"The Royal Capital" (Part 2)

Elizabeth took a long, slow sip of her wine, savoring every drop. 

"The king knows enough to consider him a thorn in his side," she said, her tone cautious. "He's heard rumors, stories that sound straight out of a fairy tale. About a young Neumond with powers beyond comprehension. A young man who, according to an ancient prophecy, well... could be his downfall."

"Prophecy?" Roland frowned. "This doesn't smell good. What the hell kind of prophecy is that?"

"An ancient one," replied Elizabeth, her voice low, almost a whisper. "It speaks of a Neumond who will emerge in times of darkness and blah, blah, blah, challenge the world and all the crap of Humbra's hierarchy. And that he will bring a new era, and all that bullshit, including even the leirions."

Roland felt a shiver run down his spine; he didn't like the sound of that at all. "And? Come on, spit it out. What else do you know?"

She wore an enigmatic smile. "Just that the game is only beginning, my friend. And the stakes, oh, the stakes are high, very high. The king thinks he's the 'blessed one' and wants the boy dead, Roland."

Roland rapped his knuckles on the counter.

"Hey, hey, boy… calm down..." she warned. "He sees this Leonard as a threat," she continued, "a damn symbol of resistance. In his madness, that senile king thinks Leonard is the Weise."

"And what do you think?" Roland asked, his voice tense, his stomach churning.

Elizabeth shrugged, a careless gesture.

"I think fate has a peculiar sense of humor, and that young Leonard can be whoever he wants... but a Weise? Seriously, I highly doubt it." She paused. As if choosing her words carefully, which was rare for her. "I also think, my dear Roland, that you should keep your eyes peeled and be very careful. The king has many eyes and ears, even in this dump."

"I'll be careful," said Roland, but his mind was already far away, plotting a thousand things. "But I need to know more. What else do you have stored away there?"

Elizabeth sighed, a sound laden with weariness. 

"I've already told you all I can, Roland. More than that would be dangerous, not only for you but for me too." She stood up, taking the bottle of wine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other customers, less important, of course, to attend to."

Roland also stood up, feeling frustrated, his hands tied. He knew Elizabeth was hiding something, but he also knew from experience that there was no point in pressing her. 

"Thank you, Elizabeth," he said, feigning gratitude. "For the wine and the, uh, information."

"You're welcome, Roland," she said with a nod. "And good luck. You'll certainly need it."

Leaving the inn, Roland headed towards Sun Square, the beating heart of Lumeria. A vast circular space, paved with white stones and adorned with statues of ancient heroes and an ornamental fountain. 

Around the square stood imposing government buildings, silent witnesses to the kingdom's power and often dubious wealth.

In the center, a black marble obelisk rose like a finger pointing to the gods above, a constant reminder of past glory and the ever-necessary vigilance of the present. 

It was the statue of Lyra, the first queen of the country of Dunkel.

The Royal Castle stood to the north, an imposing fortress of gray stone, with its watchtowers and battlements.

After identifying himself at the entrance, Roland was led to the chambers of Commander Belfort.

"Roland, you old mangy dog! What a pleasant surprise! It's good to see you!" He embraced him tightly, a bear hug that almost suffocated him.

Belfort's joy at seeing Roland was genuine. He was a robust man with a face scarred by memories of past battles and gray hair that denoted his vast experience in combat. 

The two had fought side by side in many battles, and their friendship was forged in steel and blood.

"Belfort, my friend," replied Roland, returning the hug with equal enthusiasm, despite his ribs nearly breaking. "It's good to be back, I guess."

"And what brings you back to the capital after so many years?" asked Belfort, serving a mug of promising-looking ale. "I thought you had retired to raise sheep in some godforsaken corner of the world."

"I wish that were true," said Roland, his tone turning serious. He told Belfort about Leonard, about the prophecy, and about the very real threat the king posed.

Belfort listened attentively, his face growing darker with each word. "This is serious, Roland," he said after a long, uncomfortable silence. "Very serious. The king is obsessed with this damn prophecy. He won't stop until he eliminates anyone he sees as a thorn in his side."

"I know," said Roland, feeling a weight in his chest. "That's why I need your help, my old friend. I need trustworthy people inside the castle. People who are willing to help me protect Leonard, no matter the cost."

Belfort pondered for a moment, his eyes fixed on a distant point, lost in thought. 

He drummed his fingers on the wooden table, a nervous tic that Roland knew well. "There are a few I trust," he finally said, his voice a mixture of determination and worry. "Loyal men and women who, like me, are more than unhappy with the tyranny of this lunatic king." He drank a hearty swig of the ale. "But it's dangerous, Roland. Very dangerous. If we're discovered, we'll all be executed without even a trial."

"I know the risks, Belfort. Believe me, I know. But I can't stand idly by while Leonard's life is in danger. I just can't."

"When we were young and foolish, we would have gone into battle without a second thought," Belfort said with a melancholic smile. "Now, we have to be more cautious, unfortunately."

"The years may have softened, and perhaps a little wiser, but they haven't made us any less courageous," replied Roland with a confident smile.

"Courageous or foolish, I don't know anymore," said Belfort, letting out a short, bitter laugh. "But I will help you, my friend. Always. But as I said, we need to be cautious. And discreet, very discreet."

That night, in a secret chamber, damp and dark, hidden in the castle dungeons, Roland met with a small group of men and women. 

Belfort's allies. 

Tense, anxious faces, illuminated only by the flickering, weak light of a single candle. 

There was a blacksmith, a huge, muscular fellow; a scribe, thin and nervous; two maids who knew more than they let on; and a guard with a suspicious look. 

All united by a dangerous secret and a fragile, imperceptible hope.

"We are here to discuss a threat," said Roland, his low, firm voice echoing in the heavy silence of the chamber. "A threat to a young man named Leonard, a Neumond with a... let's say, unusual power." 

He told them everything he knew, omitting only, for safety, Leonard's true identity. When he finished, a deathly silence fell over the room.

"What will we do, Commander?" asked the scribe, a thin, nervous man with crooked glasses perched on his nose. His voice trembled slightly.

"We will watch," replied Roland, with a calmness he was far from feeling. "We will keep our eyes and ears open, and we will prepare to act… if and when necessary."

It was then that, as if fate were mocking them, one of Belfort's trusted guards, a young man named Edric, rushed into the chamber, interrupting the meeting. 

He was panting, his face red and sweaty, and his wide eyes conveyed a clear sign of alarm and terror.

"Commander," said Edric, trying to catch his breath, "bad news. Terrible news! I just overheard two of the king's messengers talking. They're going to Gothia. After the boy."

A chill, cold as death, ran down Roland's spine. "Gothia? But why?"

"They know," said Edric, his voice choked with fear, barely a whisper. "Somehow, by some miracle from hell, they know about Leonard... and everything about the prophecy."