In the nascent days of late summer, a long-awaited drizzle breaks the spell of the incessant heat. People feel a great sense of relief as the first cool raindrops touch their faces. The air becomes noticeably fresher and the plants awaken to bloom again after suffering under the oppressive sun for so long. But nature goes one step further - it unleashes such a fierce storm that most businesses close early and work is moved indoors. Residents retreat to their homes or seek shelter in taverns and inns as the rain pours down relentlessly. As a result, only a few soldiers patrol the soaked streets and children playing with balls or splashing in puddles are hurried home. Meanwhile, there is a lot of activity going on in the castle.

  Exactly one week after the dinner with the Brymbach brothers, King Edmur had his birthday.

  Today, two days later, he is celebrating his 43rd birthday with friends from all over the world. However, this year's celebration is more modest compared to the last two years, when the festivities turned the castle into a multi-day party venue. Back then, the rooms were packed, mostly with influential people from Londe and Saharka. The music was loud, the atmosphere lively, and the servants exhausted. It took days to clean up all the remnants of the celebration.

  The only servant who enjoyed those hectic days was Recaprio, one of the most talented chefs in the world.

  While the other staff were on the verge of burnout, he was thrilled to finally be challenged. With skillful hands, he prepared exquisite dishes, always wearing a satisfied smile, much like today's guests, who can't get enough of his food.

  After dinner, Edmur, his wife, and their friends enjoy the evening in the king's chamber.

  Rain taps against the balcony door, through whose glass one can see the city over the white-painted balustrade.

  In the room there is a chimney, also painted white, featuring a bust of Edmur on its ledge. A large, square mirror hangs above it. Directly adjacent is Edmur and Joane's bedroom. On the opposite side of the mirror hangs an equally large portrait of Edmur, painted at the start of his reign. The painting shows him sitting on a white horse, his head turned toward the viewer, giving the impression that the portrait is admiring itself in the mirror.

  The rest of the décor in the king's chamber is equally befitting of his rank.

  Gilded vases stand in the corners, intricately decorated wall sconces adorn the walls, and a handcrafted pendulum clock shows a little past ten. The lavish furniture, including two sofas, chairs, stools, and an oval table, sits atop an elegant rug in the center of the room.

  Edmur wears a finely stitched velvet doublet with subtle gold accents, while Joane appears in a flowing silk dress trimmed with delicate lace.

  Most of the guests are part of Edmur's close circle of friends.

  Among them are Thelwill Odburgh and Reagan Crewick from Londe. They have been Edmur's best friends since school days.

  Unlike Edmur, Thelwill and Reagan didn't have their influential positions handed to them on a silver platter—they worked hard to earn them. However, they never resented Edmur or spoke ill of him for it.

  Thelwill Odburgh wears an impeccably pressed shirt with an eye-catching silk bow tie. He is a tall, lanky man, whose intelligence wouldn't be apparent at first glance. It is no coincidence that he has been the port director of Londe for many years. He has powerful friends all over the world, and these include not just people who earn their money through honest work. His influence across the globe is significantly large, as he oversees the only trimodal and largest logistics hub in the North.

  It was ten years ago. Thelwill had just celebrated his appointment as the head of the port of Londe. Despite his new responsibilities, he made time to invite Edmur.

  They spent the day enjoying the view of the harbor from a hill, talking, and drinking. Thelwill used his connections to strike a deal with Edmur, which proved to be extremely beneficial for the export and import of various resources from Rilgohin.

  Sitting next to him is Reagan Crewick, who is also wearing a fine shirt with a bow tie and suspenders. He is just as tall as Edmur, but has much more pronounced muscles. His most striking feature are his unmistakable crossed eyes. Yet, one should never underestimate him or get on his bad side, as his methods are known for their brute force.

  In addition, he serves as a detective inspector in the capital of Londe, Londeeyeof.

  An incident in a dimly lit tavern in Londe highlighted this.

  The air was thick with smoke, and the constant murmurs of the patrons weighed heavily on the atmosphere.

