The Founders Hall blazed with battle. Shouts, sparks, and the clash of steel rang out through the great chamber.
Mark turned to check on David—only to find the boy gone.
"David?!" he called out, scanning the fray.
Then—
From the center aisle came a flash of motion.
A blur.
A figure darted between two Salem warriors so fast that their swords struck only air. In the same instant, they both collapsed—disarmed and unconscious before they hit the ground.
Mark blinked.
It was David.
But not the playful, fast-talking servant he'd known over dinner.
This David stood tall now, his youthful grin gone. His golden eyes gleamed with cold precision, and two twin curved daggers gleamed in his hands. His posture was low, balanced, like a predator.
He moved like lightning.
Mark watched, stunned, as David spun, slid beneath a spear, and slashed the back of a Salem warrior's leg before leaping upward and kicking another attacker square in the chest.
Three more rushed him.
David didn't back down.
He blurred again—vanishing.
Then reappearing behind them.
They fell almost immediately, clutching their necks and sides where he had struck vital points.
"David!" Mark called, stepping forward, blade in hand.
David's head snapped toward him. "You alright?"
"You're—" Mark started. "What are you?"
David gave a breathless chuckle. "Fast. And angry."
Behind him, a Salem warrior raised a sword to strike. David didn't turn.
Instead, he snapped his fingers once.
Fwoosh.
A blast of wind—no, pressure—rippled around him, throwing the attacker back against a wall.
Mark stepped closer. "You're not just a servant."
David glanced sideways. "Guardian King didn't assign me to you for my smile."
Then he was gone again, dashing through the fray, a whirlwind of speed and precision. Every move was intentional. Every strike disabled—not killed. David fought not like a savage—but like someone trained by Founders themselves.
And maybe… he had been.
Mark gripped his blade tighter.
This battle wasn't just political.
It was personal.
And with David now revealed as a warrior, the tide of the fight had only just begun to turn.
---
Earlier that night – in the palace kitchen…
The soft clinks of metal and bubbling stew masked the quiet steps of a predator. Mirey's hand slipped the cork off a tiny glass vial. A single drop of the poison slid into a silver goblet—Mariah's goblet.
Then—
"You always did move too quietly, Mirey."
Mirey's eyes narrowed. She turned to see Dorcas leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face calm, voice sharp.
"Step away from the cup," Dorcas said, walking forward.
Mirey raised her hands. "It's just wine. Don't be dramatic."
"I saw the vial," Dorcas said coldly. "And I smelled the sap."
That stopped Mirey for a second. "You recognize it?"
"I was trained to."
"Then you know what it can do to a Founder."
Dorcas stepped between Mirey and the goblet. "And you know I can't let you leave."
Their eyes locked.
Then the silence shattered—
Mirey attacked.
She moved like wind—swift, sudden, slicing with a long fork she snatched from the counter. Dorcas blocked it with a tray, spun around, and slammed it toward Mirey's shoulder. Metal rang. Mirey grunted and ducked low, grabbing a cleaver. She slashed. Dorcas twisted away, sending a rain of silver utensils crashing to the floor.
"You were always soft," Mirey hissed.
"You were always selfish," Dorcas snapped back.
Clang! A pot lid flew at Mirey's head. She blocked it with a skillet, flipped, and leapt onto the central table. Dorcas chased her, summoning her energy—and with a flash of silverlight—
A sword appeared in her hand.
Mirey stepped back, surprised. "You can create."
Dorcas raised her blade. "I am a Edenite, it's in my blood."
She charged.
They met in a violent crash of light and steel. Sparks flew across the kitchen. Mirey's hand was bleeding now—she was losing ground.
But then—
Her hand dipped beneath her robe. Her eyes flickered with something darker.
"I'm sorry, Dorcas."
She stepped into Dorcas's swing—and plunged a small, blackened dagger straight into her chest.
Dorcas gasped—eyes wide—her sword dropped from her hand.
Blood blossomed across her tunic.
Mirey held her close, whispering, "It was never personal."
Dorcas's knees buckled.
Fade to black.
---