Chapter 3 : The King''s Command

Dawn came not with sunlight but with a steady, cold rain that turned the palace courtyards to gray mirrors. Cedric stood in the antechamber outside the King''s private study, the stone floor leaching warmth from his boots. He had been waiting for an hour, though no one had told him to wait. Michael''s instruction had been simple: "Be at the King''s study at dawn. He''ll send for you when he''s ready."

Ready for what, Cedric didn''t know. The uncertainty gnawed at him, mixing with the memory of Michael''s warning about curiosity. He kept his eyes on the tapestry opposite him—a hunting scene, hounds chasing a stag through a forest that seemed to go on forever. The threads were faded with age, the colors muted to shades of brown and green.

The door to the study opened. Not the King, but a servant—an older man with a face like weathered parchment. "His Majesty will see you now."

Cedric followed him into a room that was not what he had expected. He had imagined something grand, like the throne room but smaller. Instead, the King''s study was functional, almost austere. A large oak desk dominated the space, its surface covered with maps and documents. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled not with leather-bound volumes but with ledgers, scrolls, and what looked like military reports. A fire burned in the hearth, but it did little to dispel the room''s chill.

King Alexander stood at the window, his back to the door, looking out at the rain-swept courtyard. He wore no crown today, just a simple dark tunic and breeches. Without the royal robes, he looked more like a soldier than a king—broad-shouldered, his posture straight but not rigid.

"You may go," the King said without turning. The servant bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Silence filled the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the drumming of rain against the window. Cedric remained where he was, unsure whether to speak, to kneel, to wait. He settled on waiting, his eyes on the King''s back.

After what felt like a long time, Alexander turned. His face was unreadable in the gray light. "Sir Cedric."

"Your Majesty."

The King moved to the desk but did not sit. Instead, he picked up a document, glanced at it, then set it down again. "You''ve been in the palace three days. What have you observed?"

The question was unexpected. Cedric considered his answer carefully. "The court is divided, Your Majesty. Between those who support you and those who support the Dowager Queen."

"An accurate if superficial observation." The King''s eyes were on him, assessing. "And where do you stand in this division?"

"I swore an oath to serve the Crown, Your Majesty."

"Which crown? Mine? Or my mother''s?" The King''s voice held no emotion, but the question was sharp as a blade. "They are not the same thing, Sir Cedric. Not anymore."

Cedric felt the weight of the moment. This was a test, he realized. Perhaps the most important one he would face. "I swore my oath to you, Your Majesty. In the Great Hall, with your sword on my shoulders."

The King''s expression didn''t change, but something in his eyes shifted. "Good. Remember that. Because what I''m about to ask of you will require you to remember it often."

He moved to the fireplace, staring into the flames. "There is a man in the city. A merchant named Alistair Vance. He imports spices from the southern kingdoms, textiles from the east, wine from the western isles. Or so his ledgers say."

The King turned back to Cedric. "In reality, he imports information. And he sells it to the highest bidder. Recently, his highest bidder has been my mother''s faction."

Cedric understood now. "You want him stopped."

"I want him watched. And I want to know who he meets with, what information he trades, and where it goes." The King''s gaze was steady. "This is not a task for the Royal Guard. It requires discretion. And deniability."

"Why me, Your Majesty?"

"Because you''re new. Because you have no existing connections in the city. Because no one will expect a newly knighted champion of House Chen to be skulking in shadows." The King''s lips curved, not quite a smile. "And because Michael tells me you''re observant. And patient."

Cedric felt a mix of pride and apprehension. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"For the next week, you will leave the palace each evening after your duties. You will go to a tavern called The Rusty Anchor, near the docks. You will drink, you will listen, you will watch. Vance frequents the place. He has a private room on the second floor. I want to know who visits him there."

"And if I''m recognized?"

"You won''t be. You''ll go in plain clothes, not your uniform. You''ll be just another knight drinking away his pay." The King picked up a small leather pouch from the desk and tossed it to Cedric. "For expenses. And for appearances."

The pouch was heavy with coin. Cedric tucked it into his belt. "Is there anything else, Your Majesty?"

"One thing." The King''s voice dropped, though there was no one else in the room to hear. "If you''re approached—by anyone—you tell them nothing. Not even if they claim to be acting on my behalf. The only orders you take come directly from me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good." The King turned back to the window. "You may go. Report to me each morning. In person. No written messages."

Cedric bowed and turned to leave. He was almost at the door when the King spoke again.

"Sir Cedric."

He turned back. "Your Majesty?"

"The man you''ll be watching... he''s dangerous. Not with a sword, but with information. Information can be more lethal than any blade. Remember that."

"I will, Your Majesty."

The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time Cedric left the palace. He went first to the barracks to change into the plain clothes he had brought from home—a brown tunic, dark breeches, a worn leather jacket. Looking at himself in the small mirror, he barely recognized the man staring back. The knight was gone, replaced by someone harder to define.

The Rusty Anchor was everything its name suggested—a low, timber-framed building leaning slightly to one side as if tired of standing. It stood at the edge of the docks, where the smell of salt water mixed with the stench of fish and sewage. Inside, the air was thick with smoke from the hearth and the cheap tallow candles that guttered in sconces along the walls.

Cedric found a table in a corner, one that gave him a view of both the door and the stairs leading to the second floor. He ordered ale—the cheapest, to fit his disguise—and settled in to wait.

The first hour passed slowly. Sailors came and went, their voices loud with drink and the bravado of men recently returned from sea. Merchants huddled in groups, speaking in low voices about cargo and prices. A few women moved through the crowd, their smiles professional, their eyes calculating.

Cedric watched it all, trying to look like a man drowning his sorrows rather than one observing. He nursed his ale, his eyes occasionally drifting to the stairs. No one went up or down.

Then, near the end of the second hour, a man entered who didn''t fit. He was well-dressed but not ostentatiously so—a dark blue cloak over a gray tunic, boots that were clean but scuffed from use. He was perhaps forty, with a carefully trimmed beard and eyes that missed nothing. He didn''t pause at the bar, didn''t speak to anyone. He simply crossed the room and went up the stairs.

Alistair Vance, Cedric guessed.

He waited. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Just as he was beginning to think no one would come, the door opened again.

This man was different. Younger, perhaps thirty, with the bearing of a soldier though he wore no uniform. His clothes were fine but practical—a nobleman''s son, maybe, or a knight out of armor. He scanned the room quickly, his eyes passing over Cedric without pause, then followed Vance up the stairs.

Cedric memorized his face. Square jaw, dark hair cut short, a scar along the left cheekbone. He would know him again.

Another twenty minutes passed before the young man came back down. He left as quickly as he had come, disappearing into the rainy night. Vance followed a few minutes later, pausing at the bar to exchange a few words with the barkeep before leaving.

Cedric finished his ale and stood. His legs were stiff from sitting, his mind buzzing with questions. Who was the young man? What had they discussed? And why had the King chosen him, Cedric, for this task?

He made his way back to the palace through streets slick with rain. The coin pouch felt heavy at his belt, a tangible reminder of the King''s trust. Or was it a test? A way to see how he would handle himself outside the structured world of the palace?

Back in the barracks, he changed out of his wet clothes and lay on his cot. The ceiling was the same as it had been every night, but everything else felt different. He was no longer just a knight of the Royal Guard. He was the King''s eyes in the city. The King''s hand in the shadows.

And he wondered, as sleep finally claimed him, what other shadows waited in the days to come. And what they would demand of him in return for the truth they hid.