Author's Note: The Settlers: Rise of an Empire belongs to Ubisoft and Blue Byte, and I wince every time I see it in a bargain bin. *sobs incoherently*

Cookies and credit to Rockerduck for proofreading, nitpicks and helpful suggestions for torturing Hakim as much as possible (he's the new Marcus). Hugs to BlairBrown for being an excellent sounding board, and a high-five to Hamish McGrath for coming up with a couple of lines.

This story spoils everything. Everything. Even a couple of unpublished works by heatherek and Rockerduck. You have been warned.

Blade struck blade, the noise echoing through the courtyard. Marcus stepped back, disengaging, then sprung to the side as his opponent lashed out. His riposte was prompt and utterly ineffective. She rolled under the strike neatly, sprung to her feet, and charged him with all the fury of a small banshee.

Sidestep, swipe, miss. Parry, thrust, parry again. The combat was dizzyingly fast. Luckily, Marcus wasn't wearing his plate armour, or he would never have been able to keep up. Metal against metal, over and over and over again, until his ears rung so he could not hear his own heavy breathing.

For a split-second he stepped back, lowering his guard, and she rushed him. Then, with a flick of the wrist, it was over, and Kestral's sword clattered to the cobbles.

"Not bad, Lackbeard," she admitted with a laugh, wiping her brow. "Sneaky. You been taking lessons from Crimmy?"

Marcus huffed, saluting his friend with a swish of the blunt training blade. "I resent that. My own invention entirely, thanks."

Kestral picked up her own sword and returned the salute, then shook his hand with a good-natured grin. "If I teach you how to shoot straight, will you show me how to do that one?"

"I can shoot straight. It's the direction I have trouble with."

"Please?"

"No."

She stuck her tongue out. "Meanie."

"Oh, you must allow him some trade secrets," said another voice, and both combatants turned. Alandra was standing a few yards away, smiling as she tapped her fingers against her armoured thigh. Hakim stood next to her, his arms crossed.

"How long have you two been watching?" asked Kestral accusingly.

"A few minutes," Hakim responded. His face was, as usual, completely impassive. Kestral evidently read something in it, though, as she shook her head with mock reproof.

"Spy."

"Hypocrite," he responded calmly, but this time even Marcus could catch the twinkle in his eye. "Sergeant Anderson was looking for you. Something about the new fletcher."

Kestral rolled her eyes dramatically. "I told Refec it wasn't up to standard. C'mon, Wise Boy." She matter-of-factly tucked her arm in his and towed him in the direction of the practice targets. He did not appear to resent this behaviour in the least.

Alandra moved closer to Marcus, chuckling as she watched the other two depart. "When are they going to hurry up and get married?"

"Who knows?" Marcus slipped his arm around his wife's waist. "If how long we took is any indication, they've got a while to go yet."

"I think we're atypical." She kissed his cheek, then waved in the direction of the castle. Marcus followed her gaze to see Crimson Sabatt and Thordal entering the courtyard; the latter returned the wave cheerfully, while Sabatt simply raised a hand. "And as for them …"

Marcus grinned. "Very atypical."

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Alandra rested her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly. "But I suppose it's the very natural consequence of –"

Whatever else she had said was drowned out by a shout from the battlements. A completely incomprehensible one, to Marcus' ears – Janubian, maybe.

Then a flash of metal in the sunlight, a sudden movement across the courtyard – and Hakim crumpled, sagging against Kestral as he dropped to his knees.

Marcus sprinted forward, as did Alandra – but while she headed directly towards Hakim and Kestral, his course was for the gate tower. He glanced up: a figure was bolting along the battlements, away from the gate and toward the watchtower. The guards were giving chase.

He was at the foot in a few seconds, halfway up the stairs in a few more. Breaking from the shadows, he reached the top and barrelled along the narrow stone pathway, trying to get enough air to shout an instruction to the guard.

It stopped halfway up his throat when the fugitive toppled sideways. Marcus slammed to a stop, watching with a mixture of revulsion and, curiously, pity as the limp form crashed to the cobbles. A single arrow protruded from his chest.

"Got him, sir!" came the cry a moment later.

Marcus almost groaned, breaking back into a jog. "Refec, I wanted to question him!"

