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Chapter Twenty: The Unquiet Grave

Clair screamed.

The door flew open, and Joey burst through the doors, flanked by Siebold and a few other castle guards. Joey was shoved aside and pushed to the floor, as Siebold hastily moved through the knights and into the room. His eyes widened. "My lady, are you okay?"

Clair wiped the tears from her eyes and rushed over to Siebold. She kept her back turned to the corpse. "Oh, I can't bear to look at him," she wailed, hoping she was convincing enough. "He said he was thirsty. I gave him drink prepared by the servants. And then he started… choking. It was so awful." She cried into his shoulder. The worst part was the stench.

"Examine the water," Siebold ordered.

Two knights entered the room and examined the goblet Benga had drunk out of. The knight drew back, scrunching his face up in disgust. "It's poison, Siebold. Strong poison."

"I should've checked the water first," Clair wailed.

"But then you would be dead, my lady," Siebold replied. He pulled away from Clair and walked over to the goblet himself to examine it with his own eyes. "Someone from within the castle must've done this."

Clair sniffed. "How could anyone want to harm Benga? My poor husband!"

Siebold examined the corpse. "A violent death too. His end was not kind."

"We should tell Lance. He'll want to know about this."

"No! Don't contact Lance!" Clair exclaimed. Lance would suspect she was behind the poisoning – a castle servant would never dare to poison a foreign prince especially within the royal castle itself. Lance would also never believe Lyra had committed the act – she had seen him talking to Lyra the night of her wedding. He looked a little comfortable with her. "We don't need to trouble him further. Not now. He's not even in the city anyway."

"Then the king must know at once," a knight said.

Clair bit her lip. Would Edward believe she had committed the vile act?

"Inform me of what?"

Speak of the devil, Clair thought. She turned around. Her grandfather was standing a few feet away, looking more tired and worn than last she remembered. Gone was the usual liveliness in his eyes. He looked paler too, and she could even see sweat beads on his face. What was wrong with him? Even his breaths were ragged. "Grandfather."

"My lord," Siebold said, falling to a knee to bow dutifully.

"Clair. I heard screaming. Are you all right?"

"It's Prince Benga…" she murmured. "He's dead. Poisoned."

"Poisoned? It cannot be." He pushed past the knights and stepped inside the room. "What in the name of Arceus… Siebold! Inform all the knights that every servant must be questioned, and the kitchen checked."

Siebold nodded. "Of course, my lord."

"To poison a future king within the royal family house…" Edward glowered. "I want Clair watched at all times. Have her food and liquid tested before she takes them herself. We must find the culprit."

"It must be one of the servants," Siebold suggested.

Was she to be treated like a prisoner once more? Clair tightened her jaw. Killing Benga was supposed to give her freedom – not more of a reason to remain indoors and be even more closely watched. "It had to be Lyra," Clair blurted out. "She knows too much. I thought she was weird. An educated village girl. Doesn't anyone else find that weird? Grandfather, she must be found and brought to justice! How could she kill Benga? She has to pay." She looked to the knights for some support, but none was given. Of course. She was a woman. Why would they listen to her demands?

"Find the girl," Edward said. "Grant permission to all soldiers they can enter every home in the city." He winced and held an arm out against the wall to support himself. His other hand moved to his chest.

"My lord?" Siebold said, his brows furrowed.

He pointed to the door. "Go. Send the order. The rest of you – take this body down to the morgue and prepare it for burial. The Unovan knights must be informed…" The knights picked up Benga's body and escorted him out of the room. Once the men could no longer be seen, Edward turned to Clair. "What motives would Lyra, a slave girl, have to kill Prince Benga?"

"We don't know anything about her. She could have plenty of motives."

Edward rubbed his temples. "And you had nothing to do with this?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Are you accusing me of poisoning the prince? Unbelievable!"

