Chapter 9 The Broken Blade

The northern branch office was a low building made of thick dark logs. Inside, the air was warm from a large hearth, but the mood was tense. Lyra Thorne stood in front of the main desk, her hand resting on the silver hilt of her sword. Her silver hair was tied back tightly, and her uniform was clean, though her face looked tired.

The branch leader, an old man with a scarred face, looked up from his papers. "An assassin attack? Are you sure, Lady Lyra? This is the quiet north. We do not get many professional killers out here."

"I am entirely sure," Lyra said, her voice firm. "They were organized. They had high-grade weapons, and they were looking for Prince Killian. I managed to drive them off, but they will not stop. The capital wants to make sure he is gone."

The branch leader rubbed his forehead. "The prince vanished into the woods days ago. Everyone thinks he is already dead. The wild beasts or the cold usually take care of the weak ones."

"He might not be as weak as we think," Lyra muttered, remembering how he had looked at her before walking into the dark trees. "Just keep your men on high alert. If anyone sees anything strange near the borders, report it to me first."

The old man nodded. "As you wish, Lady Lyra."

Lyra turned around and walked out of the building. The cold northern wind hit her face instantly, blowing a few strands of silver hair across her eyes. She walked down the narrow street, her mind heavy with thoughts. If the palace was sending people this far north, it meant the royal family was getting impatient. They wanted a clean report.

She turned a corner near the town market, intending to head back to her quarters. Suddenly, a wet, heavy clatter made her stop.

A few feet away, a rusty iron grate on the ground lifted upward. A tall figure crawled out of the dark hole, stepping onto the muddy street. It was Jack.

He was in a terrible state. His heavy gray cloak was soaked with black muck from the sewers, smelling faintly of rot and old water. His face was covered in dark streaks, leaving only his dark eyes clear. But in his large right hand, he was holding three glowing blue spheres. They were perfect monster cores, completely clean and filled with faint magic light.

Jack dropped the heavy iron grate back into place with a loud bang. He didn't notice her at first. He just looked down at the three blue stones, a small nod of satisfaction passing over his face.

"What are you doing?" Lyra asked, her voice sharp as she stepped forward.

Jack stopped. He tilted his head back, his dark eyes looking at her from beneath his muddy hood. He did not look surprised to see her. He just wiped a streak of black mud from his chin with the back of his sleeve.

"I am working," Jack said, his voice flat.

"Working?" Lyra walked closer, her boots clicking against the hard ground. She looked at his dirty cloak, then at the perfect glowing cores in his hand. "You are crawling through the town drains like a common thief. Do you know what people are calling you in the tavern? The trash hunter. They think you are a joke."

"Let them think whatever they want," Jack said. He started walking past her down the narrow alleyway, his movements slow and steady. "The tavern guys pay for their drinks with talk. I pay for my food with these." He lifted the blue stones slightly.

Lyra grabbed his shoulder, stopping him. Her grip was tight. "Listen to me, Killian. This is not a game."

"My name is Jack," he corrected her, his voice dropping into a colder tone. He gently but firmly pushed her hand off his shoulder. "Keep that other name out of your mouth if you want to keep things simple."

Lyra looked around the empty alley to ensure no one was watching. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Fine. Jack. You need to understand what is happening. The capital is already sending a royal inspector. They are coming down here to verify your death. They want to see a body, or they want proof that you are gone for good."

Jack didn't blink. He just stared at her calmly. "Then they can look at the empty woods. I am not planning on introducing myself to any inspectors."

"You think you can just hide in the dirt forever?" Lyra asked, her frustration growing. "Those three cores won't save you when a real knight stands in front of you. You have raw power now, I saw what you did to those men, but you have no form. Your style is completely messy. You fight like a wild animal."

Jack let out a short, dry breath that looked like white mist in the cold air. "A wild animal stays alive. That is good enough for me."

"It won't be enough!" Lyra stepped in front of him, blocking his path out of the alley. "You need real training. You need to learn how to hold a sword properly, how to move your feet, how to channel your magic without burning your own skin. Let me teach you. I can help you become a proper warrior before the palace men arrive."

Jack looked down at her silver hair, then down at the clean sword on her hip. He took a slow step forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow over her in the narrow alley. Despite the black muck on his clothes, his presence felt heavy and solid, completely different from the trembling prince she used to know.

"I don't need a teacher, Lyra," Jack said quietly. "A proper warrior follows the rules of the palace. They move how they are told, and they die when the King says so. I am done with that."

"This is suicide," she whispered. "Street scraping will only get you so far."

Jack looked past her toward the deeper part of the town where his small shed was waiting. He slid the three perfect monster cores into his pouch, the blue light disappearing into the dark cloth.

"I know," Jack said, his face completely blank under the hood. "Let me do my thing, and you do yours. Just keep your eyes on the road, and I will keep my eyes on the dirt."

He walked right past her, his heavy boots leaving dark, wet prints in the mud. Lyra did not follow him this time. She stood alone in the cold alley, watching his gray cloak disappear into the shadows of the low houses. Her hand tightened around the silver hilt of her blade, a strange feeling of worry settling deep in her chest. The prince was truly gone, and whatever was growing in his place was becoming too dark to predict.