Chapter 35: A Very Bad Tail

Following a high-ranking noble through a crowded public market sounds, on paper, like a remarkably simple assignment. You put on a drab coat, blend into the background of fishmongers and linen-merchants, keep thirty paces of breathing room, and make mental notes about who talks to whom.

It is, in actual practice, a miserable, toe-crushing exercise in extreme patience.

He certainly hadn’t expected the afternoon to turn into a ridiculous, high-society shopping spree.

A few feet away from his sausage-rack hiding spot, two local vendors were leaning over a wooden counter, loudly debating over a jug of cheap ale.

"I tell you, it’s madness!" the elder merchant scoffed, waving a wooden spoon in the air. "The Grand Duke! Engaging himself to a prince from the very kingdom we were fighting months ago! The ink on the peace treaty isn’t even dry yet, and Lord Roscaire goes and takes the man to his own bedchamber, I heard!"

His neighbor, a stout man selling salt-pork, gave him a baffled stare. "Have you been sleeping under a cabbage cart all week, Tomas? Haven’t you heard the word?"

"I’ve been busy running a stall, haven’t I?" Tomas grumbled. "I don’t have time to idle about listening to gossip like you!"

"Well, listen here then," the salt-pork seller whispered, leaning in so close his nose nearly touched the other man’s ear. "That blue-haired fellow walking beside the Duke? That’s Prince Xavion Astervan. The Xavion. The war hero who once broke Ostharia’s enemies, only to have his own people poison him!"

A passing customer, a well-dressed clerk with a basket of turnips, paused on the cobbles, joining in without invitation. "Is it true, then? The engagement is official? Not just a rumor?"

"Official as the King’s seal!" the salt-pork vendor announced proudly, slapping his thigh. "My nephew serves on the perimeter guard at the palace! He was standing three feet away when the King granted the royal favor. Duke Roscaire walked right up to the throne, passed over all the land and tax exemptions, and asked for the Ostharian prince instead!"

Tomas let out a low, long whistle, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. "Sweet gods above... what kind of wild, secret arrangement does a man have with a foreign prince to waste a King’s favor on him?"

"Yes, and it is a man with a man!"

The man listened from behind his chili sacks, not so much as raising an eyebrow. He already knew who Xavion was, of course. But the public’s reaction was fascinating. The entire city was buzzing with wild, outrageous theories, half the population convinced it was a masterstroke of border politics, and the other half convinced that Grand Duke had simply lost his mind over a pretty face.

The man shifted his weight, looking past the sausage rack toward the group.

Down the street, Grand Duke Roscaire was currently leaning over Xavion’s shoulder, holding up a pair of dark silk gloves and talking with animated, ridiculous enthusiasm. The Grand Duke looked far too pleased with himself, his bright green hair practically bouncing with energy, while Prince Xavion stood beside him with his usual quiet, perfectly composed expression.

Whatever the political reality behind the arrangement was, the two of them looked... well, comfortable. Strangely comfortable. There were no chains, no heavy iron collar, and no squad of archers pointing crossbows at the prince’s spine.

He trailed them further down the quarter, keeping thirty paces back, until the group halted near the edge of the central square where a street performer was juggling on a rolling platform. The stalker lingered near a stone pillar, folding his arms and pretending to read an old broadsheet pasted to the wood.

Then, the accident happened.

The performer’s wooden plank slipped. The crowd gasped as three metal props went airborne, and a heavy, steel-bladed throwing knife sailed straight toward the front row of spectators.

Xavion moved before the man could fully register what was happening, stepping forward to snatch the heavy steel knife out of the air by its hilt. The pommel clacked cleanly into his palm, stopping the spinning blade inches from a bystander’s face.

An explosive chorus of shocked, terrified exclamations erupted from the surrounding crowd.

"Did you see that?!" a baker shouted, dropping his basket of rolls. "He caught it!"

"Right by the handle, too!" a woman gasped, clutching her shawl. "Another inch and that steel would’ve gone straight into someone’s belly!"

A veteran guard standing near the pillar shook his head, staring at Xavion in absolute shock. "I thought the Ostharian prince had lost his power! How in the hell is he still moving with speed like that?"

"His magic, you idiot!" another soldier shouted. "Losing his magic doesn’t mean a general forgets how to use his arms!"