  Reagan entered with a group of finely dressed men and women, and his crossed eyes immediately drew the attention of those inside. He walked purposefully toward a table in the corner, where a group of young men sat. One of them hurriedly downed his drink as Reagan stood in front of him, staring him down.

  "Hey, cross-eye!" a drunk at the table jeered, "Why're you looking at me like that?"

  The entire tavern fell silent. Without saying a word, Reagan grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him halfway across the room before slamming him into the wall with a powerful shove.

  "What did you call me?" Reagan asked quietly, his voice sharp with danger.

  "Cr-cross-eye...?"

  Reagan delivered a punch to the man's solar plexus, causing him to collapse, vomiting as his body crumpled. Then, Reagan drew his club from his belt and unleashed a series of quick, brutal blows, each accompanied by a louder, more bone-chilling scream.

  Reagan's group made sure no one interfered.

  "One more time, and you lose your tongue. Got that?" Reagan asked after he was done.

  The battered young man nodded, whimpering as tears streamed down his face.

  Reagan straightened up, slid his club back into his belt, and said, "Now relax, kid. I was looking at your friend next to you, not you."

  Leaving the injured man unconscious on the floor, Reagan turned back to the group of young men. He reached the table and pulled up a chair.

  "We need to talk, Bran," Reagan said. "Where's the murderer?"

  "He's hiding in the old warehouse by the docks!" Bran answered immediately.

  Reagan lightly slapped him on the cheek.

  "Good," he replied, satisfied, and drained the glass of the man he had just beaten senseless. Then he stood up, tossing a coin to the barkeep.

  "For the trouble."

  Whether someone made a bad joke about his eyes or a murder had been committed—people had learned the hard way. Reagan uses his brutal methods in all areas of his life and enjoys the full backing of the Director of Londe's Detective Department.

  This was evident seven years ago when riots broke out in the Shinemore District, as citizens grew dissatisfied with the leadership of newly appointed Officer Barder Echothed. At Edmur's request, Reagan stepped in to assist Barder, showing him a different leadership approach than the honorable Officer of the Royal District, Albes Maxwiff, had attempted. Without much explanation, it was Reagan's forcefulness and iron will that quelled the unrest. Even with limited contact due to the distance, his close friendship with Edmur has remained strong to this day.

  Also present today from Rilgohin are the engaged couple, Lindhelm Riffolk and the overly forward Ritha Gynesto, who live in the Royal District.

  Ritha has been a friend of Joane's for many years, wears a simple dress and stands out with her long, curly hair. Lindhelm, on the other hand, who wears round glasses, is dressed in a simple shirt, although in a more subtle style than the two gentlemen from Londe. So far, Ritha and Lindhelm have visited a dozen times, but between Lindhelm and Edmur, at best, a mutual respect has developed.

  They weren't Edmur's first choice. He would have preferred to welcome Riffin Champell and his wife today, but Riffin had to leave the day before because their daughter fell ill in Londe.

  Thus, the couple was the best last-minute replacement.

  Nesell Heaheath is the fifth guest. She was a former neighbor of Edmur's, whose parents were also very good friends with his. This led to a close but purely platonic friendship between them.

  Nesell now lives in Saharka, which is easy to see from her brightly colored clothing, which reflects the cheerful and warm atmosphere of this region.

  She doesn't work, though. Her parents, who passed away when she was young, left her a considerable fortune, as they had led a wealthy life in Londe. This inheritance allows Nesell to live a comfortable life in the desert.

  "I've got to admit, Ed," Reagan began in his raspy voice, "you've done well for yourself. And your maids—top notch. What's the name of the little one with the white hair again?"

  "Sarra," Edmur answered, absorbed in thought.

  "Ah yes, right. Sarra. A very pretty girl. In a few years, when she's old enough... feel free to invite me again," Reagan said, laughing. No one else joined in, as they suspected it wasn't meant as a joke.