The lieutenant of the archers climbed down the side of the watchtower, facing Marcus with a sheepish expression. "Oh."

Marcus glared at him briefly, then looked over his shoulder. Hakim was up – well, kneeling; Kestral had her arm around his shoulders; and Alandra was crouched next to them, evidently examining the wound. Thordal was coming up the stairs himself, while Sabatt was hobbling to the trio. Satisfied, he turned back to the offending archer. "It's all right," he said, trying not to wonder if the man had been dead before he'd hit the ground. "Good shot."

Triumph flickered in Refec's gruff expression. "Thank you, sir."

Someone finally made it to the castle alarm bell – Marcus made a mental note to reprimand Chester for not having that properly manned – and the clanging reverberated around the courtyard. Half the barracks was already pouring into the courtyard.

"What in Vestholm just happened?" Thordal bellowed over the growing din, jogging toward his fellow Knight.

"I haven't the foggiest." Marcus shrugged, raising his voice. "Refec, double the wall guard and search the castle. Just in case he wasn't alone. Thordal, could you get all those not needed out of the courtyard? Having the whole army here doesn't help any."

"Rightho." The Viking grimaced. "Looks like we got caught napping."

"Tell me about it."

Thordal shrugged ruefully, then cupped his hands to his mouth and began bellowing orders. Satisfied, Marcus hurried back toward the gate.

…

"I'm fine," Hakim grunted.

Kestral looked at him dubiously, patting his shoulder. "That's an interesting definition of 'fine' you're using there, Wisey."

Alandra pursed her lips, gently feeling the cut. For a cut was all it appeared to be – a big, jagged, heavily bleeding one, admittedly, but a cut all the same. The dagger was lying, red and ghoulish, on the stones next to Hakim; it had clearly just glanced off his ribcage, even Kestral could see that. If she hadn't seen the man throw the blade in the first place, it would have been far worse.

"It's not serious," the blonde woman said briskly, "but we should get it bandaged and stop that bleeding."

Hakim nodded wordlessly – he looked slightly dizzy, Kestral noted, and she tightened her grip a little. "Whoever that was, he was good," she managed.

"Very," Hakim said through gritted teeth. He closed his eyes for a second, then smiled weakly at her. "Thank you."

She shrugged, smiling reassuringly back; yanking him (mostly) out of the way had been simple reflex. Throwing knives were an old trick, and had the disadvantage, as a method of offing someone, of being easy to spot. For her, anyway. "No problem."

A click of a cane on cobbles amidst the hubbub; Kestral looked up to see Sabatt standing over them. The Guerannan woman's skill at parting a crowd made her almost envious. "All right, Southerner?"

He nodded, flinching as Alandra pressed her handkerchief against the wound. "Quite all right."

Kestral rolled her eyes. "Sure you are."

"Speaking – ah – relatively, of course."

Sabatt bent carefully, one hand still resting on the hilt of her stick; she picked up the dagger in her gloved hand and weighed it carefully. "A very distinctive design," she said musingly.

"Yeah, Crims, we'll work out whodunnit once Wise Boy isn't bleeding all over the courtyard."

"Very well." Sabatt glanced with irritation at the still milling soldiers, who weren't responding particularly quickly to Thordal's shouted instructions. One raised eyebrow was enough to make the nearest curious onlookers head back toward the gate, and the rest began to follow suit.

"Everything okay?" came a voice, then its owner came jogging up seconds later, panting.

Alandra glanced at Marcus over her shoulder. "Yes, I believe so." Then, to Hakim: "Do you need help to stand?"

He shook his head, then shrugged Kestral off gently and scrambled to his feet with a hiss of pain, fingers clamped around his side. She took his free arm, appointing herself honorary crutch. "Let's get you inside."

"Good idea." Marcus ran a hand through his hair absently. "What did he say, Hakim?"

"What?"

"The assassin. Before he threw the knife. He said something in Janubian, didn't he?"

Kestral couldn't see Wisey's face from her position, but she felt him stiffen. "Yes. He did."

"Well, what was it?"

"Does it matter?" Kestral asked, attempting a light-hearted chuckle, heart thudding crazily. If Princey was worried about it, it had to be incriminating. "I mean, he's dead now, it's not like he's gonna quiz us on it later."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "Not the point, Kes – it's still useful for motive."

