Vincenzo's POV
The crossbow bolt flies toward my chest.
I dive left, using every bit of speed my injured body can manage. The bolt whistles past my ear—so close I feel the wind—and buries itself in the stone wall behind me with a sharp crack.
I hit the dungeon floor hard. Pain explodes through my reopened wounds. But I'm alive.
For now.
The robed figure is already loading another bolt. Their hands move with professional efficiency. This isn't some random assassin—this is someone trained to kill.
I scramble behind Adrian's cell, using the iron bars as cover. Adrian's body slumps against the bars, blood still flowing from the bolt in his throat. His dead eyes stare at nothing.
He was about to tell me everything. The name. The reason. The truth.
Now he's dead, and I'm trapped in a dungeon with a killer.
"You can't hide forever, Prince Cassian," the assassin calls out. That mechanical, distorted voice echoes off the stone walls. "I have twelve more bolts. You have nowhere to run."
They're right. The dungeon corridor is long and straight with no exits except the way I came in—where the assassin is standing. The cells offer minimal cover. I'm wounded, exhausted, and unarmed.
In my mafia days, I survived worse situations. But barely.
Think, Vincenzo. What would you do if this was a gang war ambush?
My eyes scan the dungeon for anything useful. Prisoners in other cells watch silently, some with fear, others with dark interest. None of them will help.
Then I see it—a guard's sword hanging on the wall near Adrian's cell. One of the guards must have left it there. It's ten feet away, completely exposed. If I try to grab it, the assassin will shoot me.
But if I don't try, I'm dead anyway.
"Who sent you?" I call out, stalling for time. "Was it the same person Adrian was about to name?"
The assassin laughs—a cold, mechanical sound. "You're smart for a drunk prince. Or should I say, you're smart for whoever you really are?"
My blood freezes. That's the second person tonight who's suggested I'm not really Cassian.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" The assassin takes a step forward. "Prince Cassian Asterion was a pathetic drunk who could barely tie his own boots. You fight like a trained killer. You strategize like a general. You survive situations that should kill you." Another step. "So I'll ask again: who are you?"
If I admit I'm not Cassian, I'm done. But if I keep denying it, they won't believe me anyway.
"I'm someone who refuses to die," I say instead. "That's all you need to know."
"Fair enough." The assassin raises the crossbow again. "Then die as whoever you are."
They fire.
I throw myself toward the sword, grabbing it as the bolt whizzes past my shoulder. My hand closes around the handle just as the assassin loads another bolt.
But now I'm armed.
"Better odds now," I say, standing despite my body's protests.
The assassin tilts their hooded head, studying me. "You can barely stand. You're bleeding from a dozen wounds. And you think one sword makes a difference?"
"I've killed men in worse condition." It's the truth. In my mafia days, I once fought off three attackers with a broken leg and a knife. "Put down the crossbow and fight me properly. Or are you afraid?"
It's a cheap taunt, but sometimes cheap works.
The assassin hesitates. Then they do something unexpected—they pull back their hood.
It's a woman. Maybe thirty, with sharp features and cold gray eyes. I don't recognize her. But something about the way she holds herself reminds me of the professional hitmen I used to hire.
"You want a fair fight?" she asks. "Fine."
She drops the crossbow and draws two long daggers from her belt. The blades gleam in the torchlight.
"I'm going to enjoy this," she says, advancing.
We circle each other in the narrow corridor. Every step I take sends pain shooting through my body. But I force it down, focus on her movements, watch for tells.
She attacks first—fast, brutal, aiming for my throat. I barely block with the sword. She's skilled. Very skilled. Her daggers move like extensions of her arms.
We exchange blows. Sword against daggers. My mafia street fighting versus her professional assassination techniques. The corridor rings with the clash of metal.
But I'm too wounded. Too tired. She's fresh and healthy.
Her dagger slices across my arm. Then my leg. Small cuts, weakening me further, making me bleed.