The old man fell silent, turning his back to Clair. Once there had been a time the man would've argued with her, but it seemed he had lost the willpower. Or perhaps he had admitted defeat. Something didn't feel right. "The people must be informed. I will ring the town bell. There will be a funeral for Prince Benga arranged. Do not leave the castle." He left the room before she could ask further questions.

Clair looked back at the now empty bed. The corpse had been removed, but his death would forever be permanently locked in her mind. Even now she could see him gasping and air as the poison seeped through his veins. She saw herself straddling the man's waist and pushing a pillow into his face to silence his struggles.

"You weren't supposed to die," she murmured. "Just a scare. A little one. Anything to annul the marriage. Grandfather would see you were not fit to be my husband, and I could stay here where I belong."

Someone would have to face death for the man's murder. Lyra was the perfect person to take the fall. No one would mourn a slave. The corners of her mouth curved upwards, as her hands sought the warmth of the amulet beneath her dress.

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Battered and broken, Jasmine sat in the corner of her room, her arms hugging her knees. Salty tears raced down her bruised cheeks. The night had been rough. She remembered it all so clearly. Every touch. Every kiss and bite. The pain. The blood. But most of all she remembered the shame. Surge had taken her to the tavern late at night when only the drunks were left. Two soldiers had offered decent pay for her services. She hadn't had a choice but to follow them to their home.

Now she was home once again. Even a graveyard would be more comforting than this place. She didn't dare close her eyes. Closing her eyes only brought back the nightmares of last night and made the visuals appear more vivid. She rubbed at her arms as if trying to rid them of the dirt, but the scars would forever remain in her mind.

How had life taken such a cruel turn? What had she done to make Arceus angry? What had she done to incur his wrath? Gazing upwards at the ceiling, she said, "Why have you forsaken me?" she pleaded. "I've done nothing but serve you. I dedicated my life to you. Why did you abandon me? Does love bear no meaning?" Her entire life she had dedicated hours to worshipping Arceus with her parents. Hours of kneeling before a statue of the horned god and hoping for a better life yet nothing good had come out of it. It seemed like a cruel joke.

She received no answer. Arceus didn't care. Did he even exist? Her parents believed that Arceus listened to all prayers but only helped those who had strong faith. But her faith had been strong. She made daily sacrifices. She defended Arceus against the nonbelievers. She prayed to him each day. Why had he not responded? The creator of life. But it meant he was also the creator of pain and suffering.

Perhaps this was a test of her faith. All she needed to do was prove herself and Arceus would come to her aid and save her from this life. But what if it had already come? What if Silver was supposed to be her saviour? The red headed boy had earned his freedom in the slave pits by killing others. Was that Arceus's way? Spill blood for freedom? Wasn't he supposed to be a just and merciful god?

But he hadn't answered her prayers. Did Arceus answer any prayers or was he content to sit back and watch the chaos unfold? Her parents had died believing in him. They even believed their deaths were part of a mighty plan. Jasmine had believed in them too. It was why she hadn't mourned their deaths. Because she knew they were going to ascend to Arceus's realm a land of paradise and peace. Or that's what she had believed in. All she saw was a desolate barren world of hatred and corruption. The soldiers… The royal family… the clerics…the knights… these were supposed to be the good people, but they did nothing when they had the power to end it.

The tears continued to fall. What purpose was there in this life? When she became old and grey, she'd be sent to the slave pits where she'd be killed for sport. Or perhaps she'd meet an earlier end succumbing to a disease obtained from the soldiers. Surge had told her to purchase some potions to prevent any illnesses. She had done so but she had not consumed any. What was the point? If she became infected, then perhaps she could infect someone else and damn them both. Death by disease would be better than a life of pointless servitude.

Climbing to her feet, she looked around the room, searching for something that would end her pain and suffering. Surge had probably wandered off to the tavern again to indulge himself in drink until he could no longer think straight. He would come home, and he would beat her complaining about his financial situation until she couldn't walk no more. "Is this what you want Arceus?" she said, gazing up at the ceiling once more. "Has this been your plan all along? To bring me salvation in death?"

