The smell of blood still lingered in the air, even as the last cries of the bandits faded into the forest. Eustass kept his hand wrapped around his mother's wrist, tugging her back toward the carriage.
"Mother—we should get inside now," he whispered, urgency layered in his voice. His small face was streaked with sweat and dirt, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating every second they had.
Elizabeth hesitated, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She turned back toward the battlefield, where the three Kingsguard fought like men possessed. She could see the wounds across their arms and shoulders, the crimson soaking into their armor. Yet despite being outnumbered, the guards had begun to push back the tide of attackers. Bandits fell, groaning and paralyzed, until only a handful remained, too injured to press the fight.
"Kairus…" Elizabeth's voice cracked, torn between fear and admiration.
But her son shook his head quickly. "No time. If we stay out here, they'll notice us."
He didn't want that. Not because he doubted the loyalty of the guards—but because he couldn't afford them knowing he had been involved. If word spread that the Prince himself took part in the fighting, even indirectly, it would raise questions far beyond what either of them could answer. Questions that might put them in more danger than the bandits ever could.
Dragging Elizabeth back, he pulled open the carriage door. "Inside. Hurry."
The two climbed in, shutting the world out once more. Elizabeth, trembling, sank into her seat as Eustass sat beside her. His hands clenched against his knees, his mind still racing. No one can know. Not now.
Moments later, the door swung open again. The three Kingsguard—faces hardened, armor torn, blood still fresh on their swords—peered inside. Their breaths came ragged, their chests heaving with exhaustion. Yet when their eyes landed on the two figures inside the carriage, they froze.
Elizabeth sat there, tears streaming down her face.
"Milady…" one of the guards whispered, his expression stricken. "Forgive us. Forgive us, please. We failed you. We let them near."
Eustass glanced up, his face composed but his thoughts biting at him like fire. They think she's crying because of the bandits. Because of the danger. But the truth… the truth is me.
Elizabeth quickly shook her head, wiping at her face. "No… no, you did not fail. You protected us. You fought bravely." Her words were steady, but her voice cracked in between. "I am simply… shaken. Nothing more."
The guards exchanged guilty glances, lowering their heads in shame.
Eustass kept silent, his small fists curling tight. Inside, his voice whispered against him like a curse: If they only knew. If they knew it was me who pushed her to act… me who forced her hand against her will. These tears… they're because of me, not them.
Elizabeth broke the silence. "You are hurt," she said, noticing the blood along their arms and sides. "We should turn back to the palace. You must have your wounds treated immediately."
But one of the Kingsguard, his voice firm despite the strain, shook his head. "No, milady. Our orders were to see you and the young prince safely home. That duty is not complete. We will not leave your side until you are behind your own walls. Our wounds can be tended along the way."
Elizabeth frowned. "That is foolish—"
Another guard interrupted softly, though his tone carried a soldier's resolve. "Please, milady. Do not burden yourself with worry for us. This is what we swore our lives for. Allow us this honor."
Elizabeth lowered her gaze, conflicted. She wanted to argue, to demand they turn back. But the fierce light in their eyes stopped her. She pressed her lips together and nodded. "…Very well."
The men gave her a weary smile and bowed their heads.
The carriage rumbled back into motion.
---
Days bled into nights as the journey stretched on. The forest paths seemed endless, high trees arching above them like watchful sentinels. Elizabeth often glanced at her son, noting the faraway look in his eyes. His silence was not that of a child's exhaustion, but of a man lost deep in thought.
Who wanted us dead? Eustass repeated the question endlessly in his mind. Ser Dwayne was executed, his crimes of treason laid bare for the world to see—but the attempt on their lives? The poison in his cup? That question remained unanswered. No one spoke of it. No one even seemed to care.
But Eustass cared. And he would find out.
At last, after a grueling journey, the carriage rolled to a stop. Elizabeth's mansion stood tall amid the trees, its stone walls and peaked roofs a sight of both safety and eerie solitude.
Elizabeth exhaled, relief softening her shoulders. "We are home."