She's playing with me. Drawing it out.
"You're good," she admits, breathing heavily. "But you're dying. In another minute, you'll collapse from blood loss. Then I'll finish you."
She's right. I can feel my strength fading. My vision is getting blurry. I'm running out of time.
I need to end this now.
So I do something desperate—I throw the sword at her face.
She dodges easily, exactly as I expected. But it gives me one second. One opening.
I close the distance between us and punch her in the throat—a mafia street fighting move. Nothing elegant. Nothing fair. Just brutal effectiveness.
She gags, stumbling back, dropping one dagger. I grab her wrist and twist until I hear bones crack. She screams and drops the second dagger.
I kick her legs out from under her. She hits the ground hard. Before she can recover, I put my foot on her chest and pick up one of her fallen daggers, pressing it to her throat.
"Talk," I gasp, barely able to stand. "Who sent you? Why do they want Sera dead?"
The assassin smiles through her pain. "You think I'll tell you? I'm a professional. I don't break."
"Everyone breaks." I press the dagger harder. "And I'm very good at making people talk."
"Are you?" Her smile widens. "Then you should know—I'm not the only one. There are five more assassins in this palace. All targeting Lady Sera. You can't protect her from all of us."
Five more. My heart sinks.
"Why her? What did she do?"
"She didn't do anything." The assassin laughs bitterly. "That's the problem. She's an obstacle. A complication. And our employer doesn't tolerate complications."
"WHO IS YOUR EMPLOYER?"
"I'll never—"
Suddenly, the assassin's body goes rigid. Her eyes go wide. Foam starts bubbling from her mouth.
"No!" I pull her up, but it's too late. Poison pill. Just like the fake physician earlier.
She's dead in seconds.
I let her body drop, my hands shaking with rage and frustration. Two assassins. Both dead before they could reveal who's behind this.
Footsteps thunder down the corridor. Palace guards finally arriving, too late as usual.
"Your Highness!" The guard captain stops when he sees the carnage—Adrian's body, the dead assassin, me covered in blood and barely standing. "What happened?"
"Get the King," I say through gritted teeth. "And get Lord Blackthorn. We need to talk. Now."
They carry me back to the East Wing. The physician is going to murder me for reopening all my wounds again. But I don't care.
I need to tell everyone what I learned. Five more assassins. All targeting Sera. We're running out of time.
King Aldric and Lord Blackthorn arrive within minutes. They find me sitting in a chair near Sera's room, being treated by the very angry physician.
"This is becoming a habit," the King says dryly, looking at my fresh bandages. "You getting almost killed."
"Adrian's dead," I say bluntly. "Assassin killed him in his cell before he could tell me who's behind everything. Then she tried to kill me too."
Lord Blackthorn's face goes pale. "Is Sera—"
"Still safe. Your guards protected her." I look between them both. "But the assassin told me something before she died. There are five more assassins in the palace. All hired to kill Sera. They won't stop until she's dead."
The room goes silent.
"Five assassins?" King Aldric's voice is grave. "Inside my palace?"
"They're professionals. Probably disguised as servants or guards. We won't find them unless they want to be found." I stand, ignoring the physician's protests. "Which means Sera isn't safe here. She isn't safe anywhere in the capital."
"Then what do you suggest?" Lord Blackthorn demands. "Lock her in a tower? Run away?"
"No." An idea is forming in my mind. Dangerous. Crazy. But it might work. "We do exactly what the King ordered—I take Sera north. To the Northern Territories."
"Absolutely not!" Lord Blackthorn explodes. "The North is a disaster! Starving people, corrupt nobles, criminal gangs—"
"Exactly." I cut him off. "It's the last place anyone would expect us to go. The assassins will search the capital, the Blackthorn estates, the safe houses. But the failing North? Where a prince goes to fail? They won't look there."
King Aldric is nodding slowly. "It's actually brilliant. Hide in plain sight."