"Still... that’s a terrifying reflex," the first guard muttered, rubbing his own wrist nervously.

A small boy standing nearby tugged frantically on his father’s coat sleeve, his eyes wide as saucers as he pointed at Xavion. "Father! Father! I want to learn how to catch knives mid-air just like the blue-haired hero!"

The father stared at his son for two long, agonizing seconds before letting out a nervous laugh. "Ah... yes, son. Absolutely. I’ll teach you right after I ask him to give me lessons first."

"Okay!" the boy agreed with absolute, terrifying seriousness, completely convinced his father had a rock-solid training plan ready for next weekend.

The surrounding laughter rippled through the crowd, but the stalker didn’t laugh. He kept his eyes locked on Xavion as the prince calmly returned the weapon to the trembling performer, offered a quiet piece of advice, and walked back to his party.

Grand Duke Roscaire looked so thoroughly impressed he looked ready to burst into applause on the spot. He immediately stepped into Xavion’s personal space, grabbing the prince’s hands and inspecting his fingers for scratches with an intensity that bordered on ridiculous. Their exchange was casual, low-voiced, and distinctly... affectionate.

The stalker’s brow furrowed beneath his flat cap.

He’d expected to see a valuable political hostage, a broken, defeated royal being paraded around as a war trophy. Instead, he was watching a former general who could still catch flying steel with his bare hands, accompanied by a Grand Duke who treated him like a priceless glass statue while simultaneously buying him half the merchandise in the capital.

Something isn’t adding up, the man thought grimly.

He waited until the group turned away from the square, then fell into step behind them once more, taking extra care to keep his head down. They lingered near the river for a while. Only after some time did they leave the riverside and turn off the main commercial strip onto a narrower, quieter residential street lined with dark timber warehouses.

The afternoon light was fading, leaving long, dark shadows stretching across the alleyways.

The stalker turned a corner, and hit a sudden, frustrating obstacle. A heavy, four-wheeled hay wagon had jackknifed across the narrow street, its driver loudly arguing with an iron-smith while two horses stomped their hooves in the dust. The passage was completely blocked by stacked bales and swearing teamsters.

"Just my luck," the man spat under his breath.

That earlier commotion had already wasted enough of his time, forcing him to hang back among the crowd until he could pick up their trail again. If not for that blasted interruption, he wouldn’t have fallen so far behind in the first place.

He ducked sideways, scrambling over a pile of loose timber, trying to keep his line of sight over the hay bales. By the time he broke through to the other side of the wagon and reached the next intersection, the street was completely empty.

No green coat. No blue hair. No mountain of shopping boxes.

"No, no, no," the man muttered, a cold spike of panic hitting his chest.

He hurried forward, checking one narrow side street, then another. Nothing. Just an old woman sweeping her porch and a stray dog chewing on a bone. His irritation flared into a hot, prickling anger as he quickened his pace, his eyes darting frantically past shopfronts, behind dark alcoves, and down narrow storage alleys. They couldn’t have vanished into thin air. They had two men carrying fifty pounds of boxes!

The man ducked sharply into a dark, dead-end alleyway lined with stacked wine crates, empty cider barrels, and damp stone walls. He took three fast steps toward the back, looking for a side door or a servant’s passage where they might have turned...

"Hoy!"

The single word cut through the quiet alley like the snap of a crossbow string.

The stalker froze in his tracks, his boots locking against the damp cobbles. Every muscle in his body went instantly, terrifyingly rigid.

Standing, or rather, sitting, right at the end of the narrow alleyway was Grand Duke Lioren Roscaire.

He was perching casually on a heavy oak wine barrel, one leg crossed over the other, holding a small silver pocket-knife as he idly scraped a tiny speck of dried raspberry off his thumbnail. He wasn’t wearing his coat anymore. He was in his dark vest and silk sleeves, looking entirely comfortable in the damp shadow.

Lioren slowly lifted his head, his gaze settling on the stranger’s face. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his lips curled into a broad, radiant smile, the sort that might have seemed perfectly pleasant if not for the dangerous glint in his eyes. He looked positively delighted to have found someone who had gone to such trouble to seek him out, and that, somehow, made the smile all the more frightening.

"You having fun following us?"