She limped over to the kitchen area. Surge didn't keep any weapons at home. Not even any cutting knives because he feared what she would do. But there were other ways to die. The man kept a special potion in one of the cupboards. It was used for curing headaches after a long night out, but too much of it could have fatal consequences. The liquor had no name – it was something he had obtained from Agatha – a special brew he called it. The drink was dark red and smelled like honey and malt.

She searched for it now pulling open cupboards, desperately trying to find the key to her salvation. Cupboard after cupboard she looked, fumbling through many liquor bottles until she found the one that she was searching for. You were only allowed to take one sip. One too many sips and you would feel your insides burn up. Take more and your internal organs began to shut down one by one until you could no longer breath. Fingers wrapping around the glass bottle and removed the lid with her free hand and cast it aside. It rolled across the floor. The scent honey and malt filled her nostrils.

"No more pain. No more suffering. You couldn't save me. No one can but me," she whispered, bringing the rim to her lower lip. Tilting her head back, she allowed the liquid to pour into her mouth and down her throat. She would drink it all until there was nothing left. The warm liquid was thick, and it left a burn down her throat. When the liquor reached her stomach, she barfed, lurching forward expelling some of the liquid onto the floor. Her insides burned. It was as if she was on fire.

Her knees buckled and gave way to the ground, the bottle of liquor falling out of her hands. Glass hit the ground and shattered into hundreds of pieces across the floor. She lay down stretched out, drawing in deep breaths, feeling her heartbeat quicken its pace. A cold sweat gripped her body. There was pain – a burning pain – but her body had soon gone numb dulling the pain. Her heart rate slowed, and her breathing became ragged. But despite her weakening state, she felt at peace. No more pain. No more enduring Surge's beatings. No more having to worry about bruising. Eternal peace.

Darkness consumed her.

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"Let me get this straight. Chuck wants us to investigate these mountains and find out what happened to the missing soldiers?" Falkner said, shielding his eyes from the gentle rain.

Morty nodded. "Rumour has it there are tyrantrums who call these mountains their home." He came to an abrupt stop and raised a hand, pointing towards the mountains that loomed ahead. A thick sea of clouds blanketed the peak of the mountains. "I'd more concerned about getting flooded out. One of those merchant people was telling me a story of how people drowned in here during the great war."

Falkner paled. "Why are we here again?"

"Because Chuck is impressed." He started walking again, moving down the slope of the hill, continuing the path to the mountain range, crossing through a field of tussock grass. "I've never explored mountain caverns before. Never had a reason too. Never climbed one either." They reached the base of the mountains, and he arched his neck back, searching for a way up to reach the cavern.

"That's not what I wanted to hear…" Falkner murmured.

Morty squinted. The falling rain made it more difficult to see. Soon, his eyes adjusted, and he was able to spot a ladder leading up a steep, ragged cliff. "There's our way up," he called out. He searched for the easiest path through the jagged rocks then stopped at the base of the ladder, Falkner close behind him.

Falkner glanced up. He placed a hand on the ladder and gave it a hard tug. "Seems sturdy enough," he said.

"Indeed." He placed two hands on the rungs of the ladder then lifted his feet onto the lowest rungs. "Well. We should continue ascent of the mountain." Rumour was there were strange goblin creatures known as impidimp that made their homes on the upper slopes. He hadn't heard much about them except they were apparently quite hideous. He continued to climb the ladder until he reached a small platform. There was no cave entrance yet. He looked up and noticed another ladder leading upwards into the dense cloud. One wrong move and a person would fall backwards to their death. "Don't look down Falkner – you will lose your balance otherwise," he called down.

"People have made this trip before."

"Let's hope we'll be the ones to return home," Morty replied. Falkner cursed, but continued to climb. Each movement drained Morty of energy – he could feel his muscles ache every time he pulled himself a few inches higher, and the higher altitude made it harder to breathe. There seemed to be an endless number of ladders ascending the mountain, but how many people had ever made the journey back down?