  "White hair is quite the phenomenon. I've never seen anything like it before. And the fact that she works for you," Thelwill added, impressed.

  Edmur puffed out his chest proudly, wanting to show the others that he, too, had become an important man.

  "But she's not from here, is she?" Lindhelm asked cautiously.

  "She looks like she's from Saharka," Nesell chimed in. "There are some truly unique people living there."

  "Pfft. Don't get me started on Saharka," Thelwill said dismissively. "Ever since King Rakim's death, that place has been overrun by thieves, murderers, and all sorts of scum. The country's completely out of control. The civil war set them back and severely cut into my profits."

  "People are dying, and all you think about is your profits," Nesell said, horrified.

  "Death is inevitable, my dear," Thelwill replied coolly. "Besides, I can only focus on what I can control—and that's maximizing my gains."

  "Like human trafficking?" Reagan asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Thelwill laughed. "Are you investigating me?" he shot back.

  "You've got some shady characters working for you, Thell," Reagan said seriously, causing Thelwill to laugh even louder.

  "You talk as if your hands are clean, Reagan," Thelwill retorted. "You've taken more husbands away from women than I can count."

  "More women for us, right?" Reagan nudged Thelwill with a grin.

  They raised their glasses and laughed together before taking a drink—avoiding any further revelation of dark secrets.

  "So, are the rumors true?" Ritha casually asked Joane.

  "What rumors?" Joane replied, looking perplexed.

  "That two boys were recently invited to dinner with you."

  Joane blinked several times. "Where did you hear that, Ritha?" she asked, lowering her voice so Edmur wouldn't overhear.

  "I overheard it during a conversation between a farmer and a merchant at the marketplace," Ritha explained.

  "Just idle gossip, nothing more," Joane responded flatly.

  "That's what I thought at first. But now, it's all anyone's talking about," Ritha pressed. "So, is it true?" she asked, more insistently.

  Joane nodded awkwardly and took a sip from her glass, her eyes meeting Edmur's. He recognized the silent plea for help in his wife's gaze and stood up.

  "Well, this is getting interesting," Ritha said, completely unfazed by the fact that Joane had just lied to her face. "How did that come about?" she asked as Edmur joined them.

  "Friends of our daughter," Joane replied nervously. "But I would be very grateful if you kept it to yourself."

  "No one will hear it from me," Ritha said smugly. "And who are they?"

  "Their names don't matter," Edmur interjected. "And I don't appreciate your prying, Ritha," he said sternly, looking down at her, causing Ritha to back off.

  Quite a bit of alcohol had been consumed, making everyone more open, louder, and more direct with one another.

  Then Edmur had an idea. He cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention.

  "Though we're gathered here to celebrate my birthday," he began, "there is another announcement to make—one that Lindhelm and Ritha have been wanting to share with us. This evening seems like the perfect time for it," he said.

  Surprised, everyone turned their eyes to Lindhelm and Ritha, who themselves were surprised by Edmur's words.

  "Lindhelm, why don't you and Ritha stand up for a moment?"

  Confused, they obliged the king's request.

  "Perhaps you'd like to share with the others what you told Joane and me earlier today," Edmur added.

  It was only then that the two realized what Edmur was leading up to.

  Lindhelm found the timing both awkward and uncomfortable, as they had only just met the other guests today. Ritha, on the other hand, had no such reservations.

  "We're getting married," she blurted out without hesitation.

  "Oh, that's wonderful! I love weddings!" Nesell exclaimed, embracing Ritha and giving her a kiss on each cheek.

  Thelwill and Reagan clapped before offering their congratulations to Lindhelm.

  They were so enthusiastic that Thelwill nearly crushed Lindhelm's hand in a handshake, while Reagan's hug was so tight Lindhelm could barely breathe before he was released. Lindhelm was certain he saw tears in their eyes as they congratulated him, as though they had known him for years—the magic of alcohol at work.

  "Does your son know yet?" Joane asked Ritha with interest.