"Sabatt, you speak Janubian, don't you?" asked Alandra, stepping to Hakim's other side, preparing to guide him back to the keep. "What did he say?"

Crims' face was more of a mask than Hakim's ever was, expression completely blank beneath the criss-crossing scars, oblivious to the death glare Kestral was sending her way. She tapped the flat of the dagger lightly against her palm. "I am no expert, of course, but I believe a rough translation would be something along the lines of –"

"Sabatt." Hakim's voice was hoarse. "Is this necessary?"

Crimson Sabatt cleared her throat. "Along the lines of 'Long live the king'."

…

Hakim hissed sharply, shutting his eyes. He suspected Lady Alandra was being careless on purpose. "Must you pull it so tight?"

"My apologies, Your Highness," she responded blandly, before tying the bandage ends with a tug that made him wince. Interpreting Alandra de Westerlin's behavior had never been one of his strong points – she too could be inscrutable if she wished – but right now she was making her disapproval plainly obvious.

He wouldn't have told his fellow Knights if he'd been given the option. But Sabatt had seemed determined to tell the world, for some nefarious reason of her own, leaving him no other choice. Lord Marcus had not taken his stammered confession particularly well, and neither had his wife.

"Hakim. Please." He wondered at what point being Prince of Sahir al-Awan had become something to be ashamed of.

"You'll forgive me, Your Highness, if I do not wish us to be on first name terms." She stood, checking his bandage one last time, and strode to the basin in the corner. "If that can even be considered your first name, which I'm sure it cannot."

"No." He rubbed his face, then picked up his shirt and examined it absently. It would probably be best to change before his interview with the Queen – a torn and bloodstained tunic would hardly make the dignified impression required. "But I prefer it."

"Perhaps you do, Your Highness," the woman said smoothly, washing her hands. "But I would not be so presumptuous as to use it, since you clearly don't think of me as an intimate acquaintance."

He deserved this. He'd lied to her and all of the Darion Empire for four years; he had no right to expect their confidence now. He did not need it, either – the Queen would certainly continue the alliance rather than risk a diplomatic fracas, and the opinion of Lady Alandra and the other Knights of Darion was irrelevant. Yet, illogically, he still craved their trust.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I should have informed all of you long ago."

She turned briskly. "Yes, you should." The tone of righteous indignation in her voice was uncomfortably familiar. "If you wished us to consider you a friend, of course you should have. Did you somehow think that lying to your fellow Knights would improve diplomatic relations?"

"No, I did not." He shifted his eyes to the wall, uncomfortably guilty. "I became entangled. It came to the point when I could no longer explain without causing – well, this."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said bluntly. "If you had explained things openly, even as recently as yesterday – yes, we would have been surprised and angry, but not nearly to this extent. As it is, I'm going to be hard pressed to keep Marcus from strangling you."

The image of Marcus attempting to physically assault him was more amusing than threatening, and he stifled a smile. "I do not need defending, Lady Alandra."

"Tell that to the wound in your side," said a voice. Kestral was leaning around the door; she flashed a brief but reassuring smile at him. "I've kept Lackbeard from running to Her Majesty. You can go and speak to her yourself whenever you're ready."

"Thank you." He stood stiffly, gritting his teeth as his maltreated side complained. "I will be there momentarily."

"'Kay." Kestral glanced at Alandra, worry evident, then left the infirmary again.

Hakim pulled his shirt over his head, the simple operation suddenly extremely painful. Satisfied that he was sufficiently decent for the trip to his quarters to change, he headed for the door.

…

The Queen of the Darion Empire raised both her eyebrows, watching Hakim carefully over her desk. "You tell me this now?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair – partly out of embarrassment, but mostly trying to find a position that didn't cause utter agony. "I understand that this comes rather late, yes. I apologise for that."

It was strange talking to the Queen on an equal footing – he was so used to playing the subordinate with her that a comparatively informal conversation between two rulers felt wrong. A quick glance around her simple but elegant office did nothing to reassure him, but he found himself willing to look anywhere but at the woman he had systematically betrayed.

So he was completely taken by surprise when she gave a low chuckle. "I'll admit I would probably be furious, Prince Ammar," she said, watching him with amusement as he looked up, "were it not for two extenuating circumstances. The first being that you have undoubtedly been an excellent asset to the Darion Empire, regardless of your true identity."

