Unforgivable Weakness

Leran ran along the palace’s endless corridors, desperately trying to keep up with the guards, their heavy boots booming beneath the high ceilings. His lungs burned, a sharp, pulsing pain stabbed at his side, and his heart pounded so fiercely it seemed the whole palace could hear it. Every breath came hard, breaking into a hoarse sob. Again, a bitter, almost hysterical thought flickered through Leran’s mind as he rounded yet another corner, nearly slipping on marble polished to a mirror shine. His legs felt like lead, but he forced himself not to stop. The torches in wrought-iron wall brackets trembled and fluttered in the rush of air stirred up by their headlong sprint. Shadows darted across ancient tapestries and painted frescoes like ghosts on their heels. They’d wasted far too much precious time on that bandit—minutes that could cost the heirs to the throne their lives. But Leran fought to push those choking thoughts away, clinging to a thin hope that the risk had been worth it, that this mad bargain might yet pay off. It had to. Only a complete fool would refuse an imperial pardon and a generous reward. And that bandit was clearly no idiot. He had to see the advantage. At last they reached the northern wing of the palace: broad, sumptuously appointed corridors where, by ancient tradition, the members of the imperial family closest to the throne lived, along with their chosen confidants. The snow-white marble floors, hauled in from distant southern quarries; the old tapestries painstakingly woven with scenes from myth; the massive gilded candelabra, their candles nearly spent and guttered; the carved doors of rare red wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory. Leran stopped in the middle of the corridor, dragging in harsh, ragged breaths, his trembling hand closing around a carved column as his legs threatened to buckle. A chill slid down his spine. With horrifying clarity he realized he didn’t know where to look for the secret room. The Empress had said only “the northern wing,” but it was enormous. Dozens of doors, hundreds of possible hiding places: rooms, wardrobes, studies. “Sir… what do we do?” the gray-bearded guard croaked, bent with exhaustion. Down below, in the main halls and state rooms, the crash of splintering doors was already audible—shouts, the clatter of weapons, the crack of breaking furniture. The enemy had forced their way inside. Leran knew there was no time left. None at all, not a second. He threw aside every attempt at logic, every search for a sensible answer. “Follow me. Check every room! One by one! Every single one! Move!” His voice cracked as he lunged for the nearest redwood door with copper handles. He burst into one room after another, flinging heavy doors open with crashes that made the walls shudder. He rushed inside, swept a feverish glance over the luxurious rooms, and when he found no one, he ran on down the corridor. The guards were on his heels, slamming their shoulders into locked doors, breaking locks and bolts. “Prince Emil! Princess Lucille!” Leran shouted, his voice pitching higher and higher, growing more desperate with every word. Echo carried his call through the empty corridors. “It’s me, Leran! You know me! Where are you? Answer me!” A bedroom with an ivory-colored silk canopy—empty. A dressing room crammed with brocade and velvet gowns—empty. A private study with a heavy black oak desk—empty, too, except for an unfinished letter on the desk. Gilded chairs overturned, belongings strewn across the floor, carved chests thrown open—someone had been snatching up whatever was most valuable in a desperate rush. “No one!” the red-haired guard shouted, bursting out of the next room. “Emil! Lucille! Please, answer me!” Leran’s voice was already breaking. Despair was overwhelming. Too late. I’m too late, the thought rang in his head like a bell as he ran into yet another richly furnished bedroom: a huge carved bed beneath a heavy burgundy canopy, a magnificent crystal chandelier glittering with hundreds of pendants beneath the painted ceiling. And again… empty. Dead silence. He was already about to run on when he suddenly heard a quiet, barely perceptible creak of wood. Leran froze in place at once, listening hard to the silence, afraid even to breathe. The wooden wardrobe by the far wall, richly adorned with elaborate carvings of curling grapevines, birds of paradise, and cherubs, gave the slightest tremor. Then it slowly, cautiously opened a crack, and from the pitch darkness of a hidden passage a pale face looked out—a young maid, frightened to death. Seeing Leran, her wide-open eyes filled with tears of relief, and she gave a small sob, pressing her palm to her lips: “Sir Leran! Merciful gods! It really’s you!” The secret door, expertly disguised as the back wall of the wardrobe, swung wider with the plaintive creak of old hinges, letting the torchlight in, and the children ran out of the stifling darkness of their hiding place. Little Princess Lucille, fragile as a porcelain doll you’re afraid to touch again, for fear of breaking her; a four-year-old with luxurious golden curls spilling over her shoulders in waves. She wore a delicate little blue dress of thin silk, with lace ruffles at the sleeves and hem, now slightly crumpled. The small satin shoes on her feet were