Falkner was breathing heavily. "I guess we should be thankful we have ladders to climb."

The man was right. It could've been worse. Morty couldn't bear to imagine how they would cope ascending the mountain without the aid of a ladder in these sorts of conditions. Ignoring the sting in his ribs, Morty continued rung after rung, ladder after ladder. It felt like they were going nowhere, but soon they reached a point where there was flat ground. Morty clambered over the edge then lay flat on his stomach and aided Falkner. Falkner grabbed his arm firmly and Morty lifted him up onto the ledge.

"We're above the fog now," Morty said, looking over the ledge only to see more low cloud below. "Not quite the view I wanted though." It wasn't any better above with another blanket of dark menacing clouds.

Falkner wrapped his arms around his body. "I wish I had taken a few hot peppers…."

Morty turned away from the cliff's edge and looked around. "The ladders end here so there must be an entrance inside the mountain nearby. Look around. Keep your eyes peeled."

"Right."

He searched the rugged terrain, examining the ground, looking for a trail of footprints in the snow. Then he noticed it. A few patches of blood leading towards the mountain wall. He nudged Falkner. "Over there. We will follow the trail." He moved towards the trail while Falkner lingered behind. It didn't take him long to realize Falkner wasn't following behind him. Not hearing footsteps trudging through the snow behind him was a good sign. "Falkner – what are you doing?"

Falkner was frozen in place, his eyes wide. "It's nothing," he called back as he withdrew his weapon.

Morty walked over to his side. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not. Just cautious. I've never been up here before, and I know other people don't ever come back." Although he did not wear an expression of fear on his face, his tone betrayed his inner thoughts.

The man rubbed his nose. "Fear is a sign of weakness."

"No, it isn't. Fear is designed to protect us from harm." Morty placed a hand on Falkner's shoulder. "Despite what some people may say, admitting to fear is a sign of courage, not of cowardice." He removed his hand.

"You've never shown fear yet. Not with the mage. Not with that rogue mercenary."

Morty forced a dry laugh. "I've never had a reason to be afraid until now. It is part of being a mercenary. Show no fear or you might not be hired and that means no coin, but these caves… I admit, they are unsettling." His words did little to comfort Falkner. "What brought this on?"

"It's just... so quiet up here, that's all. Can you imagine living in such isolation for the rest of your life? It would be horrible."

Morty arched a brow at him, surprised by Falkner's confession. "Is this what you've been thinking about since we left Blackthorn?"

Falkner cleared his throat. "It's nothing. I guess we ought to carry on."

"Indeed, we shall."

They followed the trail in silence, following the bloody prints. He noticed a few scraps of clothing in the snow and stopped to examine them, dropping to his knees. He picked a scrap of clothing up and showed Falkner. "I guess Chuck was right about the missing soldiers coming this way. Let's hope we can find them." And find where this relic was. The sooner, the better.

"I hope they're still alive."

Morty didn't reply. The chances of finding anyone alive were slim, but had they been attacked by something from the inside or the outside? His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched shrieking sound. He lowered a hand to his sword then climbed to his feet. Up ahead, he saw a one-foot-tall humanoid creature approach them. It had a large head, a small, pink naked body, and wiry limbs. Each hand had three fingers each, and there was a surprising absent of toes on its feet. It didn't look threatening but looks could be deceiving. Morty tightened his grip on the sword's hilt.

"An impidimp," Falkner murmured.

The impidimp waddled towards them, its mouth curved upwards as if it were smiling. "Human."

Morty raised an eyebrow. "You can talk?" That was unexpected. So much for thinking impidimps were unintelligent. Where had they learned human speech? "How can you speak our language?"

The creature chuckled. A strange eerie hissing sound came from its throat. "A mage granted us the power to speak your language. You should not be here. Turn back while you have the chance."

