The prisoners were kept on the eastern side of the camp. As Gilles led the way, he went into great detail about what an asset he would be to Roel’s daily life. Roel tuned him out; his parting words with Rados made him think of similar conversations he had had in the past and that left him feeling despondent.

Olivier was like a brother to him, but there were things he could never talk about with someone who had led a life in commerce. Besides, Olivier was always direct when it came to emotions; he would immediately deduce that Roel was just in one of his self-pitying moods (which, admittedly, he often was) and then say that wallowing solved nothing.

He needed more of Olivier’s rationality. He had to pull himself out of his own head and focus on the task at hand.

A plan for the prince’s murder was already formulating in his head. All he had to do was confirm the condition of the prisoners. From there, it would be easy to manufacture chaos and kill the prince.

“Well, here we are,” Gilles announced. He walked up to the guard on duty, and Roel scrutinized the prisoners.

The prisoners were seated in a large prison wagon. Their attire, which consisted of a thin fabric that was used to combat the heat in Rove, was dirty from days of travel, but it was clear that they weren’t being mistreated. After all, they were all aristocrats from different houses of nobility that had been elected to lead Rove. What awaited them depended on how they would reply to the king. A favorable response would allow them to return to their country under strict regulations; anything else would result in death. Either way, their country would be swallowed up by Calorin.

Roel didn’t know much about the Republic of Rove, but there was one thing that made them stand out among the many other conquered countries: they were fiercely patriotic. That was the reason King Maxime had decided against invading them at the time. His army would be spread too thin, and it wasn’t worth travelling all the way down to Rove.

There was a fire to these prisoners. They seemed to recognize who he was, but their gazes remained firm and defiant. Or maybe it was because they knew who he was that their gazes were so.

And amongst all these aristocrats was one that stood out in particular. What tipped him off was a variety of things. She was the only woman. Her wavy hair was the same dark brown as her eyes, and unlike the other prisoners, she was wearing chainmail. There was an air of pride about her that somehow distinguished her from the other nobility. She sat with her back perfectly straight, her hands clasped together on her lap and her shoulders tensed. Finally, there was an undeniable hostility aimed at him.

Disconcertment: he was used to animosity, but it was usually hidden behind a noble’s polite smile or, like with Rados, there was some degree of begrudging respect. But this young woman hated him not just for who he represented, but for who he was.

“Don’t let them bother you,” Gilles said, and Roel had to hide that he had been startled by his sudden appearance. “The king will sort them out.”

He saw the prisoners’ gazes shift over to Gilles with disdain, but the young soldier either didn’t notice or didn’t care. However, the woman’s glare was still directed at him.

It might be worth prodding the hive, he thought. He turned to the nearest prisoner, a young man with long blonde hair who was sitting closest to the bars of the prison wagon.

“Greetings, I am Sir Roel. How are they treating you? You may be prisoners for the time being, but King Mathieu intends to treat you with the upmost respect and dignity.”

“I thank you for your concern. We are being treated well,” the young man said quietly. His expression had become guarded, his eyes casted to the floor.

Roel went around the wagon, asking similarly banal questions. He tried to emphasize his status and the king’s name to provoke them, but the prisoners all gave short and concise answers. They were all united; no one would give anything away. He felt a slight respect for their solidarity.

Finally, he spoke to the woman who had glared at him so fiercely. “How about you, miss? Have there been any problems?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt the mood change. He saw the young man from earlier look in his direction. It occurred to him that she had been purposefully seated in the very center of the wagon.

“None, Sir Roel,” she responded, and she spoke his name with a certain archness. “You seem well. I did not expect to see you again.”

“The king sent me to ensure that you and your fellow council members have a safe journey.”

“Thank you.” Like the others, she remained stoic. However, he already knew she was different, possibly the nucleus of the group.

It was time to play it up a little. His parents had been farmers that you could’ve found anywhere, but his mom had a love for the theater. Whenever a troupe was in town, she always took him and his siblings to go watch them, and although he had grumbled about it, he secretly enjoyed watching the vibrant expressions on the (admittedly mediocre) actors.

“It is very fortunate,” he said loudly, “that the king has decided to rescue you all from yourselves. Heresy stems in all who were not born into the prosperous lands of Calorin, and it is our role to educate you. We will cut not at the root, but below it.”

The prisoners stirred at his words. The blonde-haired aristocrat opened his mouth to speak, but the person next to him pinched his wrist.

“The Lord understands your troubles well. It was He and His siblings who bestowed us our lives, and if you repent you will be allowed a seat at the Lord’s dining table upon your death. If you do not, your soul will be returned to the Lord and you will cease to exist.”

There was a silence, and just when he thought the speech had been a failure, the young woman spoke. However, her words were quiet and even.

“Who do you speak for, Sir Roel?”

“It is not me who speaks, but it is the Lord who speaks through me. He has blessed me with His favor, and it is our king who –”

“Your king might believe in what he says. So might your entire country. But you are not speaking for anyone.” Her mouth was a thin line, and her dark brown eyes bore into him. “Our country is a pious one. I have never questioned my faith in the Lord, but when I saw you at the siege, my beliefs might have wavered a little. Who are you to tell me about the Lord that I and my entire country has dedicated our lives to?”

Her words shook a little at the end; she wasn’t completely furious yet, but she was getting there. It would’ve been the perfect time to press her further, get her to say something that he could pass on to the king. But he felt a sudden disgust with himself.

Her anger, he realized, was the same one he had felt when talking with Prince Ghislain. Both conversations had been an attempt to imply the other person was ignorant of something they knew well.

He gripped the hilt of his sword. He immediately felt the prisoners tensing, but he didn’t say anything or move. For a moment, he just stood there, trying to hide the fact that his hand had been shaking.

“I see I might have angered you, miss,” he said, “and that was not my intention.”

“No, I am calm,” she said coolly. His words weren’t anything close to an apology, and hers wasn’t anything close to forgiveness, and they both knew it.

“I’ll take my leave now,” he said, and so he did without a single glance back. Gilles came over and spoke some quick words to him – something about how deeply moving his speech had been – but his mind was already elsewhere.

The prince would be slain the day after tomorrow.