The grand halls of Valoria's palace echoed faintly with the rhythmic click of Princess Elowyn's heels as she walked with a measured pace. 

The summons from her father had come abruptly, and though she maintained a regal composure, her heart felt heavier with each step. She passed by the Kingsguard stationed along the corridors, their steel-clad forms standing at parade rest until she drew near. At her approach, they snapped to attention, saluting her in silence.

Oswald, her sworn shield, awaited her at the imposing gates to the throne room. With a slight nod from her, he pushed open the massive doors, the sound reverberating like a herald's call.

Inside, the grand throne of Valoria gleamed in the flickering light of the candelabras, and on it sat her father, the King, his stern gaze fixed on Fredrich, the Commander of the King's Guard.

Fredrich had been in the middle of his report when Elowyn arrived, her presence soft but commanding. She moved closer, Oswald just a step behind her.

"...The captured bandit has provided critical information," Fredrich was saying, his voice steady. "The attack was orchestrated by the Hunt, a group of bandit-mercenaries operating under the leadership of Johann, known in the underworld as 'Scarface.' He rose to power after a violent takeover, which left him with his infamous scar."

Elowyn stood silently as Fredrich continued, her hands clasped before her. Fredrich then handed the King a folded paper.

"This letter was all we recovered during the raid on their supposed hideout in Valoria. It appears abandoned now, but the note ties directly to the recent ambush against the adventurer Caelann." Fredrich unfolded the paper at the King's gesture. 

"Read it," the King says, eyes fixed on Elowyn.

Fredrich began to read:
"Caelann, before you hand over my father's letter, please ensure that Samuel reads my note first. It's important, and I trust only you to make sure he sees it first."

Elowyn's breath caught. The words echoed painfully in her mind—her own words, written in haste, a desperate plea that had backfired. Her gaze fell to the polished marble floor as the King's sharp glare settled on her.

"Your note?" the King asked his daughter, his voice cold and deliberate.

"Your grace," Fredrich interjected, "Sir Oswald had confessed that he delivered it at the Princess's command."

Oswald stepped forward, bowing low. "I did as my lady instructed, ensuring the letter reached Caelann through the innkeeper."

The King's expression darkened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the arm of his throne.

"Elowyn, step forward."

Her feet felt like lead, but she obeyed, keeping her gaze low. "Father, I—"

The slap came before she could finish. The force sent her stumbling to the ground, her hand clutching her cheek as tears welled in her eyes.

"You disappoint me, Elowyn," the King spat. "Sabotaging a potential alliance with Creathe... behind my back!"

Oswald moved to help her up, but she raised a trembling hand, signaling him to stop. Slowly, shakily, she stood on her own.

"Y-you promised Mother," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You promised me you wouldn't use me as a pawn!"

"Watch your tone," came a cold voice from the side of the court. 

Victoria, the Queen, stepped into view, her hand resting on her pregnant belly. "You are speaking to the King."

The King's face was unrelenting. "I am doing this for the good of the kingdom! Your Kingdom! Creathe is a vital ally, and as the heir to Valoria, it is your duty to prioritize our people over your childish whims!"

Elowyn's tears spilled over. "You're not doing this for Valoria! You're doing it for yourself... and for her!" She glared at Victoria. "You're using me to strengthen your position and... and your son's!"

"Enough of this!" the King thundered. "You will be confined to your quarters under heavy guard until I resolve this disgrace with the Anderdalls."

Turning to Oswald, the King issued his orders. "See to it she does not leave her quarters. No visitors. No exceptions!"

Oswald saluted solemnly and gently guided Elowyn away, though her steps faltered with every stride. The doors shut heavily behind them, leaving only Fredrich, Victoria, and the King.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Fredrich cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "We are closing in on the Scarface's location. He won't evade us for long."

"Good," the King said, dismissing him with a wave. "Do what you need to do, commander."

Fredrich bowed and exited the room, leaving the King alone with Victoria.

The King removed his crown, rubbing his temples. "She's so stubborn. I can't get through to her."

Victoria approached, her voice soft but firm. "In my belly grows your child. He will be strong, courageous, and loyal to you. To your kingdom."

The King's eyes met hers as she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. 

"Have you ever considered passing the crown to a son?"

