Shadows Behind the Throne

Chapter 8 — Shadows Behind the Throne

The Emperor of the kingdom stood frozen, his hands trembling as distant screams echoed through the marble halls. The muffled roar of battle seeped in through the palace walls. He turned sharply to one of his personal guards.

“Go! Find out what’s happening outside!” he ordered.

“As you command, Your Majesty,” the guard replied, bowing before hurrying toward the balcony.

When he looked down, the color drained from his face. The courtyard below was a sea of chaos—fire, smoke, and bodies. The chief guard, the Emperor’s strongest warrior, lay defeated among the fallen. The guard stumbled back, panic rising in his chest, and ran to report.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” he gasped, falling to one knee. “The palace gates have fallen—the chief guard is dead! The rebels are inside!”

The Emperor’s eyes widened in horror. “What did you say…?” His voice cracked. He looked around the throne room, his fear boiling into rage. “Where are you now?!”

From behind a marble pillar, a shadow stirred. A tall figure stepped forward, cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath the hood. The air around him felt colder.

“You,” the Emperor said, his voice trembling with both anger and desperation. “You promised to help me—to protect this kingdom!”

The cloaked man’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Yes, we promised to help you… and that’s why we gave you the chief guard. But…”

He stepped closer, his tone darkening. “We never said we’d help you protect the kingdom.”

The Emperor’s fists clenched. “Don’t play games with me!” he shouted.

The man tilted his head slightly. “Careful, Your Majesty. If we can help you claim the throne… we can just as easily strip it away.”

Before the Emperor could reply, a thunderous crash shook the throne room.

The doors burst open—Fenlor and his attack squad stormed in, their weapons drawn, faces grim.

A second horn echoed through the city. The signal.

Wounded soldiers began retreating while the defense teams rushed forward to replace them, tending to the injured and forming a new line of defense.

“Fall back!” someone shouted to Fenlor, but he didn’t move. Instead, he raised his whistle and blew. The sharp sound cut through the chaos.

“Attack!” he roared. His men surged forward once again, charging deeper into the palace.

Moments later, the bartender and Henry arrived. They froze at the sight of Fenlor—bloodied but unyielding. The bartender ran up and smacked him across the head.

“You fool! Why didn’t you fall back when they told you to?”

Fenlor turned to him, his face pale but his eyes burning with defiance. “I fought someone… someone who nearly defeated me. How can I fall back when my soldiers are fighting to the death? I brought these men here to fight by my side—to die if we must. So tell me—how can I retreat now?”

The bartender stared at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “Heh… now you finally sound like a leader.”

He drew his weapon, turned toward the battlefield, and charged forward once more.

Fenlor tried to follow, but his body staggered—his wound was worsening, blood seeping through his armor with every movement. Still, he gripped his sword tighter, eyes fixed on the throne ahead.

The mystery man stood silently in the corner, watching the chaos unfold. The Emperor, desperate and pale, could do nothing but fight.

“Guards!” he shouted, voice trembling. “Protect me!”

The guards quickly formed a circle around him, swords raised, ready to defend their ruler with their lives.

At last, the moment came—the Emperor and the rebels stood face-to-face amid the burning wreckage of the throne room.

The Emperor raised his blade. “Even now,” he said coldly, “I’ll give you one final chance to surrender.”

The rebels shouted in anger, and Fenlor stepped forward, his sword gleaming despite the blood that stained it.

“We didn’t come this far to surrender,” he said. “It’s do or die now. Let’s fight!”

He blew his whistle. The sharp sound cut through the air as the remaining attack squad charged toward the Emperor.

The Emperor drew his sword and pointed at them. “Attack!”

Steel clashed. Fenlor rushed at the Emperor with all his strength. Their swords met with a heavy clang. The Emperor held firm, his eyes shifting to Fenlor’s wound.

“So,” he said coldly, “you’re the one who killed my chief guard?”

Fenlor glared back. “Do you have a problem with it?”

The Emperor’s face twisted in fury. “How did someone this weak manage to kill him?” He swung his sword violently, breaking Fenlor’s defense.

A loud clang echoed again—but this time, the blade didn’t reach Fenlor. When he opened his eyes, he saw the bartender standing before him, blocking the Emperor’s sword.

“That’s why you should’ve fallen back, you idiot,” the bartender said, pushing the Emperor away with a single strong motion.

Henry rushed forward and pulled Fenlor to safety. The bartender turned to face the Emperor again.

“Hey,” he said with a smirk, “I think you owe me something.”

The Emperor frowned. “What are you talking about?”