As they stepped down from the carriage, Elizabeth immediately turned to the soldiers. "You may stay for a while to treat your wounds."
The men hesitated, but the firmness in her tone left them no room to argue.
"…Milady, as much as we would like to accept your order, the king has instructed us to return at once. There is still much to be done, and we will tend to our wounds at the palace," one replied with a weary bow.
They departed, leaving the carriage—and the mother and son—standing before the gates.
"Alright, if you'll say so." Elizabeth sighed softly, then reached out and brushed her son's hair with a gentle touch. "Come, Eustass. Let us—"
"Wait."
The single word from the boy froze her in place. His eyes were fixed on the front door of the mansion. Wide open.
"Eustass?" Elizabeth frowned. "What is it?"
The child's gaze didn't waver. He couldn't tell her—not yet. If there was danger inside, the last thing he wanted was to drag her into it. His mind moved quickly, constructing an excuse.
"Mother, could you check the carriage?" His voice was even, calm. "See if all our things made it through the journey. Some of the bandits might have stolen from us."
Elizabeth tilted her head. "But Eustass, we should—"
"Please." His tone was firmer now, surprising even her.
She paused, then slowly nodded. "Very well. But don't go far."
Eustass nodded once, though his eyes were already fixed on the yawning doorway of the mansion.
The moment her back was turned, he slipped inside.
The air was thick, heavy with silence. Each step creaked against the wooden floor, his small fingers tightening around the broom he had grabbed from the entryway. It wasn't a weapon, not truly. But in his hands, it would have to be enough.
Maybe I'm in a child's body now… but my instincts, my training, my mind—that never left me.
He locked the door behind him. The quiet thud echoed like a drumbeat of war.
Moving carefully, he advanced. Shadows stretched long across the hall. His ears picked up the faintest sound—a shuffle, a breath—coming from the direction of the kitchen. His lips thinned. Of course. The kitchen. If I were an assassin, that's where I'd go first. Plenty of knives. Plenty of tools to kill.
He crouched low, slipping beneath the dining table. His mind sharpened, racing through tactics.
The intruder expects an open path. Never give them that. Surprise is a weapon sharper than steel. Stay low, stay unseen—the shadows are cover, not just emptiness. Angles matter; use them. Don't fight head-on, fight where they don't expect you to move.
Two steps ahead. Always two steps ahead. Every opponent has a rhythm—watch their shoulders, their breathing, the way their weight shifts before they strike. Read it. Predict it. And when they move, you're already where they don't want you to be.
Even without a blade, even with just a broom, the body has weaknesses—points no armor can protect. A strike to the radius can numb the hand, make them drop their weapon. A jab to the solar plexus can steal their breath. Sweep the leg at the knee joint and their balance is gone. Precision beats strength every time.
That's what it means to fight with a mind, not just a weapon. That's what kept me alive before. That's what will keep me alive now.
He steadied his breathing. Every muscle coiled tight, like a spring about to snap. His fingers whitened around the broomstick.
The intruder's close. Kitchen. Knives within reach. Don't hesitate.
The silence was razor-thin. Then—movement. A shadow cutting across the light.
His heart surged. This was it. He slid out from under the table, eyes narrowed, mind already calculating the strike.
And then—
He froze.
Not a cloaked killer. Not some blade-hungry mercenary.
But… a child.
A little girl, huddled in the corner, no taller than him. Her knees tucked tight to her chest, a stale piece of bread clutched like treasure. She stared at him wide-eyed, crumbs dusting her lips, trembling as though he was the monster in the dark.
Eustass's breath stuttered. The broom dipped an inch.
"…What the hell…?" he muttered under his breath.
The girl didn't move. Didn't even blink. Then—like a scared animal—she shoved another bite of bread into her mouth, frantic, as if afraid he'd snatch it away.
The tension in the room snapped in half. No fight. No blades. Just two kids staring at each other, the silence heavier than steel.
Finally, the girl's lips parted. Her voice was cracked, barely more than a whisper.
"…Please… don't hurt me."