  "When we told him, he just looked at us funny and asked why we needed a party for it. No one cares that we're in love otherwise," Ritha laughed.

  Meanwhile, Edmur watches proudly, pleased that he managed to shift this uncomfortable situation onto someone else.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Syer," he suddenly hears someone speak quietly behind him.

  It's Stewart, nervously wringing his hands.

  "What is it?" Edmur replies.

  "Your audience is being requested," Stewart says.

  "I hope this is the last time I have to tell you—I don't want to be disturbed," Edmur says firmly, before turning his attention back to his guests. "Probably those farmers with their..." he mutters under his breath.

  "No, Syer—it's the Black Guardians," Stewart interrupts, in a low voice that only Edmur can hear.

  Edmur freezes. His whole demeanor changes instantly, and a cold shiver runs down his spine.

  "What's the matter, Ed?" Joane asks kindly.

  Edmur pulls himself together.

  "Don't mind us. Joane and I will be right back. We just have something to take care of. Important guests. You know how it is," he says, embarrassed, speaking quickly and vaguely, which draws the attention of the others.

  "At this hour?" Nesell asks, glancing at the clock. "So late?"

  "You're welcome to join us," Edmur adds.

  "Unfortunately, it's business, and it always happens just when the fun starts," he replies. "We'll be back shortly."

  Joane stands there, perplexed, as Edmur grabs her arm.

  "Come," he says, pulling her along.

  The others don't think much of it and continue where they left off.

  Edmur is sweating, and it's not just because he's hustling Joane down three floors.

  The corridors are deserted until they arrive at the throne room.

  There, Joane manages to free herself from his grip.

  "Are you going to tell me what's going on?!" she hisses.

  The massive double doors stand wide open. The throne room is dimly lit, with occasional flashes of lightning streaking through the leaded glass window behind the throne, momentarily illuminating the hall, followed by loud thunder. Torches on the walls provide faint light in the darkness.

  The throne room is decorated with tapestries and hunting trophies.

  In the days when the princes ruled, four thrones stood on the platform. After the war, these were destroyed and replaced with a new, golden, richly adorned throne with armrests and a high back.

  'Why are the torches lit?' Joane wonders to herself, and as she looks more closely, she catches her breath.

  Normally, only Edmur's family and the royal guards are allowed on the platform, but at this moment, sinister figures are shadowing around the throne.

  A cold chill runs down Joane's spine, while Edmur begins to tremble.

  The royal guards, Adwar and Piersym, stand tense at the entrance to the throne room. The couple has yet to exchange a word with the two men as their gazes pass each other without acknowledgment.

  Joane adjusts her clothes and squeezes Edmur's sweaty hand tighter.

  "Close the door. No one comes in," Edmur orders them before they step into the throne room together to greet these unexpected visitors.

  In the throne room, the silence is even more oppressive. Their presence fills the air with a sense of danger and suffocates all sounds from outside.

  The only sounds heard are the footsteps of Edmur and Joane, who quickly walk across the marble floor toward the throne, coming to a halt before the lowest step.

  To the side, next to the platform, stands another person. It is Greynyx, exchanging brief glances with Edmur and Joane, his expression uncertain. He is slightly unsteady on his feet, as a large, muscular, but motionless figure rests on his shoulders, the face of which the royal couple cannot discern. This sight not only fills Edmur and Joane with uncertainty but also deeply disturbs them.

  Is this person unconscious or even dead? And why is Greynyx carrying this person on his shoulders?

  Only three other individuals are present in the throne room with Greynyx, all completely dressed in black, except for their faces, which are covered by white masks. These three are stationed on the platform and make no attempt to prepare a place for Edmur for this audience.

  The first person sits with legs apart and knees bent on the highest step of the platform. He wears a black hooded cloak over armor that still gleams despite its black coloring. On his head is a jester's cap, the upward-facing crest of which zigzags outward. His head is tilted downward. His weapon is a finely crafted, long sword that rests comfortably in his scabbard.