"Several of our people have gone missing. We have to find them," Falkner pointed out.

The impidimp looked at him. "You will die."

"You are creatures of the mountains. You must know what has happened," Morty said slowly, keeping his sword raised. The creature didn't seem hostile – not yet – but he didn't want to take any risks. "There's a bloody trail here and a few scraps of clothing. What happened?"

The impidimp cocked its head to the side. "You're different from the other humans. I can smell it in you. You're not like the others who come through here," he replied, ignoring his question.

Morty grimaced. "I've been told that before."

It waddled closer to him, now within a sword's length away. It cocked its head to the left. "I can smell it in you, human. Magic. It's a part of you."

"Magic? I don't know what you are talking about," Morty repeated, his eyes narrowed.

The impidimp gave him a toothy smile. "You might not know it, but you can't fool me."

"Do you have anything useful to say?" Falkner said.

"We just want to know what happened to these soldiers," Morty added.

The creature laughed – or at least that's how he described the raucous shrieking that left its mouth. "They came here in a small group. All equipped. Swords and shields. They were laughing. All smiles. They entered the cave. One came out many days later, screaming. All covered in blood. His arm was hanging by a thread. He died here."

Falkner shuddered. "We really shouldn't be here…"

"We have to," Morty said. He turned to the impidimp again. "Do you know of a ring?"

"A ring? There are many rings. Many that do not change colour. One that glows red."

Gardenia had mentioned a ring that changed colour too. "I need to find it."

The creature smiled, revealing tiny fangs. "Many have come searching for a ring."

"This isn't just any normal ring." Morty gave an exasperated sigh. Talking to this creature was a waste of time. He lowered his blade, and tried to walk towards the cavern, but the creature skipped over and blocked his path. "I have a weapon that I won't hesitate to use on you," he added, pointing the tip of the blade at the impidimp once more.

"Mages came here before during your human wars. They came here and hid. But they were trapped by one of their own. Naoko. That's what the human said. Naoko," the impidimp repeated.

Naoko. That was a name he recognized well. He frowned. "Naoko."

"Yes, yes," the impidimp said, jumping up and down in the same spot. "Naoko. She killed them all. Cut their throats. Spilled their blood. I saw it all. I was there. Naoko talked to another human. Long green hair. Almost as white as the snow. All dressed in black robes carrying a staff. N. That was the name."

"N?" Falkner said.

"Never heard of him," Morty lied. The leader of their order. Ghetsis's grandson.

"They talked. Exchanged words. Then N left and Naoko wept." Before he could react, the impidimp jumped high and landed on his sword. It was surprisingly light, like a bird. Despite having no toes nor a tail, the creature was able to support itself without issue. "You smell like her. The same magic. Not like the other magic. Unfriendly. Unsettling."

Falkner looked at him. "We killed a mage."

Morty scowled, and brandished his sword, trying to throw the creature off. The impidimp simply jumped onto Falkner instead, much to the horror of the soldier. "Get off him."

The impidimp laughed again and sniffed the boy's neck then jumped off. "Your friend does not bear the taint. There is no magic in that one. But you I can feel. Dark magic. Blood magic."

"What? Him? A mage?" Falkner said, shifting his gaze between the impidimp and Morty.

"I'm not a mage."

"They drink the blood of the dead, they do," the impidimp said, keeping out of reach. Every time Morty took a step, the creature moved as well. It was far more agile in these conditions. Catching it, killing it, would be impossible. "Your friend is not what he claims to be."

Falkner withdrew his sword and pointed it at Morty. "What are you?"

"Are you going to believe what this wretched… thing has to say?" Morty retorted, sword still pointing at the impidimp. "You know me, Falkner."

"Not well enough it seems."

"I would strongly reconsider whatever thoughts are running through your mind." The impidimp laughed again and scurried away onto the higher slopes, repeating the words 'food' as it ascended. Morty grimaced, pointing his sword at Falkner. "You should lower that sword."

