Chapter : 1259

It was not a physical intrusion. It was a conceptual one. A sudden, suffocating wave of malevolent energy washed over the garden, a tide of pure, unadulterated despair. The sweet scent of the roses was instantly replaced by the coppery, charnel stench of a forgotten tomb. The gentle, melodic whisper of the fountains seemed to curdle, the sound now a thin, mocking hiss.

The very air grew cold, heavy, and thick with a palpable, greasy wrongness.

Linkon and Arisa were on their feet in an instant, their quiet, romantic moment obliterated. They were no longer a boy and a girl; they were a prince and a princess, their royal blood, which was also a warrior’s blood, screaming at them that they were in the presence of an absolute, and very immediate, enemy.

From the deepest shadows of a massive, ancient cypress tree, a figure materialized. He did not step out of the darkness; the darkness itself seemed to weave itself into his form.

He was a man in his late thirties, dressed in the elegant, dark, and perfectly tailored robes of a high-ranking courtier. His face was handsome, in a sharp, cruel, and predatory way, with high cheekbones and a thin, disdainful smile. His eyes were the color of old, bruised plums, and they held a look of ancient, bored, and utterly inhuman intelligence.

Flanking him, two more figures melted from the shadows. And then two more. And two more. Until he was surrounded by a silent, and deeply intimidating, phalanx of twenty men.

They were not courtiers. They were warriors. They were clad from head to toe in suits of polished, night-black plate armor that seemed to absorb the very moonlight. They held no banners, wore no sigils. Their helmets were featureless, their visors down, hiding their faces. But from the narrow eye-slits, a faint, and utterly unmistakable, red light burned with a cold, silent, and malevolent intent.

Curse Knights.

The man in the courtier’s robes took a slow, deliberate step forward and gave a deep, mocking, and exquisitely graceful bow.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” he said, his voice a smooth, silken, and infinitely condescending purr. “Forgive this unseemly intrusion into your little, romantic interlude. My name is Franz. A humble servant of a new, and soon to be much more influential, order.”

He gestured to the twenty silent, black-armored figures behind him. “And these,” he announced, his smile widening into a thing of pure, triumphant malice, “are the Honor Guard of the Coming Age. A small, welcoming committee, sent to deliver a message to the old world.”

He straightened, his gaze, which had been a thing of amused, reptilian contempt, now hardening into the cold, final authority of a judge passing sentence.

"The wedding," he declared, his voice a final, terrible, and absolute proclamation, "has been postponed. Permanently."

The twenty Curse Knights, in a single, silent, and chillingly synchronized movement, drew their blades. The swords were not of polished steel, but of a black, corrupted metal that seemed to weep a thin, greasy smoke. They raised them in a silent, unified salute. Their red eyes, all forty of them, burned with a cold, silent, and utterly merciless intent.

The ambush was perfect. The royals were trapped, surrounded, and hopelessly outmatched. The heart of the kingdom was about to be ripped out in a single, silent, brutal, and utterly final act of terror.

And in the perfect, terrible silence of the moonlit garden, the only sound was the soft, gentle, and now tragically, beautifully, irrelevant whisper of the fountains.

The sheer, audacious arrogance of the attack was breathtaking. To strike not at a border outpost, not at a supply line, but here, in the very heart of the royal palace, on the eve of the kingdom’s most important celebration… it was not just an act of war. It was an act of supreme, and utter, contempt.

Crown Prince Linkon, who had been a quiet scholar only moments before, was now a king in all but name. He moved with a fluid, practiced grace, placing himself protectively in front of Princess Arisa. He did not draw a sword. He did not have one. But his posture, his gaze, his very presence, was an unshakeable shield.

“You have made a grave mistake,” Linkon said, his voice quiet, but carrying a new, and very cold, weight of royal authority. “You are in the heart of the lion’s den. There are five hundred Royal Guards within a minute’s call. You cannot win.”