"It's insane!" Lord Blackthorn argues. "You're asking me to send my injured daughter into the most dangerous territory in the kingdom with the prince who once humiliated her!"
"I'm asking you to trust that I'll die before I let anyone hurt her again." I meet his eyes steadily. "In the North, I'll have absolute authority. I can control who gets close to her. I can rebuild my own security force from scratch. And while I'm fixing the territory, I can investigate who wants the Blackthorn alliance destroyed and why."
Lord Blackthorn looks at his daughter sleeping peacefully nearby. His expression is torn.
"Father."
We all turn. Sera is awake, propped up on pillows. Her face is pale but her eyes are clear.
"Sera, you should be resting—" Lord Blackthorn starts.
"I'll rest when I'm not being hunted." Her voice is weak but determined. She looks at me. "You want to take me north? Use me as bait while you investigate?"
"Not bait," I correct. "Partner. You're brilliant at strategy. You gathered evidence against Adrian for six months while everyone thought you were broken. I need that mind." I pause. "And yes, I need you to trust me. Which I know I haven't earned."
"You're right. You haven't." Sera's green eyes are sharp. "But you jumped through a window to save me. That's worth something." She turns to her father. "Let me go, Father. Let me help fix this."
"You're in no condition—"
"I'll heal faster if I'm doing something useful instead of lying here waiting for assassins to find me." She tries to sit up fully and winces with pain. "Besides, the Blackthorn family doesn't run from threats. We face them."
Lord Blackthorn closes his eyes, looking like he aged ten years. When he opens them again, they're filled with resignation.
"Fine. But I'm sending fifty of my best soldiers with you. And if anything—ANYTHING—happens to her, Prince Cassian, I'll bring the full might of the Blackthorn army down on you personally."
"Fair enough."
King Aldric stands. "Then it's settled. You leave for the North in three days. Use that time to heal and prepare." He looks at me seriously. "This is your test, Cassian. Save the North. Protect Lady Sera. Find who's behind this conspiracy. Succeed, and you prove you can rule. Fail..."
He doesn't need to finish. We all know what failure means.
After they leave, I sit in the chair next to Sera's bed. She's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For agreeing to this."
"Don't thank me yet." Her lips quirk in a tiny smile. "I'm only agreeing because someone needs to make sure you don't get yourself killed before we figure out who's trying to destroy both our families."
"Both our families?"
"You think this is just about the alliance?" Sera shifts slightly, wincing. "Adrian was stealing from the kingdom. Someone's trying to kill me. Someone forged your signature to start a war. This is bigger than one conspiracy." Her eyes are intense. "Someone wants to tear down both the Asterion throne and the Blackthorn military power. The question is: who benefits?"
She's right. I was so focused on protecting Sera, I missed the bigger picture.
"We'll figure it out," I promise. "Together."
"Together," she echoes. Then adds with a ghost of her fierce smile: "But I still haven't forgiven you for the engagement ball. Don't think being a hero erases being an ass."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She closes her eyes, exhausted. Within moments, she's asleep again.
I sit there watching her breathe, thinking about everything we've learned and everything we still don't know.
Five assassins. A hidden mastermind. A conspiracy that threatens two of the kingdom's most powerful families.
And I have three days to prepare before taking Sera into the most dangerous territory in the kingdom.
No pressure.
I'm about to leave when I notice something on the floor near Sera's bed. A small piece of paper that must have fallen from her blankets.
I pick it up and unfold it.
It's a note. Fresh. Written in elegant handwriting I don't recognize:
"Enjoy your trip north, Prince Cassian. The cold will be the least of your worries. We'll be waiting. And this time, Lady Sera won't survive our welcome. —A Friend"
My blood turns to ice.
They know. They know we're going north.
Which means someone in this room tonight—the King, Lord Blackthorn, one of the guards, the physician—is working for the enemy.
The traitor is closer than we thought.