"And the second?" he ventured, as she paused.

Her eyes twinkled. "The second being that Lady Sabatt informed me of your true identity over a year ago."

That he had not expected. He clenched his jaw, struggling to control the sudden surge of anger. "I see."

"Don't murder her, Your Highness," the Queen requested politely, evidently finding the situation a lot funnier than he did. "It's hard to find good Knights these days."

"If you insist, Your Majesty." He cleared his throat stiffly. "I wish to return home as soon as possible."

The Queen's expression altered. "If the others have taken offence –"

"That is not the reason." Although some of them had. "I have been away quite long enough, and in light of today's events –"

"Of course." She nodded. "There is a mail carrier to Janub tomorrow, is there not?"

"Yes," he confirmed, "but to Juahar."

"You may divert it, if you wish."

"Thank you."

"It is of no consequence. It shan't significantly disrupt any of our communication networks."

He pushed himself out of his chair, forcing a faint smile. "Still, I thank you. Will you excuse me?"

"Certainly." The Queen gestured politely to the door, and he opened it – then came up short as he almost walked directly into Sabatt and Kestral, both trying and failing to look innocent.

"I think," the Queen said with a chuckle, "listening at my door might constitute treason."

"Our apologies, Your Majesty," Sabatt said without contriteness.

Hakim glared at her briefly, then switched his attention to Kestral. Retribution could wait until other matters had been resolved. "Kestral, may I speak to you privately?"

"Sure, Princey."

Sabatt, clearly unable to contain herself any longer, dissolved into helpless giggles.

…

Thanks to the search of the castle's outer walls, the library was unoccupied. Hakim sank into one of the sofas with a groan, one hand clamped to his side. He looked distinctly grey.

"How's it feel?" Kestral asked, sitting next to him.

"Sore."

"Poor Wise Boy." She squeezed his free hand. "Seriously, please don't kill Crimmy. I already thwacked her when I heard that."

One corner of his mouth shifted upward. "You didn't know she'd gone to the Queen, then?"

"Hadn't a clue."

"That's a relief." He closed his eyes and sighed. "I take it you two rascals examined the dagger?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Crims thought the design looked familiar, but she couldn't place it."

"I'm not surprised." His eyelids didn't budge. She wondered if he knew that by shutting them, he was removing his last barrier to inscrutability. Probably. "I only looked at it for a moment myself, but I am certain it bore the insignia of the Desert Raiders."

She blinked. "As in the basically-rule-Sahir-but-are-loyal-to-you Desert Raiders?"

"Precisely."

"Then why in the world –"

"– would they want to kill me?" he finished for her, eyes opening, fixed on the opposite wall. "That's exactly what I'd like to know."

"Yeah." She bit her lip, remembering what she'd overheard. "So you're going home."

"Yes."

"Forever?"

He hesitated briefly. "Yes."

Kestral's eyes suddenly stung. She wiped at them roughly, but it was no use. The tears were determined, all right. "Oh."

He shifted his gaze, looking down at her. "You're crying," he stated unnecessarily, tone alarmed.

"Well, duh!" She hugged her chest with her free arm, giving up resistance. "Of c-course I'm crying! You think I want to say goodbye to you?"

"Who said anything about saying goodbye?"

She looked up into his face, shoulders trembling. "What do you m-mean?"

"Kestral." Both smile and voice were amused but tender. "You are utterly ridiculous."

"Oh, t-thanks. Explain."

"Very well. I am, in admittedly a rather clumsy fashion, asking you to marry me."

She caught her breath. She hadn't expected that.

"Marry you?" she repeated blankly.

"Yes," he said, one eyebrow lifted.

"Just get up and leave? Tomorrow?"

He looked a little uncomfortable, some of the expectant complacency in his expression fading. "That was what I had envisioned, yes."

She blinked up at him, mind whirling. It wasn't as if she hadn't considered the idea. She wouldn't be a human female if she hadn't. But never once had marriage been mentioned between them. And for the suggestion to come now, like this …

"Wait a sec. You've been forced out into the open, so you're scurrying back home without a second glance, and you expect me to just drop everything and come right back with you? Wisey, we haven't even begun to discuss the possibility of marriage!"