Chapter : 1260

Franz let out a soft, appreciative chuckle, the sound a dry, rustling thing. “Oh, my dear Prince,” he purred. “You still think in such… conventional terms. Swords. Guards. Numbers. This is not a battle. This is an execution. A quiet, and very private, one. As for your guards…”

He made a small, almost imperceptible gesture with his hand. From the shadows of the garden, a new sound was heard. A soft, wet, and utterly final series of thuds. The sounds of bodies hitting the ground.

The two Royal Guards who had been standing, unseen, at the entrance to the garden, and the four more who had been patrolling the outer colonnade, had just been silently, and very efficiently, neutralized.

“My associates are… very thorough,” Franz explained, his smile a thing of pure, artistic satisfaction. “The lion’s den, you see, is only a den as long as the lion is awake. And your lions, Your Highness, are all fast asleep.”

The last, fragile flicker of hope was extinguished. They were not just trapped; they were alone.

Princess Arisa, who had been a silent, wide-eyed observer, now moved. She stepped out from behind Linkon, her face a mask of serene, and utterly fearless, composure. She was the Sun Princess, the daughter of a warrior-king, and the blood of a thousand heroes ran in her veins.

“You are of the Seventh Circle,” she stated, her voice not a question, but a quiet, and very certain, accusation. Her eyes, the color of warm, golden honey, held no fear, only a deep, and very ancient, contempt. “You are a child of the Abyss. I can smell the rot on your soul.”

Franz’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine surprise in his plum-colored eyes. He had expected a terrified, weeping girl. He had not expected… this. This quiet, unshakable, and deeply, profoundly, and almost divinely, unimpressed princess.

“The Sun Princess,” he murmured, his voice now holding a new, and very real, note of interest. “Your reputation, it seems, is not entirely unearned. You have the sight.”

“I have the will,” she corrected him, her voice a quiet, and very dangerous, thing, “to see the world as it is. And I see a serpent, in a very pretty, human-shaped suit.”

Franz’s amusement returned, now tinged with a new, and very real, respect. “A pity,” he sighed theatrically. “In a different world, you would have made a magnificent queen for our new age. But alas. The old world must be burned away to make room for the new. And you, my dear, are a beautiful, and very flammable, part of that old world.”

He raised his hand, the final, silent command to his unholy honor guard. The twenty Curse Knights took a single, synchronized step forward, their black swords raised, their red eyes burning with a cold, unified, and utterly merciless purpose.

The execution was about to begin.

And it was in that final, perfect, and terrible moment of suspended silence, that a new voice cut through the tension.

It was not a roar of a guard. It was not a scream of a victim.

It was a quiet, calm, and deeply, profoundly, and almost comically, annoyed voice.

“I’m afraid you’re interrupting the final inspection.”

The voice came from the shadows of a large, and very ornate, hedge of sculpted yew.

Franz and his twenty knights froze. The two royals spun around.

A figure stepped out from behind the hedge. He was dressed in the simple, dark, and utterly unremarkable attire of a junior palace servant. He was holding a clipboard. And he had a small, and very irritated, frown on his face.

It was Lloyd Ferrum.

He was flanked by two small, and equally unassuming, figures in simple handmaiden’s dresses. Jasmin and Martha Jr.

Franz stared at the three of them, his mind, for the first time, struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the situation. He had planned a perfect, silent, and world-shaking assassination. And it had just been interrupted by the catering staff.

“And who,” Franz began, his voice a low, dangerous purr of pure, condescending amusement, “are you supposed to be? The decorators?”

Lloyd did not even look at him. His gaze was fixed on the ground, on a patch of perfectly manicured lawn that had been scorched and corrupted by the Curse Knights’ unholy presence. He made a small, tutting sound of deep, professional disapproval.

“This is simply unacceptable,” he said to no one in particular. “That is a prize-winning strain of royal moon-grass. It will take weeks to re-seed. Annalisa is going to have my head.”