  The second person stands sideways to them, leaning against an armrest of the throne with her gaze directed at the ceiling. Her black hooded cloak fits snugly around her shoulders, and thorn-like spikes protrude from there. The sides of her curly black afro are dyed blonde.

  The third person stands on the lowest step of the platform. The black hooded cloak drapes only over his broad shoulders, and his massive arms are crossed in front of his chest. He wears a wide-brimmed black hat and his white mask shows a motionless, contented smile.

  But there is more...

  Edmur's and Joane's eyes widen as they notice the gruesome scene. On the throne lies a neatly severed head, facing away from them.

  "Forgive our sudden appearance," says the Black Guardian leaning against the armrest of the throne. "We didn't want to interrupt your little celebration."

  She turns her head towards them, revealing her mask. Edmur and Joane wish she hadn't. With each passing second, it feels more and more like a terrible nightmare. The Guardian wears a white, round mask that displays a sincere smile. The corners of her mouth are significantly raised, and her mouth is slightly open. Yet, it does not move when she speaks.

  "N-no, we must apologize," stammers Edmur. The ornate robe falls majestically around him as he kneels in awe, bowing his head in humility before the Black Guardians. Joane follows suit, though her bow appears decidedly more forced than her husband's.

  "The—the celebration was over anyway," he adds. "Welcome to our realm."

  "Please," begins the Guardian sitting on the steps. "A king should not have to bow," he says mockingly, and Edmur and Joane straighten up.

  This Black Guardian wears a white mask that tapers to a point at the chin. Not only does his elevated position over Edmur and Joane give him an air of dominance, but the smile on his mask makes the couple feel as if he looks down on them, considering himself someone better.

  "Your visit surprises us," Joane finally says.

  "Are we not welcome?" asks the Guardian.

  "No, no," Edmur emphasizes. "What my beloved wife meant to say is that your presence honors us," he explains. "But, if you allow us to ask, what grants us this honor?"

  "How are your children, King?" the Guardian replies. "Your son, for example."

  Joane and he exchange uncertain glances.

  "Our son?" Edmur asks, stammering further. "G-g-good."

  "Good?" repeats the Guardian sitting on the steps, regarding the king who speaks indistinctly.

  "Yet rumours have it he kicked a boy bloody here in the castle not so long ago," he recounts.

  Edmur laughs briefly and almost silently. His interlocutors, on the other hand, show no sign of empathy.

  "T-that was a misunderstanding," Edmur explains lightly, scratching his forehead awkwardly.

  "A misunderstanding?" the Guardian asks back in a friendly tone, standing up from the steps. "Then we can leave, can't we?" he says before stepping directly in front of Edmur.

  Since the Guardian is a head taller, he looks down at him, not just because of his mask. Edmur tries to avoid any direct eye contact with the Guardian by looking down.

  "The word has even reached Londe," the Guardian says, now noticeably more serious. "The Globus Newspaper even wanted to run a report about it in their latest edition, on top to the attacks at the marketplace. Luckily for you, we have our connections, which is how the High Council became aware of it. At the Council's request, we intervened to prevent that."

  "We are indebted to you," Edmur says submissively.

  However, the Guardian does not let him off that easily and raises his index finger just before Edmur's face.

  "I will make myself clear once again, King," the Guardian continues, his voice sharp. "We neither have the time nor the need to resolve your misunderstandings.

  It is of utmost importance that your son and daughter behave accordingly. For if the people become dissatisfied with them, they will become dissatisfied with you. Consequently, they will be dissatisfied with the High Council," he asserts. "Am I clear?"

  "Of course," Edmur and Joane respond, trembling.

  "Very good," the Guardian continues. "But that is not the reason for our appearance."

  With his arms crossed behind his back, he begins to pace back and forth.

  "The Council sends us," he says slowly. "It is... extremely dissatisfied with the inadequate progress in this country."

  "But I... I have done exactly what was asked of me," Edmur replies, irritated. "I was supposed to build a bridge between the old Rilgohin and Londe."

