The Pulse Holds What was Said

(Noah’s POV)

Back toward the great hall, every step drags like stone. Each yard stretches wider than before. The path refuses to shorten. Distance grows even when I hurry. My feet weigh more with each beat. Nothing moves faster, not even time. This stretch of ground owns a slow curse.

A hush rolls through each hallway. We move past servants who stiffen, shrinking into stone corners. From far off comes yelling - feet slamming down passages, sharp and sudden. Smoke lingers on the tongue, mixed with something tighter, quieter.

Down the path moves Paige, steady under the load of our child asleep in her grip. My chest holds those papers - burning, real - the kind that might change everything we know. With each footfall, the night watches back, silent. At our sides pace Alex and Gareth, fingers near steel, glancing sharp into every dark corner.

“Remember,” I murmur to her, my voice low. “We are not begging for our lives. We are presenting evidence of treason. You are the Duchess of the North. Act like it.”

A quick nod, clean like a blade’s edge. Those gray eyes lock on me, showing not just now but then - the kid who stood firm against a killer, the adult who challenged royalty face to face. The fear from earlier is gone, wiped away. What's left is her real self, worn like armor.

Ahead, the heavy doors of the hall come into view. As we approach, the royal guards shift sharply upright. Their pikes swing together, forming a barred line. Stance rigid, they hold position without a word.

“The hall is sealed by order of Lord Prestwick. No one enters.”

“Lord Prestwick does not outrank a Duke of the realm,” I say, my voice quiet and deadly. “And he certainly does not outrank the truth. Stand aside.”

One guard glances at the other. Their faces tighten, unsure whether to move or stand still. A weight fills the air - something sharp, unspoken. It comes from me. Alex shifts, just slightly ahead.

Move aside, he demands, voice sharp like a blade cutting stone. Otherwise, our path goes straight ahead - over whatever stands in it

Still shaking, the guards drop their pikes. A narrow gap appears as one man shoves the door slightly ajar.

Frozen now, the air hums with unease where chaos once jumped. Blood stays behind, marking stone steps after royalty vanished without warning. Nobles huddle close, voices low like secrets traded in shadows. Their eyes keep drifting toward the empty seat - cold, waiting, dangerous. Middle of the wide room, Greymont stands tall, drawing eyes. Close beside him, Prestwick listens, head tilting now and then while quiet words pass from Greymont to a group of powerful men from the south.

“...clear that the corruption of unnatural practices has finally struck at the very heart of the kingdom,” Greymont is saying, his voice pitched to carry. “We must act, for stability, for the sanctity of the crown - ”

“For your own ambition, you mean.”

A sudden silence follows when my voice snaps through the room, sharp as a breaking branch.

A hush falls. Voices trail off, caught in silence. His jaw tightens - then color burns across Greymont’s cheeks. Men nearby shift away, clearing space like parting water.

“Wingknight,” Greymont sneers, recovering. “You dare return? After your witchcraft struck down the King?”

Illness took hold first, then betrayal followed close behind," I say as we step ahead, Paige beside me. Into the middle of the space our group goes, presence alone speaking loud enough. Visions played no part - only hunger for power pulled the strings

Prestwick puffs up. “You will not spew your northern lies here! Guards, arrest this man and his sorceress for treason!”

One guard steps sideways. Nobody else follows. Air feels heavy. What happens next stays unclear.

“I have a document,” I say loudly, addressing the whole hall, “signed by the cipher of Lord Greymont, authorizing payment to the assassin known as the Penance. Dated weeks before his army ever marched on my lands. Proof he planned invasion without cause.”

Somebody catches their breath, sharp. Others follow without a word.

Greymont’s eyes bulge. “A forgery! A desperate trick!”

I pull the first letter from my tunic, holding it aloft. “The second document,” I continue, “details his plan to kidnap or kill my wife, the Duchess, to ‘break the spirit of the north.’ He calls the King’s illness ‘the perfect cover.’ He sought to use our sovereign’s weakness to launch his own coup.”

Fear rises like smoke through the hall. Greymont feels their stares now - sharp, uncertain.

“Lies!” Greymont roars, but the confidence is cracking. “You planted these! You and your witch!”

“And the third,” I say, my voice dropping, becoming lethally soft. I hold up the final letter with the lily seal. “A report on the King’s health. Advice on timing. Sent from a source within the capital itself. Sealed with the sigil of Beatrice Sandoval.”

One word cuts deeper than any blade ever did. Silence falls - not quiet, but heavy, full of recognition. Her courtroom breakdown, the wild eyes, how she clung to stories like ropes - everyone recalls it too well. Names tie things together in ways no law can undo. Guilt doesn’t need proof when memory drags up something worse.