dusted with gray dust. And Prince Emil, a boy of eight, serious beyond his years, with dark chestnut hair slicked back and neatly combed even now. He wore a dark-green velvet doublet with gold buttons, and beneath it a snow-white shirt with a lace collar. His child’s face, stillround with youth, was deathly pale; his skin looked almost transparent, with dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes. His lips were pressed into a thin line. He was doing everything a child could to keep the courage and dignity befitting a prince. But real fear swam in his dark eyes. They rushed to Leran at once, firing off frantic questions, talking over each other. Princess Lucille grabbed his sleeve with her tiny fingers and tugged at it insistently, demanding his attention: “Where’s Papa? Where’s Mama? Why didn’t they come for us? They promised they’d come for us!” “We heard screams and footsteps!” Prince Emil added, straightening his back and trying to speak firmly—grown-up, the way a future heir should—but his voice betrayed him, trembling with his true feelings. “It’s the enemy, isn’t it? They’ve attacked the palace?” But Leran, knowing perfectly well that this was no time for long explanations, dodged a direct answer. “Later! Afterwards, I’ll explain everything, I swear… I promise,” he breathed, forcing his voice to stay steady and calm. He crouched down to meet their eyes and looked straight at the princess. “Your Highness, Princess Lucille, may I pick you up? We need torun. Fast.” The princess immediately scrunched up her pretty little face and shook her curly head, stubbornly pulling back. “No! I’m grown up! I’ll walk by myself!” “But, Princess, listen,” Leran tried to persuade her gently. “You’ll be helping us. Up in my arms, you’ll be able to watch for enemies far ahead. It’s a very important and responsible task. Only you can do it, understand?” But the little princess, apparently already tired of sitting so long in the stifling hiding place, grew stubborn again and stamped her foot. “I don’t want to!” “Lucille!” Prince Emil cut her off sharply. His voice was unexpectedly firm. “Stop it. This isn’t the time. Do what you’re told!” The little princess scowled even more, but she fell silent. Leran nodded to the boy in gratitude and carefully lifted her into his arms. “Now the most important thing’s to follow me. Fast and quiet. Not a sound. Understood?” From the narrow, cramped hiding place behind the wardrobe, bending so as not to hit their heads, two more maids emerged—the ones who had been with the children all this time. One was a young woman of about twenty, with a round face frightenednearly out of her mind; the other was an older, lean woman in her fifties, with stern, sharp features and gray hair neatly tucked beneath a snow-white cap. Her face was pale but calm. She carried herself with the dignity of the old, faithful servants of the imperial house. They moved quickly. Without wasting words, they took Prince Emil by both hands, one on each side, supporting him and guiding him. The boy let them. “To the tower!” Leran ordered softly, already turning toward the exit and holding the little princess tighter, feeling her heart hammering beneath her thin little dress. “Everyone else’s there.” They rushed back down the broad, lavishly appointed corridor toward the tower. Leran ran ahead, moving as carefully as he could so he wouldn’t jolt the child in his arms. The princess stayed silent, her face pressed to his shoulder. The guards flanked them, weapons at the ready. Behind them the maids hurried, almost at a run, holding up their skirts as they led Prince Emil along. Their footsteps, too loud in the empty corridors, echoed off the walls. Close. So close. We made it, Leran repeated to himself like a prayer. But when only a mere fifty paces remained to the saving left turn that led to the tower’s stone stair, rough voices suddenly rang out from a broad side corridor: “Hey, Mark, check those rooms on the right!” “There’s enough gold here for a fortune! Look at this cup. Pure silver!” “And pearls… an entire necklace!” Leran jerked to a stop, almost stumbling over his feet. Instinctively he clutched the princess tighter to him, shielding her head with his free hand. The guards behind him nearly crashed into his back, stopping with effort. Ahead, at the intersection of the corridors, on a broad marble crossing beneath a huge crystal chandelier, dark figures moved: no fewer than five, perhaps seven; it was hard to make them out. They wore armor. In one hand they held smoking torches, in the other drawn swords. They crowded around an overturned carved chest, jewels spilling out, as they greedily stuffed their pockets with glittering ornaments. They hadn’t noticed them yet in the depths of the corridor, absorbed in the looting. But it was a matter of seconds. One head turning, one torch lifted higher, and they’d be seen. And then it’d all be over. “Back,” Leran hissed, spinning on his heels. “Quiet. Don’t make a sound. We’ll go another way.” With one hand over the princess’ mouth so she wouldn’t cry out, Leran crept into a narrow side corridor, doing everything he could to keep calm. The maids followed on his heels, lifting their skirts so the fabric wouldn’t rustle against the stone. There had to be a way around—hidden service passages that only a few knew about. But