His fingers flinched a little against hers, his expression stiffening. "I was under the impression that that's what we're doing now."

"In a 'clumsy fashion', maybe," she quoted, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes. She didn't want him to drop to one knee and serenade her, but this was just – "You haven't even asked me properly yet, if you hadn't noticed. You're just taking it for granted that I'll want to leave with you without saying goodbye to Milo, or – or anyone! And then you call me ridiculous for not immediately understanding!"

Mortification welled up in his eyes, and for a moment she thought she'd gotten through to him – but then his hand pulled away from hers entirely. She almost choked. Of course she wanted to go with him. But she wanted to be treated with some respect, not dragged along like a servile puppy. And it wasn't something she could just rush into without a second's thought. There were a hundred things that could go wrong, and they hadn't addressed a single one of them.

Now the tears were beginning to streak down her cheeks. "And if I do marry you, what then? What would all your subjects think if you just showed up at the doorstep with an ex-bandit? Look at me – what kind of princess would I be? I can't even be a decent knight – I'd be an embarrassment to you before a week was out!"

She gasped for air, longing for a contradiction, for some reassurance, or even just some indication that he cared – but none came. Instead he bolted to his feet and strode to the window, face stony.

"Some trophy," she whispered, voice wobbling. "'Cause that's really all I am, isn't it? Just a conquest, ready to be chucked in the castle with the shiny gold crown." Oh, how she wanted him to hold her close and tell her otherwise. But he did not move. She gasped shakily. "I'm not your royal regalia, Ammar, I'm a human being."

He spoke, finally, voice hard. "I take it that's a no."

Kestral's own voice was hoarse. "What do you think?"

Silent seconds stretched on, and suddenly she couldn't bear it any longer. Abruptly, she jumped to her feet and fled the room, struggling valiantly to hold back the tears.

…

Once she'd locked her door behind her, Kestral let herself break down completely, flopping onto her bed amidst wrenching sobs. Her heart was pounding, her stomach was tied in a thousand knots, and her head was beginning to ache.

Why did she have to be in love with such a pigheaded idiot? Yeah, she was madly in love with him – it cost nothing to admit that. But he was treating her like an inanimate object, not like the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. What kind of marriage would that be?

Her thoughts refused to untangle themselves, and she lay there quietly, trembling, until exhaustion got the better of her.

She was woken by an imperious pound on the door. The morning sun glared though the uncovered window. Had she seriously slept since –

"Rogue, unlock this door or I'm getting the Viking to take an axe to it."

Kestral slipped obediently off the bed and opened the door, rubbing her eyes, acutely aware that her face was still tearstained. Crimson Sabatt, standing outside, took one look at her and shepherded her over to the sofa at the foot of the bed.

"I'm okay, Crimmy," Kestral lied, settling against the cushions.

Sabatt raised an eyebrow and slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Do you want me to kill the blackguard?"

"N-no. I'm guessing he's already gone."

"Yes."

Kestral smiled humourlessly. "Typical."

Sabatt sighed. "He jilted you?" she asked quietly.

"No," Kestral whispered, looking down at her hands. "The opposite."

"You – why?"

"Because," she blurted, "he doesn't really love me. He wants a decorative little princess that he can treat with all the respect you would a puppet."

"Did he say he doesn't love you?"

Her tone was direct. The younger woman bit her lip. "No."

A long sigh. "Kestral, he adores you."

"That doesn't mean he can take me for granted," she murmured, feeling her eyes begin to burn again.

"No, it does not," Sabatt agreed firmly, patting her shoulder. "Did you reject him outright?"

Kestral swallowed. "No. At least, I don't think I did."

"In that case. Look at me." Kestral obeyed. "He's not going to stop loving you overnight, gypsy. Give him a couple of months to sort out this inconvenient assassination business, then he'll come crawling back." Sabatt's lip quirked. "Just you wait."

Kestral exhaled slowly. Maybe, just maybe, Crimmy was right. He'd come back from Janub so many times now, solely because of her, and that was before he even knew his feelings were reciprocated. Yeah, there was a tiny light at the end of the tunnel. "You think so?"

"I know so, bandit. Remember, Crimson Sabatt is never wrong."

Kestral giggled, rubbing at her cheek. "Never?"

"Never ever."