CHAPTER 440: THE CELEBRATION TURNED INTO CHAOS

Helga did not fuss over the king’s welfare out of love. No—her tender gestures were performance, a queen’s mask carefully arranged for the nobles. Every outcry, every worried glance, was part of the stagecraft, meant to whisper devotion into the ears of the court, an a show of how caring a queen she was.

Had it not been her command that Heimdal should fall tonight? Whether he lingered in Balai Hamili or raised his goblet at the banquet, the knife’s edge waited for him, and the outcome would be the same—death of a king!

...

The marble blurred under Heimdal’s boots, his body half-dragged, half-guided by Odin and Percival through the palace’s inner passage. Alderan followed close, his jaw set like stone, while one of the knights bore Prince Dakota in his arms—cradled as though he was a princess. They could not let him walk, he would drag them.

Behind them, the thunder of chaos was swallowed by the narrow corridor. Torches hissed in the damp air, flames shuddering against the walls, painting the stone in feverish orange. It was as though the palace itself trembled with betrayal.

"Faster!" Odin barked, voice sharp with command.

But Heimdal lagged, his breath ragged, his chest burning—not from exertion but from rage. Dragged like a relic. While my sons bleed. While my hall burns. The fury sat bitter on his tongue, yet he swallowed it. Pride could not outrun steel.

At the corridor’s bend, shadows lunged. Steel flashed. The first assailant came low, blade seeking Odin’s ribs.

Percival caught the strike with his shield, but more shadows surged forward. Steel shrieked in the confined space.

Odin surged ahead with Heimdal, their pace stumbling. Percival’s shield snapped sideways, blocking another slash—yet from the darkness behind, a Zuran soldier slipped through, blade arcing down toward the king.

"Father!" Alderan’s voice rang from behind, sharp and desperate. He was a blur of motion, stepping between the blade and the king.

"Father!" Alderan’s voice cracked the air.

A blur of motion—then clang!

Steel bit into Alderan’s arm instead. The sword moved downward and hit his leg. Flesh tore, silk shredded, blood sprayed across the stone like a scarlet banner. Alderan staggered but did not fall; with a roar, he countered, his blade cutting his attacker down in a single furious stroke.

"Alderan!" Heimdal’s voice broke, sharp with fear, sharp with love. He reached out.

But Alderan pushed him back with his good hand. "No—Father, go! I can hold!"

Odin snarled an oath, driving his own blade into another attacker’s throat. The man gurgled and fell, clutching at steel, crimson spreading across the floor. Percival spun beside him, his shield intercepting another strike aimed for Odin’s chest.

"I’m not finished yet," Alderan rasped through clenched teeth, staggering but lifting his sword. His blood left a dark trail on the stones, each drop like a curse against the betrayers.

"Father, go. I’ll cover you!" Percival’s voice was flint. He thrust his sword at another assailant, his shield raised high as more figures spilled into the passage.

At last, the narrow corridor opened into a stairwell that would lead them to a hidden path to Balai Hamili. The air here was cooler, tinged with the damp scent of stone.

Percival exited first and and planted himself outside, shield braced, blade gleaming. "Out! Now!"

Odin shoved Heimdal forward, Alderan stumbling behind with blood slicking his arm. Above them, shouts rang closer. The passage shuddered with the thunder of boots.

"We’ll hold them," Alderan gasped, his face pale but defiant. "Go. Balai Hamili will be your fortress."

Heimdal who was behind Odin’s looked gloomy. His son’s blood burned brighter in his mind than the torches around them. He seized Alderan’s good shoulder and dragged him close.

He gripped his son’s good shoulder, his gaze searing. "Do not die, Alderan." The words cracked, brittle, like something breaking deep within.

"I will not, Father. Please hurry. More are coming." Alderan’s sword wavered, yet his eyes were fire.

But Heimdal did not move. His crown might have been absent, his body weathered, but in that instant, his presence filled the corridor. His eyes blazed, not with fear, but with the terrible weight of a king who knew betrayal had finally bared its teeth.

"Then let them come," he growled, wrenching a sword from a fallen guard. His knuckles whitened on the hilt. "If Northem bleeds tonight, it will not be only mine."

"Fool!" Dakota spat. "Do you think you are thirty still? Carry him!"

Odin was obedient to his elder. He wanted to carry Heimdal like Dakota was carried, but in the end, he still chose to give the king dignity.