A bitter laugh escaped Falkner's throat. "I've been such a fool. I knew it was strange that you showed up out of nowhere wanting to join our people. You passed those trials easily. You were able to stop that mercenary. And that mage… The crypt opens for you. And now this." Again, he laughed, but there was no humour in his tone.

"Falkner. Reconsider."

Falkner did not lower his blade. "I should kill you where you stand, mage."

"And you'll die instead," Morty retorted. "I'm sure you've heard the stories about the mages."

The man faltered. "You don't deny it."

"You wouldn't believe me either way. But think about this, Falkner. You never would have left the city without me. Your own superior knows you're not strong enough to venture out on your own. But together, you and I have achieved something…. And we can do something more. Now imagine if we slayed a tyrantrum. Imagine the praises singing your name in the bardic tales for generations to come. You'll be a hero to your own people. Isn't that what you want?" Morty lowered his sword, hoping the foolish boy would put his blade away. The boy didn't need to die here.

"Naoko. You know this person."

"Never heard of her," he lied again. "You can't just assume all mages know each other and are alike. Edward Blackthorn might have deemed all mages dangerous, but that is a lie. Not all evil wears the same face. You're a soldier, Falkner. But that doesn't mean you can't think for yourself and make your own decisions as to what is good and evil."

Falkner put his sword away. He didn't look pleased, but the promise of glory outweighed his hatred of mages. "I still don't trust you. You could just leave."

People were so easy to manipulate. "I could. But I'm still here. If I wanted you dead, you would've died a long time ago." Morty shifted his attention away from the man and headed towards the cavern entrance.

Morty stepped inside. A gentle damp breeze brushed up against his skin. He could faintly hear the fluttering of bats inside. "We need a torch otherwise we won't be venturing too far inside."

"I can make out a corpse just a few feet away," Falkner answered, raising a hand, and drawing Morty's attention to a body positioned near a rock.

Morty walked towards it. There was just enough light to make out its features. Male. Young adult probably in his early twenties. He couldn't tell if the man was from Blackthorn or if he was just a passing traveller from a distant place. His journey had ended abruptly. There was a deep gash across his head, and his left arm was twisted in a way that was unnatural. He had fallen. Landed on a bad angle and hit his head on the rock. Dropping down to his knees, Morty grabbed the unlit torch in his right hand, prying the fingers off. The cold had caused the body to stiffen, but fortunately hadn't completely frozen over yet. He then rummaged through the man's satchel searching for a fire steel to light the torch.

"Light a fire," Morty said, handing the tool over to Falkner. "The torch already has char cloth wrapped around it."

Falkner took the fire steel and started scraping it against the quartz rock. It took several attempts for ember sparks to show. "I can't believe you're a mage… You're not what I thought you'd be."

"What? You thought mages wore funny hats and danced around pots?" he said wryly, recalling tavern gossip. Falkner didn't reply. Instead, the man gave him a withering glare. Holding back the urge to roll his eyes, Morty held the torch out to catch a spark. Once the spark made contact, the torch became engulfed in flame.

"I suppose I'm leading the way then," Falkner said, holding the torch before his face.

"I'll watch your back. I need one hand for magic and the other for the sword. We'll follow the path ahead and go downwards. I'm sure other adventurers have made it that far. They just never made it back out."

"Follow the trail of corpses," Falkner murmured.

"Indeed." Morty fell silent. "Blood will lead you to treasure."

The squabbling of the bats had died down and now the only source of sound came from their footsteps and their breaths. The caverns were quite wide, but he suspected the deeper their descent, the narrower the paths would become. The further they descended, the more likely they'd come across water. This couldn't be the only entrance into the mountain – there had to be others and snow on the lower slopes would melt. Water would run down the slopes and some of it would be caught in the mountain. He hoped it wouldn't rain. Not even magic could save them from a rush of water. Remaining silent, Morty followed Falkner through the winding pathways of the cave.

.

