — no, shadows — moving inside the black mass. They circled over the carriage at an unnatural speed, like torn fabrics suspended in the wind in a raging storm. If it wasn't for their impossible speed, their distorted shape or the way they appeared and disappeared at will, Arthur might have mistaken them for hawks circling over their prey. They moved like that, as if with a purpose to feed. He didn't have a word in his mind for them, only a primal certainty — they weren't human.
A chill ran down his spine as he watched them dive down to the carriage. The soldiers swung their swords in blind arcs, shouting, panicking. One of them staggered backward, tripping over the edge of the carriage wheel. Another dropped his weapon entirely and curled in on himself like a child lost in a nightmare.
The duke's voice rang out again — an incoherent shout — muffled by the other cries and shrill voices that didn't sound human.
Then, just as suddenly it had appeared, the darkness receded.
It didn't fade — it was ripped away, like a curtain yanked open from a window to let sunshine fill in the room. Arthur blinked rapidly, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the sudden change.
The soldiers stood dazed, ash-faced and stunned. A few were on their knees, gasping for air. The darkness was replaced by light; the screams with impeccable silence.
Though it didn't last long.
Duke Winslow fell down his carriage, retching with wet, guttural gasps. His body trembled desperately as blood poured out of his mouth, painting the cobblestones red. A few soldiers ran to his side, snapping out of their daze. They didn't notice it yet, only Arthur did.
The duchess was nowhere to be seen.