"The Price of Information"

Roland stood frozen in the army chamber, the flickering light of a single candle casting long shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with tension, clinging to the skin and making each breath a labor, worse than the hottest day of that humid summer.

Edric's words still echoed in his mind, a relentless drumbeat of urgency. "The King's messengers are going to Gothia. They know about Leonard," Roland thought.

He clenched his fists, the rough calluses on his palms grounding him.

Three days. That was all they had. Three days to warn Leonard and prepare him for the storm that was coming.

"How can I contact my lad?" Roland wondered. The capital was a labyrinth of spies and informants, and the king's eyes were everywhere. Roland couldn't afford to make a single mistake.

Belfort had already left to send the messenger, a quick and discreet woman who knew how to navigate the back roads undetected. Roland trusted Belfort's judgment, but trust wasn't enough.

He needed more information. He needed to know exactly what the king was planning and how far his reach extended.

Roland left the chamber and stepped out into the bustling streets of Lumeria.

The city was alive with activity as always. Music and chatter intertwined with the rumble of carriages and the distant hum of street vendors. He pulled his hood up, covering his head and shadowing his face.

Roland blended into the crowd as he headed towards the Sleepy Owl Inn.

"Elizabeth might have more information, and if there was anyone who could navigate the capital's underworld, it was her." He thought.

The inn was as dark and unassuming as ever, its worn sign creaking in the wind. Roland pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by the familiar smell of ale and smoke.

Elizabeth was behind the counter, polishing a glass with a cloth that had seen better days. Her sharp eyes lifted as he approached, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Back so soon, Roland?" she asked, her tone laced with amusement. "I didn't think my company was that appealing."

"I need more information," said Roland, getting straight to the point. He didn't have time for her games. "The King's messengers. What do you know about them?"

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, setting down the glass with deliberate slowness. "Messengers, you say? That's a broad term. Care to be more specific?"

Roland leaned in, his voice low. "Two men. Sent to Gothia. They're after Leonard."

Elizabeth's expression changed. The amusement in her eyes was replaced by something darker.

She glanced around the room, making sure no one was within earshot, before leaning closer. "You're playing a dangerous game, Roland. The king doesn't like it when people meddle in his affairs."

"I have no choice," Roland replied, his voice tight with frustration. "The boy's life is at stake. If you know anything, now's the time to share."

Elizabeth sighed, her fingers drumming on the countertop. "Alright. But this doesn't come for free, you know. Information like this has a price."

"Name it," said Roland without hesitation.

Elizabeth smiled, clearly enjoying the power she held over him. "A favor. To be called in at a later date. No questions asked."

Roland hesitated. Elizabeth's favors were notorious for being as dangerous as they were vague. But he had no choice. "Done." But he added, "Depending on the situation, there may be no later date for me."

Elizabeth's smile died on her lips, replaced by a cold look.

She reached down, retrieving a small, folded piece of parchment. She slid it to Roland, her eyes gleaming with concern. "Two people, a man and a woman. Both experienced spies. They left at dawn, on horseback. Their orders are clear: find Leonard and eliminate him. No witnesses, no trace."

Roland's stomach churned as he unfolded the scroll.

The names and descriptions of the spies were written in elegant, precise handwriting. He recognized one of them—a man named Garrick, known for his cruelty and efficiency, commander of the royal assassins. The other was a newcomer, a shadowy figure with no known loyalties. Both were dangerous.

"Anything else?" Roland asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, your boy's been through a rough patch lately. Seems he lost a friend on a raid against the gnolls." Elizabeth leaned back, her expression unreadable. "One more thing... the king is getting desperate. He sees Leonard as a threat, not only to his reign but to his very existence. He won't stop until the boy is dead." She looked into Roland's eyes, searching for answers. "You have far more answers to give than to ask. I can feel it." Her smile returned to her lips.

Roland folded the parchment and tucked it into his cloak. "Thank you, Elizabeth. I won't forget this. Soon the entire continent of Fros will tremble."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," she replied with a sly grin. "Now get out of here before you attract unwanted attention, or I might just keep you for myself."

Roland turned, raising a hand in farewell, and left the inn, his mind confused.

He needed to warn Leonard, but a messenger wouldn't be enough. The spies were already on their way, and time was running out.