fortune had turned away from them. They had gone no more than fifteen meters when heavy footsteps came from straight ahead. Before Leran could even react, another group of soldiers rounded the corner and came straight at them. Seven or eight men with torches and drawn weapons, moving in tight formation, methodically sweeping the corridors and peering into every open door. Time froze for a moment. Leran’s heart missed a beat. They stood staring at one another in mute astonishment, separated by some ten paces. Then, through the ringing in his ears, Leran heard one of the soldiers—a tall man with a bloodied sword—roar: “Grab them!” A maid behind him let out a shrill shriek. Leran whirled, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Back! Run!” he shouted, shoving the women forward. Her skirt snagged, and she stumbled, but she caught herself on the wall and stayed on her feet. They tore back the way they’d come. Behind them came the thunder of boots, the clatter of armor, and furious shouts—louder with every second, closer with every breath. Ahead, the corridor forked. Leran, without thinking, darted right. “After me! This way!” he shouted over his shoulder. Prince Emil slipped and dropped to his knees with a short cry. The older maid hauled him back to his feet in one sharp motion, not letting him lose even a second. “Run, Your Highness! Run!” Behind them, a savage roar rang out: “They went right! There!” The new corridor was darker—fewer torches burned here; many had gone out or been torn from the walls. The shadows thickened, grew dense, almost tangible. Leran slammed his shoulder into the jutting edge of a stone column. Pain speared through his arm likea sharp needle. He faltered for a second. And in that moment something whistled past his head and struck the wall ahead with a light metallic ring. A dagger. “Get down!” the gray-bearded guard shouted, ducking himself. The young maid shrieked again, louder than before. Another whistle sliced the air. A knife sank into the wooden paneling on the left, quivering from the impact, the blade flashing in the meagre light. Leran bolted forward without looking back, pressing the princess to his chest. Ahead, a crossroads of corridors opened up—a wide space beneath a dulled crystal chandelier. And there, from a side passage, a second group was already running out, cutting them off. Their torches washed the walls in a blood-red glow, throwing long, sinister shadows. “They’re surrounding us!” the red-haired guard yelled. The gray-bearded guard stopped short, turned to face the pursuers, and leveled his spear, settling into a fighting stance. “We’ll hold them, sir!” he shouted to Leran without looking back, his eyes fixed on the advancing soldiers. “Run!” The red-haired guard shot Leran a desperate glance—wanting, for a heartbeat, to flee with them—but duty proved stronger than fear. Clenching his sword hilt until his knuckles whitened, he turned to meet the enemy. The first soldier crashed into them at a run. Metal struck metal with a deafening clash, sparks flying. The red-haired guard parried, pivoted on his heel, and slashed at the nearest opponent’s legs; the man recoiled with a cry, but two others were alreadypressing in from the flanks, closing the ring. The gray-bearded guard drove his spear forward, aiming for the throat; the shaft whistled through the air. Leran didn’t watch. He lunged for the nearest massive oak door. “Inside! Quickly!” He tore at the iron handle. The maids tumbled in, dragging Prince Emil with them. Leran, still holding Princess Lucille, turned and threw his full weight against the door, slamming it shut. The wood hit the doorframe with a dull, heavy thud. “Lock it!” he gasped at the women. The older maid, remarkably calm amid the chaos, turned a heavy iron key in the lock. The bolt clicked. But Leran knew it’d only buy them seconds. A wooden door wouldn’t withstand their assault. “The dresser. Move it to the door! Faster!” he ordered, setting the princess down. The women grabbed a massive, carved chest of drawers of dark wood that stood against the far wall. “Prince Emil, help!” Leran shouted, rushing to it. The boy, pale as death, clamped his small hands on the edge. Gritting their teeth, the four of them shoved the hulking piece of furniture inch by inch, wedging it tight against the door. “Drag everything you can!” Leran barked at the maids, wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. “Chairs, trunks, anything! Block the door completely!” They rushed to obey without a single question. And Leran paced the room like a beast in a cage, feverishly searching for a way out, his eyes darting over the walls, the ceiling, the corners. But there was only one way out of here: the very door they were barricading. The older woman hauled a heavy carved chair with a high back, moving it with surprising strength. The younger shoved a small three-legged table. They piled furniture against the door, building a chaotic but solid barricade. No, no… There had to be another way out. There had to. His eyes snagged on a tall, wide window with carved frames, draped with long silk curtains that fell to the floor. He rushed to it, yanked the heavy fabric aside, and flung the casements open. Cold air struck his overheated face. He leaned out and looked down. The ground wasn’t far below. Just