He carried him on his back.

The stairwell spiraled downward, the stone damp and uneven underfoot. Odin gripped the wall with one hand, while his other hand tightened around the sword that King Heimdal had pressed on his palm. He has given his sword to his son when Percival’s own sword was impaled in the body of a Zuran who tried to sneak an attack on him while he was busy defending Heimdal.

The king’s sword felt heavier than he remembered, not from age, but from what it symbolized: the kingdom itself, slipping toward fracture.

The knight carrying Dakota, who was actually General Cobar, moved ahead, every step cautious, his face pale in the torchlight. Behind them, Alderan staggered, his injured arm pressed against his chest, blood dripping steadily.

Mariam frantically tore a strip from her clothing, the fabric ripping with a soft, desperate sound as she crafted a makeshift bandage for the gaping wound on his leg. Blood oozed between her fingers, a stark reminder of the urgency of their situation. She glanced at his arm, where another injury lay waiting for her attention, but the relentless tick of time pressed down on her like a heavy weight. Time did not wait for her and the arm was left unbandaged.

Guarding at the back was Pelagio and a few more knights of Dakota, and the secret guards of King Heimdal.

"Keep moving," Odin urged, his blade slick with fresh crimson. Percival led at the vanguard, shield raised as shadows darted behind them.

Another clash echoed through the stairwell. Arrows whistled, striking the stone. Percival blocked one, the shaft splintering against his shield. "Archers in the passage above! They’ll box us in if we delay."

Heimdal’s teeth clenched. The stairwell was meant to be a secret, known only to the royal guards, the princes—and the queen. Treachery had opened the passage.

"General Odin thrust Heimdal into Pelagio’s care. With his hands freed, Odin’s blade could carve a path more cleanly, and together with Percival drove the king forward—step by bloody step—until at last they broke through and spilled out within the perimeter wall of Balai Hamili."

At last they emerged within Balai Hamili’s outer wall. For a heartbeat, relief flickered—thin, fragile, like a candle’s flame. Then it was snuffed out.

Before them, the courtyard seethed with chaos. A tide of Zuran soldiers crashed against the king’s knights, the clash of steel and the screams of the wounded rising like a dirge. Torches toppled in the struggle, casting wild shadows across blood-slick stone. The very fortress meant to be their sanctuary had become a killing ground.

Dakota’s curse split the air. "It’s a trap!" His voice dripped venom, every word striking like a dagger. His gaze cut toward Heimdal, cold and accusing. "Your queen has damned you tonight."

The words struck harder than any blade. Heimdal’s chest tightened, the air in his lungs turning to ice. He should have foreseen this, should have known betrayal would follow him even here. The trap was not in the stairwell—it was in his beloved buodoir, in his marriage bed.

But before despair could take root, the tide shifted. From the shadows, a pair of warriors burst—one tall and broad-shouldered, another slender and swift, their swords carving arcs of light. A third in a white cloak struck with fists and kicks, and with every kick and strike of the palm, a Zuran soldier crumbled on the ground.

A wave of reinforcements emerged from the shadows, their cloaks billowing like dark banners in the moonlight. Blades glimmered as they caught the faint light, turning the night air into a dance of deadly steel.

"Master, please bring Alderan inside and let Shaya attend to him. He will die if he continues fighting." Somehow, Lara found her way to Jethru.

Jethru understood the gravity of the situation, and since his disciple asked respectfully, he sought Alderan, and dragged him to a safe corner where he saw Shaya hiding, waiting for him to accidentally stumble into her and killed them with her sword.

Lara spun, her sword clashing against four foes at once, sweat and blood mingling on her brow. She did not see the blade raised for her back. But just as the man was about to thrust his sword, Alaric abandoned his current enemy and leapt to save Lara; however, he was too late.

Gray’s fangs sank into the man’s wrist, Snow’s jaws clamping his leg. The soldier collapsed, screaming, before silence swallowed him.

Within the chaos, Heimdal, Dakota and Mariam were ushered into Balai Hamili’s inner chamber, a fortress within the fortress, bristling with traps and defenses. Following behind were their loyal guards carrying the barely conscious Alderan.

Yet Heimdal’s spirit did not rest.

Tonight, his kingdom stood at the precipice—not by Zuran steel alone, but by Helga’s ambition, Reuben’s folly, and the shadows of old blood returning.

Betrayal had bared its teeth, and the crown weighed heavier than ever.