The chime of the bells could be heard throughout the city. It was meant to inform the people that someone of status had died and it was a time to grieve. In the smaller towns and villages, the family of the deceased would visit each home to spread the news. In larger cities they had bell towers used to sound the alarm of an incoming attack. Who had died? Was it Lance? Clair? The king? Or was it Benga?

Lyra stopped scrubbing the floor and climbed to her feet. Intrigued, Lyra stepped outside to investigate further. Several knights walked past. She immediately withdrew back into the safety of her home. If the knights were patrolling the streets, then something serious must have happened. "Sheila?" Lyra called out. No response. Even the other servants were absent. Where had everyone gone?

"Lyra? Thank goodness you're still here!"

Ethan's voice. The boy had come through the backdoor entrance. "Ethan! What is happening?"

"You're not safe here, Lyra."

She raised her eyebrows. "What?"

"I saw Joey earlier. He said something about Clair screaming. I only managed to escape the castle before all exits were blocked." He approached her side and poked his head out the door. "They'll be back, and they're going to check every building."

"Why was Clair screaming?"

"The poison, Lyra. Remember the poison she made you collect? I don't think it was for rats."

Lyra's thoughts shifted to the poison she had made with Gary's help. Clair didn't want a marriage - that's what Lance had said. But Clair hadn't wanted to kill Benga… had she? To kill rats, Clair had written… unless she had implied Benga was one of those rats too.

"Oh Arceus…" Lyra murmured, hands moving to her cheeks, her blood running cold. The poison had been made for Benga. How could she have been so foolish to believe it had been for rats? But she didn't want to believe Clair would commit murder. What could have possessed her to think the best way to get out of a marriage was to kill her husband?

Her actions would bring upon the wrath of Benga's family from Unova. They would want answers and Blackthorn didn't have the numbers to defend against an attack or so that's what Lance had said. The marriage had been for political reasons. A troubling thought dawned on her. Clair would blame her for the death of Benga. She had been the one to brew the potion after all. It was only natural blame would fall upon her shoulders.

"Lyra," Ethan said.

She jumped, startled. "I thought the poison was for the rats, honest!"

"I know," he replied, his hands raised in a defensive manner. "I know you'd never poison anyone, but the guards aren't going to listen. You collected the ingredients and you brewed it."

"You don't think I don't know that?" she retorted.

He brought a finger to his lips. "Keep your voice down. We don't know who else could be passing by and listening in. These walls are thin here." Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, "You know you can't stay here. Once they find out what you really are, you won't even get a chance to defend yourself."

"And what do you suggest I do? Run?"

"You have to leave."

"And go where?" she blurted, panic rising in her tone, her heartbeat starting to quicken. "I can't run. I've got nowhere to go. I wouldn't survive out there." Once again, she felt helpless. The same helplessness she had felt the night the werewolves had attacked. She gave Ethan a desperate look, as if he could somehow sneak her out of the city.

Ethan sighed. "You should've told someone about the potion, Lyra."

"And tell who? Lance? I haven't seen him around in days." Even if she did tell him about the potion, what exactly could he do? Clair would just wait and try again when he was absent then she'd have to incur Clair's wrath. She didn't want to know what the woman would do to her if she was in a foul mood. The woman hadn't seemed capable of plotting murder. "Ethan. Please. I need your support."

"And you have it, but I can't help you, Lyra. You made it. You're guilty. You could do your best to feign innocence, but the guards will not take your side over Clair's." He rubbed his temples. It was an action he often did when stressed. Some things hadn't changed even after all these years. "You won't even get a trial."

Lyra drew in a deep breath. "I need to get out of here."

"You said it yourself. Where are you going to go?"

"Anywhere but here." She didn't give him a chance to respond. It wasn't as if he had anything useful to say that would help her out of a seemingly impossible situation. She couldn't run and hide forever; the guards would find her eventually and she'd have to face the inevitable. What had her mother died for? She headed for the back door, ignoring Ethan's protests. Pushing the door open, she rushed outside and headed out onto the streets, darting her eyes left and right, as if fearing an ambush.