one floor up. Below, dark grass and shrubs grew along the wall. “Sir!” the older maid cried, her voice shaking. “They’re breaking the door down!” Indeed, furious blows sounded from outside—from fists, boots, and sword hilts. The door shuddered in its frame; the wood creaked, but it held—for now. Leran grabbed the curtain and yanked with all his strength, trying to rip it free, but a thick rope threaded through iron rings held it fast. He yanked again, but the fabric refused to budge. Meanwhile, the maids kept piling furniture against the door—a clothes chest, another chair, a wicker basket of linen—anything they could find and shift. Princess Lucille stood in the middle of the room, pressing her palms to her ears, crying softly. Prince Emil wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, trembling from head to toe. Without losing another second, Leran drew the dagger from his belt—the very one Sergeant Garret had given him. The blade was sharp, well-honed. He climbed onto the wide stone sill, balanced on the edge, and reached up toward the curtain rope. Finding the thick cord that held the curtain, he began sawing through it with frantic force. The rope was strong, and the hemp fibers resisted every cut, but the dagger kept sawing through them. At last, with a soft crack, it snapped, and the curtain dropped, the rings chiming as it fell. Leran jumped down from the sill and grabbed the heavy, silky cloth. The pounding at the door grew louder. Wood splintered with a sharp crack. Someone was hitting it with something heavy. “It’s holding, still holding!” the younger maid cried, bracing her back against the barricade and digging her heels into the floor. With shaking hands, Leran began tying the curtains together into a makeshift rope. He knotted them in frantic haste, his fingers fumbling and slipping on the smooth silk. “Prince Emil, Princess Lucille, over here! To the window!” he called, not looking up from his work. The children, still holding hands, hurried to him. Lucille sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. Emil was pale, his lips trembling, but he forced himself to stay steady. Leran looped one end of the improvised rope around a decorative wrought-iron grille set into the stone window frame and crouched in front of them. “Listen to me carefully.” He gripped Emil by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m going to lower you down on this rope. You have to hold on to each other. Prince Emil, hold your sister with all your strength. Do you understand?” The boy nodded, swallowing hard. “I… I’ll hold her. I promise.” “Lucille, hold on to your brother. Tight. As tight as you can. And don’t let go, no matter what happens. Do you hear me?” Crying, the little princess looped her thin arms around his neck. Emil pulled her close with one arm and clutched the fabric of her dress with the other. Leran quickly used the knotted curtains as a makeshift rope to secure them both, looping the rope around the prince’s waist and fastening it under the princess’ arms—knots, knots, more knots—his hands shaking harder and harder. Behind them came an ear-splitting crack—wood was splitting under the blows. The barricade began to give, furniture sliding. “Sir! They’re breaking it! Another second and they’ll burst in!” the younger maid shrieked, near-hysterical. “Just a little longer! Just hold them off!” Leran shouted, cinching the last knot so tight his fingers went white. He lifted the children onto the sill and turned them to face him. “Close your eyes. Don’t look down.” Prince Emil held his sister tight in both arms. Gripping the makeshift rope, Leran began lowering them out the window. The fabric went taut under their weight; the knots creaked alarmingly. He fed it down inch by inch. His hands burned from the friction, his palms rubbed raw. “You’re fine. Just a little more,” he urged, though his arms were shaking, muscles quivering with strain. Behind him came a deafening crack and crash. The door collapsed inward with the barricade. The drawers spilled out, and furniture went flying across the room in a roar of splintering wood. Soldiers’ silhouettes appeared in the doorway, their torches flaring. “There they are! By the window!” “Leave it! Run!” Leran shouted to the maids, still gripping the rope. Below, the children touched the ground, and he felt the pull slacken. Thank the heavens. “Run! Hide in the bushes!” he shouted down. The maids rushed to the window. The older maid grabbed the rope and began to climb down first, surprisingly deftly for her age. The soldiers were already charging into the room, heavy boots thundering on the floor. “Seize them! Don’t let them get away!” The younger maid didn’t wait her turn. With a piercing scream, she jumped out the window. There was a dull thud as she hit the grass below, but she scrambled up at once, limping and clutching her side. Leran was last. He grabbed the rope with both hands and, without a second thought, swung himself over the sill and hung from it. And in that instant, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake. The knots, tied in haste, began to slip under his full weight. The fabric started to tear. Time seemed to slow. He felt the rope shudder and slacken beneath him. One more heartbeat, and the knot came apart completely. Leran was falling fast toward the ground.