The attacker scrutinized Sepehr from head to toe. "I've heard old stories about how royal advisors were to put their king's lives before them," he said mockingly. "Even if that's true, how would you protect someone with that weak body of yours? What a fool." Sepehr had suddenly become a weak fool, "It would be easier than—"
The words were cut short as a cold knife touched the attacker's throat. "Drop your weapon."
*Clank.*
Several black-clothed individuals landed behind the attacker following the arrival of the first.
Zen recognized them upon seeing the sword and crescent symbol on their clothes. The Black Crescent. Ambrose's secret guard squad. They followed him like shadows.
In the novel, they did everything as per his orders, and no one knew of them other than Ambrose.
"Your Highness, we are sorry we couldn't act sooner. They hid among the guards and changed the route midway, so we were delayed," One of the black-clothed people spoke as he bowed. The rest of the group were already knocked out.
"You arrived fast enough," Sepehr replied, and the man bowed again.
"Kill him." Hearing the common command he read throughout the novel, Zen looked. Ambrose's gaze looked empty. His eyes were looking forward, but it was as if he were in a trance.
"Your Highness, he needs to be interrogated," Sepehr interjected.
Ambrose didn't even glance at Sepehr. "Take someone else from the group for interrogation," he said, now in a colder tone, "Kill him this instant. It's an order."
The guards hesitated. Judging by his appearance, the man was likely the head of the group; killing him would be a loss. They all knew that much. But they couldn't go against the order.
"As you command." The man acted as soon as he spoke, but the result was unexpected."
"Wait."
The silent strike of the knife followed. The atmosphere stilled, and a collective gasp froze the air. Blood dripped to the floor before anyone realized what had happened.
Yet, the one holding the tip of the knife didn't look fazed. Sepehr's hand grasped the knife, its sharp edge cutting deep.
"His Highness is too agitated to think rationally at the moment," Sepehr spoke calmly.
But no one around him, including the assailant, seemed to have heard. The guards were all looking from his bloodied sleeves to behind him with a petrified expression.
"Lord…uh…lord Sepehr…your hand…" the one holding the knife stammered out a few words that barely made sense. He had already let go of the knife from shock. So when Sepehr released the knife, it fell to the ground. Zen looked at Sepehr's palm, horrified. Blood soaked through Sepehr's sleeve, and bright red lines formed on his fingers and palm.
"It's a small injury," Sepehr said, shaking off their concern. "It has already stopped bleeding. Don't fret over it." It probably stopped bleeding because Sepehr didn't have enough blood to keep bleeding out, judging by his constitution. "Back to what—"
The crowd looked more lost by the minute. Sepehr finally looked behind, following their gaze.
Ambrose was looking at him, veins popping up on his head, pupils shrunken. If rage took a physical form, it might as well be him.
Sepehr looked back at the crowd almost immediately. "Uh- please arrest them for now."
"But Lord Vale, His Highness—"
"I'll talk to His Highness, you can go." Sepehr closed the door abruptly, cutting off any chance of further argument. It wasn't just about privacy, it was about confinement. So, whatever storm awaited, it would remain between them.
"Stop screaming at me!" Sepehr's voice cracked as he shouted. It wasn't much—barely more than a whisper, compared to Ambrose's roar—but it was the loudest Zen had ever heard him speak.
The inside of the carriage fell silent again.
"I am very sorry for raising my voice," Sepehr added, "I know I am not of much use in terms of protecting you, but it is still part of my duty."
"And getting injured while trying to save a criminal is also your duty?" Ambrose's voice was quieter now, but held equal sharpness.
"It's not," Sepehr answered. "The criminal will surely be executed if necessary. But if you were to kill him without a proper investigation, what would become of your image? You can't let emotions get the best of you."
"Sepehr," Ambrose lowered his voice as well as his gaze. "Sometimes I wish we had never met."
Hurt flashed across Sepehr's eyes for a moment too brief to catch. "I cannot change what has already happened. But if I have become too much of a thorn in your side, do you wish for me to forfeit my position?" God knew what Sepehr intended to accomplish by saying this, but Ambrose looked like his last string of sanity just snapped.
"Are you that keen on dying?" Ambrose's eyes flared with fury. Another wave of silence crashed between them.
"Your Highness, I am aware I did something very out of line. But it is my job to show you the right way to act as a ruler. I am willing to receive any punishment you deem necessary for my fault."
"What was that sense of duty of yours when you accepted my lies just like that?"
Sepehr avoided Ambrose's gaze. "Your Highness, that is not relevant."
"Why is it not?" Ambrose leaned forward, his voice a growl. "You preach about duty, but you bend when it suits you. Do you even know what you want, Sepehr?"
Sepehr finally looked directly at Ambrose. "I want to see you at your highest. And I will do what it takes for you to reach that point. Be it standing in front of the sword, or hiding away the marks."
Ambrose's hands clenched into fists. His voice dropped to a whisper, raw with emotion. "Do you have any idea what it would do to me if I lost you?"
Sepehr's expression wavered. His lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Ambrose's gaze bore into him, equal parts anger and desperation. "Don't you dare leave me."
The words hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Sepehr looked away, his expression unreadable. But Zen could see it—a flicker of emotion, a silent battle between duty and something far more dangerous: longing. "As you wish, Your Highness."
The argument seemed to have ended, but Zen couldn't sigh in relief just yet.
Ambrose looked down at Sepehr's hand, and his expression hardened again. "Your hand, does it hurt?"
Ambrose's expression made Sepehr glance at his own hand as if only remembering it now. The injury looked more unpleasant now, with thin dark lines of drying blood, with a deeper gash running across his palm. He tilted his head slightly, examining it like someone might do for a broken antique.
"Oh," he muttered, "That's deeper than I thought. I did not realize it because it doesn't hurt that much."
Zen thought Ambrose's expression couldn't get any scarier, but it did, to the point that even Sepehr had to look away nervously. He opened the door with force.
"Lain!"
"Yes, Your Highness." A guy appeared almost instantly.
"Check his injury."
He proceeded to check Sepehr's injury as though he had been waiting to do so.
"It really does not hurt. It's not even bleeding anymore."
"That's because your hand has gone numb. Lord Sepehr, you don't really have enough blood to still be bleeding out, that's a separate problem." Lain was blunt.
"He what?" Ambrose's voice cracked from disbelief. Sepehr didn't meet his gaze.
"This needs to be stitched. But it'll scar if not done neatly. It'll be better to do it when you arrive. I'll clean up the wound for now." The boy was diligent and worked without even paying attention to either of them.
Sepehr was subjected to another stare-down after Lain left. "Small injury, huh?" Ambrose muttered through gritted teeth. "What should I do with you, Sepehr?"
"I'll accept whatever punishment you deem worthy."
"Even if I lock you up?"
"...I suppose so, Your Highness."
Ambrose's eyes glinted with an emotion Zen couldn't quite catch. "Remember what you said."