The streets were busy. Much more than usual but that was to be expected. The bells continued to ring. Women were leaving their homes to investigate. Men had stopped work to head towards the city centre. Even children stopped their games as if they understood something major had happened. Only the guards had continued their work patrolling the streets.

Lyra moved away from the servant's quarters and headed towards the market district where it would be easier to blend in with the people. Hopefully, no one would recognize her. Her stomach muscles coiled every time she spotted a guard in the distance. The sense of uneasiness. How many of them knew she was Clair's servant? What if Clair had already informed them?

"Are we under attack?"

"I heard a rumour a royal died!"

Lyra stopped. There were two children, a boy and a girl, hanging around the now empty stalls. She supposed they were hoping to steal a few objects whilst the owners had left to investigate. The city was in a state of panic. No one in the right mind would leave their stall unattended, but curiosity had driven these stall owners to leave. People were gravitating towards the castle courtyard. She moved closer towards the children.

"There's word it was Lance. He hasn't been seen in days."

True. Lance had been strangely absent. He had mentioned he would be absent for a few days but had hoped he would return before Clair's departure. He should've been back by now. She then frowned. Why did it matter if Lance had died? Clair was her master. Not Lance. Yet she found herself more concerned at the possibility of Lance's death than Clair's. Perhaps it was because she had formed somewhat of a bond with him.

"Don't be silly. Lance isn't dead. Nothing ever harms him. He's defeated wolves before. He's the only person who has. It would take an entire army to bring him down. He's blessed by Arceus himself," the girl replied, shaking her head.

The boy just shrugged. "No one is invincible. Even the mighty fall. Come on. Let's see which of us is right." They turned their attention away from the stalls and followed the rest of the crowd towards the castle keep.

Lyra decided to follow them. Rumour of Lance's demise had persuaded her to enter unsafe territory. Once again, she found herself walking back towards the direction of the servant's quarters.

A huge crowd had already gathered at the courtyard. Guards were stationed around the perimeter to ensure no rioting broke out. In times of instability such as this the behaviour of the peasants was unpredictable. Some of the older people had probably endured horrific scenes of blood and death during the Times of Trouble and feared it would happen again. The town bells ringing were never a sign of comfort. The city and its inhabitants were on edge.

The king was on top of the stairs peering down at the crowd. He raised an arm calling for silence then started to talk. No sign of Lance. No sign of Clair either. And no sign of Prince Benga. The king addressed the crowd, a sombre look on his face. The knights were stationed on each step, their hands resting on their swords. "The bells have been rung to inform you of an assassin within our walls. Poison has spread throughout Prince Benga's body and he clings to his life as we speak. The guards will be checking every household for evidence of contamination. We do not know how far this poison has spread."

Whispers broke out amongst the people. People who had never exchanged words with each other were suddenly talking. Other people were noticeably concerned. Some people feared the Unovans would invade Blackthorn in retaliation to avenge their fallen prince. Others believed the man had simply poisoned himself to get away from Clair.

One man called out. "Are we in danger from the Unovans?"

She noticed there were no Unovan guards in sight. Perhaps they were preparing the body to be escorted back home. The king shook his head. "We are in no danger. These walls will protect us. No enemy threatens us. Return to your homes and continue your work. There will be a mass funeral before the sun sets. The guards will patrol every gate – no one leaves. Rest assured this culprit will be found and justice will be delivered."

Lyra cursed. The city was in lockdown. How was she going to leave now? She didn't move until other people had started to leave. The king turned his back and retreated into the castle most likely to talk to his advisors about the future.

As Lyra walked away from the castle keep, all she could think about was how much time she had left in this world. Clair was probably still in grief – they wouldn't push her immediately for information regarding the culprit – but soon the guards would arrive on her doorstep and her fate would be sealed.