  "Wrong!" interrupts the Guardian. "You were supposed to create an entirely new land that severs all ties to the old Rilgohin!"

  Edmur doesn't quite understand until Joane softly clears her throat.

  "The Crimson Crusaders," she whispers to her husband.

  Then it comes back to him.

  "We recently had several attacks in the city."

  "Attacks do not concern us, King!" the Guardian replies loudly, holding his finger just a few inches from Edmur's face.

  "That is your problem. So take care of it!" he hisses before turning away.

  "But perhaps the High Council would be interested to know that the attacks were mainly carried out by slaves of the Velddragguallis," Edmur pants. "Their forearms bore the initials of Jemose—"

  "If you are accusing someone, Edmur, you are accusing the wrong person," the tall Guardian interjects with a calm, deep voice.

  Edmur stares at the Guardian in disbelief, who hasn't said a word until now.

  "Jemose Sabnakthu personally informed us that the Crimson Crusaders have freed some of his slaves," he continues.

  "But this news came with another, of far greater significance," the Guardian at the throne adds.

  "He has identified another prince who has gone into hiding in Saharka," she says.

  "So, while you were splashing around by the sea in Saharka to take some time off, we followed up his tip and tracked down and eliminated this war criminal," the Guardian with the fool's cap continues before Edmur or Joane can respond.

  “Who was it?” asks Edmur.

  “Kyran Wynfre - the so-called genius among the princes,” the Guardian replies, “We're following traces that could lead us to his descendants. But don't you worry about it, that doesn't concern you.”

  “What concerns us more is the question of how important the task given to you by the High Council is,” asks the tall Guardian.

  Edmur frowns.

  "I don't understand. Saharka is not my—"

  “Then how is it possible that another one of them can move around openly and freely in this country for so long without you having the slightest idea!!!?” bellows the Guardian with the fool's cap, while the Guardian at the throne descends the steps of the plateau and the tall Guardian brings his arms straight down beside his body.

  "A prince? Here? Here in Rilgohin?" Edmur asks, shocked.

  "The Council has received the list of unusual occurrences from last month, which you controlled and signed off on before sending it out," the Guardian says. "There was a report about a supernatural event during a rather ordinary incident," she explains. "We hope we do not need to remind you of the agreement that anything supernatural could be a sign of the former princes of this land and must be reported and investigated immediately," she states emphatically.

  "No," he whispers, shaking his head.

  "Their bloodline must end!" she screams. "Neither the princes nor their descendants must live!"

  "We will immediately search for any signs," Edmur says firmly. Joane affirms her husband's statement with her expression.

  The Guardian notices that Edmur has understood her message. She turns to Greynyx and gives him a simple nod.

  Then Greynyx steps beside the royal couple and drops the body he has been carrying onto the ground at their feet. Joane can't bear to look. A queasy feeling spreads through her as she sees the headless corpse while Edmur tries to identify the person.

  The body is dressed in brown patched pants and a light brown cloak with long sleeves and a hood. The color of the garments has already faded; they are covered in stains and sewn together in several places.

  "He should be familiar to you," the Guardian says. "Because he was one of the four men who ruled this land before you."

  She then walks to the throne, grabs the head by its long hair, inspects it briefly, before emotionlessly dropping it beside the body.

  "He was the oldest of his brothers and the first of his family to acquire the title of prince, and thus held it the longest."

  The head rolls to the feet of Edmur and Joane and comes to a stop there.

  Joane turns her head away in horror to avoid breaking down. Edmur, on the other hand, examines the head more closely, noting an unkempt beard over a pointed chin, a crooked nose, and a scar that runs across the right side of the face. The scar, however, seems older and does not appear to have been inflicted recently.

  "His name is—or rather, was—Koro Wynfre. Or what is left of him," she says.

  Even without the honest smile on her mask, the glee in her words is palpable.

  "He can't have been in the city for long," Edmur tries to explain. "We would have discovered him by now. Maybe he just returned recently."