****

The infirmary courtyard buzzed softly with the murmur of water trickling from a marble fountain. 

Caelann paced slowly around the open space, stretching his legs for the first time in days. Two weeks of near-constant rest had dulled the sharp ache from his wounds, though his muscles protested every step. He was supposed to stay close to the infirmary, but boredom gnawed at him like a restless animal.

Caelann strolled along the path circling the fountain, the gentle splashing of water providing a rare moment of peace. But as he rounded a corner, a sight gave him pause.

At the far end of the courtyard stood the Grandmaster of the Adventurer's Guild. Even from a distance, his distinguished stature and silver-streaked beard were unmistakable.

"Grandmaster?" Caelann muttered to himself, a grin breaking out across his face. His spirits lifted — surely, the visit was for him.

But as he approached, his steps slowed. The Grandmaster wasn't alone. He was locked in conversation with another man, one whose posture radiated tension and anger. It was the figure's missing arm, however, that truly caught Caelann's attention.

The conversation was heated. The Grandmaster held out a bag that jingled faintly with the sound of coins, only for the one-armed man to slap it from his grasp. The bag hit the ground with a sharp clink, scattering gold pieces across the cobblestones.

A taskmaster scrambled to retrieve the spilled coins as the argument halted. Both men turned toward Caelann as he stepped closer.

"Grandmaster!" Caelann greeted warmly, his voice cutting through the tension. "You here to see me?"

The Grandmaster's stern expression softened into a smile. "Ah, Caelann. We were told not to disturb you until you had recovered. It's good to see you up and moving again."

Caelann's gaze shifted to the man beside him. The stranger's expression was a mix of bitterness and resignation, his face pale and worn.

"I'm leaving," the man said curtly, his voice hollow. He cast one last glance at the Grandmaster before walking away, his steps unsteady but determined. "Don't call for me ever again."

"I hope you find peace, Florence," the Grandmaster tells him as he leaves.

Caelann tilted his head as Florence disappeared from sight. "Who was that?"

The Grandmaster hesitated. "A former adventurer. He recently suffered... an accident."

"That's horrible," Caelann said, his voice tinged with sympathy. "From the way he looked... and his, uh, missing arm... you'd think he fought an elder dragon or something."

The Grandmaster's expression tightened. "S-something like that."

The mood shifted as the Grandmaster handed Caelann the bag of coins the taskmaster had collected. "The Guild offers you this to assist with your medical expenses."

Caelann accepted the sack gratefully. "Thanks! But, uh, are you sure? I mean, you tried to give this to that guy earlier."

"He has... a lot on his plate right now," the Grandmaster replied, evasive.

"Gee, I wish I had a lot on my plate. Especially since those bandits made off with most of my stuff."

The grandmaster shook his head as Caelann counted the coins inside the sack. "Any idea why those bandits targeted you?"

Caelann shrugged. "Aside from being absolute pricks? A summoning stone."

The Grandmaster frowned. "A summoning stone?"

"Yep," Caelann replied, tying the bag shut. "Rare enough to risk attacking me at the royal road for it,"

The Grandmaster placed a hand on Caelann's shoulder. "Regardless... once you're fully recovered, we hope to see you back at the Guild. Perhaps with... less perilous quests to start."

Caelann grinned. "Thanks for the concern, but I'm not about to be slowing down. I've got a diamond rank to achieve."

The Grandmaster chuckled softly. "With that drive, Caelann, you just might."

...

Outside the infirmary, Florence limped through the bustling streets of Valoria. Vendors called out their wares, children laughed and darted between carts, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the air. 

But Florence saw none of it. His mind was a storm of anger and despair.

The empty sleeve of his tunic swayed with every step, a cruel reminder of what he'd lost. 

His sword-arm was gone. His honor stripped. His dream of becoming the Guild's first diamond-ranked adventurer — obliterated.

And it was because of her.

The Witch. The Sorceress.

Her face burned in his mind, an image of cruelty and power. She had taken everything from him. Florence's jaw tightened, his good hand clenching into a fist. Rage burned in his chest, hotter with every step. 

His path was clear now, his purpose absolute. He would find her. He would end her.

Florence would not rest until he — or what was left of him — sees Melara's head on a pike.

****

Far from the walls of the kingdom, on a desolate farm, the last of the carriages rattled to a stop. 

