CHAPTER 441: CELEBRATION TO CHAOS : REUBEN

Back in the banquet hall, pandemonium had rooted itself like a plague. Long tables lay overturned, silver platters scattered like fallen shields, goblets crushed under trampling boots. Wine and blood slicked the marble floor into a treacherous mirror. Nobles shrieked, their jeweled finery useless armor as they clawed for the walls, while steel clashed in a deadly rhythm that drowned out music, land laughter.

Reuben stood surrounded by guards, his mother at his side. Helga’s face was a mask, carved in ice, though her voice cut firm through the din."Keep the formation tight! Move toward the antechamber!"

But Reuben’s eyes strayed across the hall. Knights he had known since childhood—men who swore oaths on steel and blood—now turned their blades upon their brothers. The heraldry of loyalty gleamed on their tabards, but their swords carved treachery. Betrayal flowed across the marble like a second wine.

Duval’s sword flashed, cutting down a Zuran invader, yet around him, others merely stood, watching with cold detachment. Malik, too, was fighting—not toward them, but toward the exit, forcing his way through the melee. Realization struck Reuben like a blow to the ribs. Are they fleeing? Were they always meant to? Was this night always destined to end in blood?

A servant collapsed at his feet, throat opened by an unseen hand. Hot blood sprayed across Reuben’s boots. The guards pressed harder, shoving him toward the side passage.

The antechamber doors slammed shut, cutting off the chaos. The silence that followed was worse, a suffocating void.

Reuben scowled. "Mother, why aren’t the knights fighting back?" His voice cracked with anger.

Helga’s eyes, for the first time, betrayed unease. Her tone wavered, though she forced herself to remain steady. "I do not know, Son. Perhaps... perhaps they are fighting still."

A knight stepped forward, opening a concealed door in the chamber wall. Without pause, they herded the royal family down a hidden stair, into the dark safety below.

Then came the sound—a slow, deliberate click as the lock turned behind them.

"Well. Well. Well."

The voice slithered into the chamber, dripping with mockery. A man stepped forward, fully armored, his presence filling the small room. He unlatched his helmet and removed it with deliberate slowness. His eyes scanned the women like a butcher at market, lingering greedily on Amielle and Mira before fixing with cold amusement on Princess Ceres.

"Mother, what is happening?" Amielle and Ceres demanded together, their voices trembling between fury and fear.

Helga raised her chin, summoning her queen’s authority. "Do not fear. These are royal knights, sworn to protect us."

The armored man’s laughter erupted, rolling through the chamber like a devil’s chorus. It echoed off the stone, coarse and cruel, savoring the taste of their hope.

Reuben’s brows knitted. Helga’s blood seethed.

"What do you mean by this, you insolent knight?" she roared, the queen in her voice cracking through the fear.

The man drew his sword in a single, ringing motion, the tip leveled at Helga’s breast. The princesses screamed as one, their terror shrill against the steel.

"Do not raise your voice to me," he said with lazy malice. "Or the next time you will find yourself without it."

Helga froze, shock rooting her in place.

"Ah," the knight said, his smirk widening. "I see. I forgot. You do not know my name." He dipped his head in mock courtesy. "Allow me. I am General Turik... of Zura. An honor, truly, to meet you all."

Reuben’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. Helga’s blood ran cold. Amielle, Ceres, and Mira blanched until their faces were as pale as bone.

"Do you think you can abduct us and walk away unscathed?" Reuben’s voice strained to steady, each word dragged up through panic.

Turik chuckled, the sound a serpent’s hiss. "Big words, little prince, when your life hangs on my hand. Do you think you frighten me? The knights of Silverstone, and more than a few earls and barons, already bend their knees to Zura. Your ’little army’ is but a shadow."

Reuben’s heart pounded. His gaze darted to his mother, the truth slamming into him like a blade. His father had been right all along. They had been looking for enemies at the gates, blind to the dagger that had already slipped into their chamber.

"You guarded your front yard so well," Turik sneered, his smile a knife, "that you never saw us waiting in your garden."

Helga did not flinch. Even with a blade pointed at her breast, she forced herself to stand straighter, taller—every inch the queen.

"Remove that sword, or I will see your corpse rotting on a pike before this night is through."

Turik’s grin widened. He pressed the blade closer, so close the steel whispered against her gown. "Ah, a queen’s fury. Sweet as wine, but just as fragile. Tell me—how long do you think your crown will protect you when your kingdom crumbles around it?"

Amielle sobbed. Ceres clenched her fists, trembling. Mira hid her face in Amielle’s shoulder.

Reuben stepped forward, inserting himself between Turik and his mother. His voice cracked but did not falter. "You will not touch her."

Turik’s eyes gleamed. "Ah, defiance. I like it. You will make a fine little toy once your father’s corpse cools."

Helga’s eyes narrowed to slits. How did it come to this? Why have I not seen it?

She laid a hand on her son’s shoulder, steadying him. "Stand down, Reuben." Her voice dropped, cold as the grave. "He wants your rage. Do not give it."

Turik tilted his head, savoring her composure. "Impressive. The mask holds. But I wonder, Queen Helga, when the screams begin—will it still hold then?"

The chamber thickened with dread, but Helga did not lower her chin. "Strike me, then," she whispered, venom in her words. "Prove to every lord who watches from the shadows that Zura’s generals are nothing but common butchers."

For the first time, Turik hesitated.

Reuben seized the moment. "You mistake us for prey, Turik. But even cornered prey can maim the wolf."

Turik’s smirk returned. "Maim me? With what? Your trembling voice?"

But Reuben’s fear was gone now, burned away by something sharper. He stepped closer, his gaze locked on Turik’s. "You think you’ve already won. But you’ve forgotten one thing—my father is not dead. And as long as Heimdal breathes, Northem does not bow."

Turik’s eyes narrowed. "Bold words from a child."

Reuben’s lips curled into a snarl. "Not a child. A prince. And if you lay a hand on my mother, or my wives and sister... I swear by the heavens, I will carve your name into history as the fool who underestimated me."

The chamber trembled with the weight of his vow.

Helga, silent beside him, felt something stir in her chest. Pride. Terror. And the first spark of hope.

Turik only laughed again, though it rang hollow now, less certain. He pressed the blade back to his side. "Very well. Let us see if the prince’s fire burns... or flickers out in the dark."