He headed to a secluded alley where a small pigeon coop was hidden. The birds were a relic from his days as commander, a means of communication that not even the king's spies could intercept, easily mistaken for Guild pigeons.

He scribbled an enigmatic message on a piece of parchment, his handwriting hurried but legible:

"Lad,

I received an update letter from the Gothia Guild House and know you are going through a difficult time. Losing a friend is never easy. But I ask you to be careful. There is something strange happening, something that goes beyond the gnolls and the Leirions. If you feel you are being watched, do not hesitate to seek help from the guild or find an ally you trust. The situation at the Royal Palace is complicated, and I cannot go into details now. Just trust your instincts and protect yourself.

– Roland"

He tied the message to the leg of a pigeon and released it into the sky, watching it disappear into the clouds. It was a risk, but it was the fastest way to get news to Leonard.

He just hoped it would be enough.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a dusky orange glow, Roland received a message.

A boy, no older than ten, approached him on the street, tugged on his cloak, and handed him a folded note before running off without a word. Roland unfolded the note, his eyes following the boy's retreating figure as he disappeared around the corner.

His heart sank as he read the contents:

"Meet me at the old mill. Urgent.

-Belfort"

The old mill was an isolated spot on the outskirts of the city, a place where they could talk without fear of eavesdroppers.

But something about the message felt wrong. Belfort had never been one for dramatics, and the urgency in his tone was unsettling.

"I've been friends with this bastard for so long. This smells like shit." Roland thought.

Roland headed towards the mill, his senses on high alert. The streets grew quieter as he left the city behind, the sounds of the bustling capital replaced by the rustling of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, and the chirping of summer cicadas.

The mill stood in a clearing, its weathered wood creaking with every gust of wind. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint lamplight spilled from within.

Roland pushed the door open, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Belfort?" he called out, his voice echoing dryly in the empty space.

There was no answer.

He stepped inside, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. The light came from a single lantern, its flame dancing weakly. And then he saw him.

Belfort was slumped against the far wall, his lifeless eyes staring into the void. A pool of blood spread beneath him, dark and glistening in the dim light. His throat had been slit, the wound precise and deliberate, a cut so deep that his head was practically hanging off.

Roland's breath hitched in his throat, a cold wave of dread washing over him. He knelt beside his old friend, his hand trembling as he reached out to close Belfort's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with grief. "I'm so sorry."

But there was no time to mourn. Roland's mind raced as he processed the scene. Belfort had been killed by someone who knew his movements, someone who had access to their plans. The King's spies were closer than he thought.

He stood up, his grief turning to fury. Whoever did this would pay. But first, he needed to warn Leonard. The boy was in more danger than ever, and Roland was the only one left to protect him.

As he turned to leave, a faint sound caught his attention—a soft rustle, like fabric brushing against wood. Roland felt his adrenaline surge, a chill running down his spine. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He wasn't alone.

The shadows in the corner of the mill shifted, and a figure stepped into the light. It was Garrick, the King's spy, his blade glinting in the lantern light. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he met Roland's gaze.

"You're late," Garrick said, his voice dripping with malice. "The boy and your friend are already dead."

Roland's heart stopped. "You're lying."

Garrick shrugged, his smile widening. "Believe what you want. But you'll be joining them soon."

"You were supposed to be in Gothia. What are you doing here?" Roland asked.

"I don't need to babysit any child; my men can handle it. I prefer to play with you." Garrick's voice was contemptuous.

The two men lunged at each other, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks. The clang of their weapons echoed in the night like the ringing of an eastern gong. The sonic boom of the impact reverberated the mill's walls, making the dust rise.

After the initial clash, they locked blades, their eyes meeting in a fierce battle of wills. Roland's face was a mask of fury, while Garrick seemed to relish the confrontation.

Roland fought with everything he had, his grief and rage fueling his every move. But Garrick was skilled, his movements precise and calculated.

As the fight wore on, Roland couldn't shake the image of Belfort's lifeless body or the thought of Leonard in danger. He had failed his friend, but he wouldn't fail the boy. Not again.

Roland was locked in a desperate battle, the weight of his failures and the looming threat to Leonard bearing down on him like a suffocating shadow.

The old mill, once a place of refuge, had become a tomb—and Roland wasn't sure if he would make it out alive.