Rough-hewn men climbed down, their faces hardened and smeared with the grime of long travel. The crates they carried seemed innocent at first glance — brimming with vegetables, fruits, and vials of medicine.

One of the men grabbed an iron tool, prying open the first crate. With a swift motion, he tossed aside the top layer of produce, revealing an arsenal of swords, crossbows, and daggers hidden beneath. A wicked grin spread across his face as he reached in, pulling out a polished blade.

"Get these sorted," barked a man. "Food stays near the barn. Weapons to the storehouse. And keep your eyes open — we don't need some poor fool stumbling on this."

The men obeyed without question, carting the hidden arsenal off into the shadows of the barn and nearby shed. Among these items were flasks of volatile alchemical liquids — explosives waiting for the right moment to unleash chaos.

A few of the men worked on something grimmer. By the edge of a nearby field, two others were busy covering a shallow grave. 

A few of the men worked at the edge of the field, shoveling dirt into a freshly dug grave. Two others approached, carrying the lifeless body of a farmer between them. 

They unceremoniously dropped him into the pit, his wife's body already lying cold beneath him. Dirt was hastily thrown over them, erasing the evidence of their existence.

Inside the farmhouse, Johann stood at the head of a worn table. The remnants of a meager meal were swept to the floor as he unrolled a detailed map of Valoria, its streets and districts carefully marked. 

Around him, five lieutenants assembled — some leaning against the walls, others standing stiffly at the ready.

"What about Garrett? Heard the knights nabbed him during the raid."

Johann's gaze darkened. "His poison capsule?"

"Failed," another answered grimly. "They've got him locked up now."

"Think he'll talk?" a third asked, his voice tense.

Johann's lips curled into a cold sneer. "Let's make sure he doesn't."

The room fell silent again as the weight of his words settled over the group.

"What of the adventurer?" Johann's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"He's still in the infirmary," one of the men replied. "Being treated by the local healers."

"What of the adventurer?" Johann's voice cut through the tense air like a blade.

"He's still in the infirmary," one of the men replied. "Being treated by the local healers."

"And the stone?"

"Word is, he still has it," another answered. "The boy hid it on himself during the attack. That's why we couldn't find it."

Johann's jaw tightened, his scar twisting as his face darkened.

"Entire kingdom's on high alert," a third lieutenant said. "Turns out, the adventurer was on some sensitive diplomatic mission. We struck at the wrong time."

"And the wrong person," another chimed in. "He's tight with the royal family."

The lieutenants shifted uncomfortably under Johann's withering glare. He leaned forward, his fists pressing into the table. "Not for long. I left something behind in the old place... something to... complicate their little friendship."

The men nodded cautiously, exchanging wary glances.

"So... what now?" one asked hesitantly.

Johann's eyes lingered on the map, his fingers tracing the intricate streets of the capital. "The coin's still on the stone. We secure it, and we're back in business."

"A simple thieving job, then?" another lieutenant suggested. "I can grab a couple of good men. In and out, no one will even notice until it's too late."

"No." Johann's voice was cold, final. The room fell silent.

The bandits exchanged puzzled looks.

"I want the boy dead," Johann said, his hands balling into fists.

"I-I don't think that's-" one of the men ventured cautiously. "I-I mean... killing someone with royal favor... it'll bring the whole kingdom down on us."

"And we're already thinned out as it is," another added, his voice shaking. "Especially after that mess with Gregor-"

"Say that name again." Johann's tone was a low, dangerous growl.

The room became as silent as a crypt. The bandit who had spoken paled, taking an involuntary step back.

"I... I'm sorry, Johann. I didn't mean-"

"The boy dies." Johann's declaration cut through the air like a guillotine. His eyes moved slowly over each of the five men, ensuring no one dared to protest further. Then, his gaze returned to the map.

"All we need is a distraction," he mused aloud, his finger hovering over a marked location. "Something that'll pull the knights and the people away from the infirmary."

His hand stopped, and a cruel grin spread across his scarred face as his finger tapped a small icon — a children's orphanage.

"A fire, perhaps?" Johann said, his voice dripping with malice. 

The bandits exchanged uneasy glances, their silence heavy and oppressive. Though needlessly cruel, no one dared voice dissent.

Johann's shadow loomed too large, and his word was law.