Queen Vashti steadied herself against the cold stone wall, drawing in a breath that felt far too shallow for the weight pressing against her chest. Grief still clawed at her heart, raw and unrelenting, but fear was sharper now—urgent, demanding motion.
"We do trust you, Fedrick," she said at last, her voice low but firm. "I know that with you, we will be safe. Lead the way, and we will follow."
Sir Fedrick inclined his head once, accepting the burden those words placed upon him, then turned without hesitation.
They moved deeper into the hidden passage, the narrow corridor forcing them close together. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of ancient stone and dust long undisturbed. Above them, the sound of marching boots echoed—metal striking stone, voices barking commands, the clatter of armor growing heavier, closer.
The enemy had entered the chamber they had just fled.
Fear moved through the group like a shared breath.
Prince Odim felt it tighten his chest, felt his pulse hammer in his ears. His hand trembled slightly at his side, still sticky with his father's drying blood. Princess Raya clutched her mother's gown, twisting the fabric in her fists as if anchoring herself to the only thing left that felt real. Queen Vashti walked stiffly, her spine straight, refusing to allow grief to slow her steps.
They did not stop.
They pressed forward until the narrow corridor ended abruptly at what appeared to be a solid wall of stone—smooth, unmarked, ancient. No opening. No lever. No visible sign of escape.
Sir Fedrick halted.
"We are here," he said quietly.
Prince Odim stared at the wall, disbelief flickering across his face. "Here… where?"
"I thought you said there was a tunnel," Queen Vashti asked, her voice tight, carefully controlled, though unease stirred beneath it.
"There is, my lady," Fedrick replied calmly. "But not one that reveals itself easily. The tunnels lie beyond this wall. The path to them is more dangerous than the others—but it is also the least expected."
He raised his hand, signaling them to remain absolutely still.
Something had changed.
The footsteps above—once loud, relentless—had stopped.
No scraping boots.
No clashing steel.
No shouted orders.
Just silence.
Sir Fedrick's jaw tightened.
In war, silence was never peace.
It was intent.
Above them, Paragon stood rigid, his fists clenched so tightly his gauntlets creaked. The moment of weakness that had allowed the prince to escape burned within him like a festering wound. He had hesitated—and hesitation had consequences.
Before him stood General Zorantis, tall and broad-shouldered, his armor streaked with blood not his own. The castle around them groaned softly, wounded but not yet dead.
"I thought you had the boy," Zorantis said coldly. "Where is he now?"
"I did have him," Paragon replied evenly. "But he was not alone. His adviser was with him—Sir Fedrick. A dangerous man. He killed your soldiers."
Zorantis scoffed. "One man stopped you?" His eyes narrowed. "What are you—a child on a battlefield? How did you ever earn a place in the king's guard?"
Paragon did not respond. He simply returned the stare, cold and unblinking, his silence sharper than any insult.
Zorantis exhaled sharply. "It seems I must assist you in doing your duty, Sir Paragon. As long as the boy lives, this kingdom will never truly belong to us."
Paragon stepped closer, his voice dropping. "And whose fault is that? You were meant to be at the gates thirty minutes earlier. That was the plan. Instead, you arrive late and accuse me of failure. Southern Persians always seek the easiest path."
Zorantis's lips twitched, though whether in irritation or amusement, it was hard to tell. "Perhaps. But your Greek soldiers fight with honor—even when defeat is certain. They would rather die with their city than kneel to foreign rule."
"And that," Paragon said sharply, "is why the prince must be found. As long as he lives, the Greeks will wait for him. They will never submit."
Zorantis turned to his men. "Then we end this now."
He raised his voice. "Therionne!"
A scarred, middle-aged soldier stepped forward, his left eye clouded and lifeless from an old wound.
"Take thirty of our strongest men," Zorantis commanded. "Ride to the tunnels beyond the east gate. Move fast. No excuses."
"Yes, sir!" Therionne replied.
Zorantis stopped him with a raised hand. "The boy is to be taken alive. I will be the one to drive my sword through his heart. Do you understand?"
Therionne nodded sharply. "Yes, sir."
Below, Sir Fedrick felt the shift before he heard it—the subtle change in movement, the direction of the marching boots.
"I know where they are going," he said grimly. "They are heading for the tunnels they expect us to use."
Queen Vashti's breath caught. "Then we must hurry."
"We must," Fedrick agreed. "Before they realize we chose another path."
He turned to Prince Odim.
"This is going to hurt."
Odim frowned. "What do you—"
Fedrick seized his hand and drew a dagger in one swift, practiced motion. The blade flashed and bit deep into Odim's thumb.
"Aghh!" Odim cried out, pain exploding through his hand as blood spilled freely.
"What was that for?" he demanded, voice shaking.
Queen Vashti stepped forward, anger flashing through her grief. "What are you doing to my son?"
Fedrick did not answer.
He pressed Odim's bleeding thumb firmly against the stone wall.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the air roared.
"GRUUU! GRUUU!"
The ground shook violently. Stone groaned and shifted as if the castle itself had awakened. The wall before them trembled, cracking open as dust and fragments rained down.
Queen Vashti pulled Princess Raya into her arms, arching her back protectively as debris fell. Raya buried her face into her mother's shoulder, clutching tightly but making no sound. Odim staggered backward, heart pounding, while Fedrick braced himself against the tremor.
A deep rumble surged through the castle.
Above them, chandeliers crashed. Soldiers stumbled, gripping walls for balance.
"What was that?" Zorantis shouted, his hand flying to his sword.
Below, the wall split fully apart, revealing a narrow tunnel descending into darkness—ancient, cold, and unforgiving.
Sir Fedrick did not hesitate.
"Now," he urged.
They stepped into the passage as the stone sealed itself behind them once more.
Ahead lay darkness.
But also hope.
For faith was not certainty—it was movement. A journey taken without guarantees, guided only by the belief that beyond the fear and shadow, a future still waited.
And so they walked on, carrying not just their lives—
but the fate of Greece itself.