Trapped - that’s what Beatrice is! Prestwick shouts it out, yet his voice wavers like a twig in wind.

Not hers, that hand, says Paige, breaking silence. Clear, her voice cuts through, calm but firm. Ahead she moves, standing before Greymont now. Not only land drove you, my lord. A tale shaped your hunger instead - a tale where ruin wore a crown, where north bore witch and brat, where kings fell bloodless, leaving room for heroes forged in shadow. Footsteps shaped your story. Meanwhile, a killer handled what needed vanishing

Out comes the truth, sharp as a knife. This isn’t about policy anymore. A dark tale unfolds - twisted, grim - and he fits right into it, shaped by her voice.

Cornered, Greymont stiffens. A shift flickers across his face - strategy gives way to raw instinct. His fingers twitch toward the carved blade at his waist. Gone is the polished voice; instead, a growl cracks through. "Pretty speeches, fake documents - you truly believe they shield you?" The noble facade splits open, showing grit and hunger underneath. "The throne lies broken. Law bends only where I point it. By my word, you’re guilty."

A shaky voice, thin as paper, slides out from the door frame. It says the ruler still lives

Everyone turns fast to look at the door.

There he is - King Nolen - propped up by a doctor on each side. A shadow now, drenched in sweat, skin like yellowed paper left too long in sun. Yet his gaze stays sharp, lit from within by one last clear thought. Everything reached him, every word.

He stammers the title, voice cracking - Greymont’s skin turns pale, like ash settling beneath his eyes.

He does not look at him. My face catches his eyes, then hers, stopping at the papers I hold. Slowly, without help, he moves past those beside him, dragging one foot ahead. Though weak, his words carry - everyone listens because nobody speaks.

“The proof. Let me see it.”

Onward I step, down onto one knee, placing the letters before him. Steady, my hand rests there. Into his grasp they go, though his fingers shake like leaves in wind. Not every page finds his eyes. The coded line catches light first. Then - his sickness called a disguise. Last, the mark of the lily pressed deep into wax. From his chest comes a breath, rough and slow, dragging through silence.

His gaze rises, scanning the crowd of lords and ladies. A trace of former command colors his voice as he begins to speak.

“Lord Greymont. You are… a traitor. To your crown. To your kin.” He sways, and the physicians rush to support him again. He points a shaking finger. “Arrest him. And his conspirator, Prestwick.”

Out of nowhere - noise, yet somehow it feels planned. The soldiers move fast, this time knowing exactly what to do. A scream tears through the air, raw and sharp - Greymont losing control. He stands his ground, refusing to back down without a fight. His blade flashes free, aimed not ahead… but straight at my chest.

“YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!”

The world drags. There's a flash from the knife. Her expression - frozen in shock - I notice it. The ruler’s pupils grow wide, just then. Everything sticks.

Still, I’m in motion. Muscle memory kicks in after all those drills. Into his thrust I go - left hand seizing his wrist, right elbow slamming beneath his shoulder. A sharp snap echoes. Out comes a scream. The blade drops. Back he goes, shoved straight into the arms of the king’s men, their armor ringing as they pin him down.

Seconds pass before silence takes over. Quiet follows where noise once lived.

When Greymont is hauled off shouting and sobbing, while Prestwick follows in silence, the King collapses completely into the hands of those beside him. That sudden surge left nothing behind.

Paige catches his gaze, though it’s dim. A whisper is all he manages when words fail. Leaning in, she draws near - close enough to catch what slips out.

“The map…” he breathes. “Finish… the map.”

He blinks once, then stillness takes over. Weight slips from his limbs like sand from a cracked jar. A murmur rises among the doctors as they guide him down - suddenly there is a stretcher, waiting.

Paige breathes the words so soft they almost vanish, fingers lifting to cover her lips.

A tremor runs through the doctor’s hand as he presses two fingers to the King’s neck. His eyes lift, fixed on nothing. Breath still moves in the royal chest - yet time has almost run out. Maybe just hours remain

The air grows heavy, like stone. He stands caught, the one who turned against them. Evidence rests in plain sight, handed over without delay. Yet the ruler - the sole voice that carried true power and stood beside us - fades now, step by silent step.

The Chancellor, pale and trembling, wrings his hands. “The King… he gave no order of succession… the realm…”

Now the emptiness arrives. It spreads wider, sharper, hungrier than it ever did. Everyone looks away from the king on his carried bed, shifts toward the red mark staining the platform, then lands, slow and heavy, right on us.

Victory stands behind us now. Yet ahead, the struggle for the heart of the realm takes its first breath.

Now that there’s no ruler, we find ourselves at the center of chaos.