  "Maybe," the Guardian with the jester's cap repeats as he steps directly in front of the royal couple again.

  One must admit that Koro Wynfre did not make a particularly fresh impression even while alive. Nevertheless, several thoughts race through the Guardian's mind as he considers the possible consequences.

  "What if he really fathered descendants here?"

  "Descendants?" Edmur repeats, astonished.

  "It is not unlikely that they have inherited their abilities," the Guardian continues. "The spawn of devils. A troubling thought for both their enemies and friends," he adds emphatically.

  The Guardian notices the growing contemplation on Edmur's face.

  "Do you have any ideas or leads?" he asks suspiciously.

  Edmur has a thought. A theory that has involved the Brymbach family for some time. Although a connection is possible, he hopes he is wrong. Less out of sympathy for the Brymbachs but more out of concern for Lina and in order to protect his own family, he keeps a low profile.

  "No," Edmur finally replies, managing to mask his feelings.

  However, this answer does not satisfy the Guardian.

  "Tell us, King Edmur," he begins, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword at his belt, "What do you fear losing the most in life?"

  Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

  "We will not act hastily," the large Guardian says calmly, stepping directly beside him.

  The Guardian with the jester's cap is not intimidated by his partner's size. On the contrary, he shakes the hand off his shoulder before turning boldly to face him. Their iron gazes clash through their masks.

  Edmur and Joane hold their breath until a charming laugh from the Guardian on the plateau dissolves the tension between her partners. She steps down from the plateau.

  "This is not meant as a threat, Edmur, but as advice," she finally says. "You shouldn't relax just because you murdered the first prince and therefore were appointed king."

  She then stops in front of Greynyx, inspects him, and holds his face firmly with her hand to examine it more closely. He does not like this at all and finds it extremely uncomfortable.

  "Otherwise, your subordinates will stop respecting you after a while," she says before releasing Greynyx's face.

  Shortly after, he suddenly collapses to the ground, gasping for air.

  Edmur's eyes widen, and Joane covers her mouth with her hands to keep from screaming.

  Greynyx clutches his throat, where blood is gushing out. Some of it splatters onto the skin and clothing of the royal couple.

  "And you are the king. You want to be respected, don't you?" the Guardian continues in a motherly tone, as if nothing is wrong, while skillfully making a blade disappear into her sleeve.

  In an instant, she has cut Greynyx's carotid artery.

  Edmur and Joane can only helplessly watch as Greynyx writhes on the ground in pain. They are sure that if they help him, they will be the next ones lying beside him.

  The Black Guardians don't even spare him a glance.

  "This is the present now, and we all have ambitions," the Guardian says as she stops next to Edmur. "Try to do better in the future and if there are any indications that they have offspring prowling around here in the city, you'd best take care of it yourself," she whispers. "Otherwise, pray that we don't have to visit you again."

  "Failure to do so will mean that you will soon have to face a much more impatient audience than we are," adds the guard with the jester's cap.

  The two Guardians then walk away carefreely toward the door, leaving the shocked royal couple behind.

  "We will double our efforts," Edmur responds slowly, embracing the idea of the Black Guardians.

  "We know you will," the large Guardian says seriously, leaning down toward him. "For the sake of your family," he adds quietly.

  He then gives Edmur two friendly pats on the shoulder.

  After that, he leaves the hall, like the others.

  Left behind is the terrified couple, who cannot imagine what the Black Guardians will do next time they return.

  "Greynyx," Joane whispers shakily. "Greynyx. Greynyx," she calls him, each time louder.

  "Get a doctor!" she finally screams to Adwar and Piersym.

  "It's too late," Edmur says absentmindedly. "He's dead."

  Joane refuses to accept it, but she cannot close her eyes to the truth.

  Greynyx lies in a pool of blood now.

  The massive blood loss and the lack of oxygen to the brain have caused his swift death. She leans heavily on Edmur, whose gaze has already drifted away.

  After all, the Black Guardians have left behind another memento - Koro Wynfre, the eldest of the four princes.