A Prince Is Not a Pawn

The palace erupted.

Amrit's weak distress signal was like a spark in a powder keg. The guards at his wing, seeing the faint pulse of Prana, burst into his chambers to find a scene of carnage. Two black-clad bodies, one gruesomely decapitated, lay on the floor. Their prince was slumped against the wall, pale and breathing shallowly, his arm tinged with a sickly, dark hue. The room itself was strangely untouched, which only added to the terrifying mystery.

Within minutes, the entire Royal Palace was on high alert. Alarm gongs sounded, their urgent clangor shattering the night's peace. Royal Guards in full armor swarmed the corridors, their torches casting frantic, dancing shadows. The air, already saturated with Amrit's lingering, terrifying sword intent, now crackled with fear and confusion.

Vaidya Bhaskar was the first to arrive after the guards, his old face a mask of horror. He rushed to Amrit's side, his experienced hands immediately checking his pulse and examining his poisoned arm. "Wyvern's Bane!" he gasped, his voice tight with panic. "And a powerful strain at that! Your Highness, stay with me!"

Next to arrive was the King, moving with the speed of a vengeful spirit. He strode into the room, his Spirit Sea aura a crushing wave of fury that made the very stones tremble. He was followed by a grim-faced Bhim and a phalanx of his elite Shadow Guards.

The King's gaze swept over the scene. He saw the two dead assassins, their professional gear marking them as guild members. He saw his pale, seemingly wounded son. He saw the faint, dark energy of the poison. And he felt it—the terrifying, razor-sharp sword intent that lingered in the air, a power so profound it made his own spirit quail.

He looked at the two dead assassins, their bodies cleanly dispatched, and then at his son, who appeared to have barely survived. The pieces didn't fit. The power that had left this lingering intent could have annihilated a hundred such assassins without breaking a sweat.

The King's scrutiny intensified, his mind a whirlwind of calculation. This was a performance. Another one. And he was a primary member of the audience.

"Vaidya!" the King's voice boomed. "Can you save him?"

"The poison is potent, Your Majesty, but it has not reached his heart," Vaidya Bhaskar reported, already preparing a series of silver needles. "The prince's own Prana is fighting it, containing it. It is a miracle he is still conscious. With my treatment and the Sun-Stone to purify his energy, he will recover, but his foundation may be… damaged."

It was the perfect diagnosis. It explained Amrit's survival while reinforcing the narrative of his decline.

The King nodded, but his eyes never left Amrit. He saw the faint tremor in Amrit's body, the pained look in his eyes. It was a flawless portrayal of a wounded survivor. But the King saw something else in the depths of those eyes, beneath the pain: a cold, unwavering calm. The calm of a chess master watching his opponent fall into a perfectly laid trap.

You are not just a player, are you, my son? the King thought, a chill running down his spine despite his fury. You are trying to control the entire board.

"Seal the palace!" the King commanded the guards. "No one enters or leaves without my express permission! I want every servant, every official, every guard questioned! I want to know how these gutter rats got into my home!"

While the palace was thrown into chaos, Vaidya Bhaskar worked feverishly. He administered acupuncture to slow the poison's spread and forced a potent detoxification elixir down Amrit's throat. Amrit, for his part, played his role to perfection, wincing in pain and allowing his breathing to remain shallow, all while his own Spirit-Tempered Body and Divine Ocean were systematically dismantling the Wyvern's Bane at a molecular level. By morning, the poison would be nothing more than a memory, but he would maintain the appearance of a slow, painful recovery.

News of the assassination attempt spread like a plague. The court was in an uproar. The brazenness of the attack, right under the King's nose, was an unprecedented insult. But the prevailing narrative was not one of Amrit's strength, but of his tragic vulnerability. The miracle was fading, and now his enemies were circling. The pity for the frail prince was returning, now mixed with a sense of morbid expectation.

In his opulent office, Grand Steward Kavi received the news with a placid expression that concealed a maelstrom of emotions. The assassins had failed to kill the prince, but they had wounded him, poisoned him. The plan was still on track, albeit delayed. His satisfaction was quickly soured, however, by the second piece of news: his two elite assassins and the Spirit Sea overseer had all vanished without a trace. The guild's contact at The Gilded Cage had received no report. There was only silence. This was a deviation from the plan that filled him with a deep sense of unease. He had hired professionals, yet they had been consumed by the very shadow they were meant to command.

As the sun rose, Amrit lay in his bed, the Sun-Stone on his chest pulsing with a gentle light. Vaidya Bhaskar declared his condition "stabilized but critical." The King posted two of his personal Royal Shadow Guards inside Amrit's room, ostensibly for his protection. Amrit knew they were there to watch him.

He was now, officially, a victim. A pawn in a dangerous game.

But a prince is not a pawn.

Lying in his bed, feigning a painful recovery, Amrit was anything but idle. His spiritual sense, a tool no one could detect, was hard at work. The chaos of the investigation was the perfect cover. Under the King's furious orders, every corner of the palace was being turned upside down. This gave Amrit's senses unprecedented access.

He followed the trail of the investigation, not to find the assassins, but to find their collaborators inside the palace. He felt the fear and panic of the servants as they were questioned. He felt the arrogance of the officials who knew they were above suspicion. And he followed the subtle threads of communication.

He detected a brief, coded exchange of hand signals between one of the investigating guard captains and one of Grand Steward Kavi's personal aides. He felt the surge of anxiety from a kitchen supervisor when the investigators asked who prepared the Third Prince's meals. He found the faint trace of a specific, rare ink used by the Steward's office on a discarded duty roster near his own wing—a roster that had a five-minute gap in patrol coverage right around midnight.

They were tiny, insignificant pieces of a puzzle. Individually, they were meaningless. But for Amrit's system-enhanced mind, they were nodes in a network. He connected the dots, extrapolated the patterns, and built a web of conspiracy, a detailed map of Kavi's internal network of informants and agents. He now knew who was paid off, who was being blackmailed, and who was simply loyal to the ambitious Grand Steward.

He had no proof that would hold up in a court of law. But he didn't need one. He wasn't a prosecutor. He was a prince.

By midday, his plan was formed. It was risky, audacious, and would irrevocably change his relationship with his father.

He sent for Bhim.

His burly brother arrived, his face etched with worry and a simmering, protective anger. "Amrit. How are you?"

"I will survive," Amrit whispered weakly, his voice a convincing rasp. "Bhim… I need you to do something for me. Secretly. Not even Father can know."

Bhim's eyes widened. "What is it?"

"I have a name," Amrit said, his voice dropping lower. "The Night Heron Guild. And a location. The Gilded Cage tavern. The assassins came from there. I want you to go. Not as a prince, but in disguise. Do not engage. Do not fight. Just go there, have a drink, and deliver a message for me."

"A message?" Bhim asked, leaning closer.

Amrit told him the message. It was simple, cryptic, and terrifying.

Bhim's face went pale as he heard it. He looked at his supposedly weak and dying brother, and for the first time, he understood. Amrit wasn't just a victim fighting back. He was a grandmaster moving his pieces, and Bhim was being asked to become his knight.

"They will kill you if they find out you are a prince," Bhim said, the danger of the request settling in.

"They won't know," Amrit said. "You are strong, but you can appear as a common mercenary. Just deliver the message to the barkeep and leave. Can you do this for me?"

Bhim looked at his younger brother, at the unyielding intelligence burning in his "weakened" eyes. He saw the trust being placed in him, the first time anyone, especially his father, had ever trusted him with a task that required subtlety over brute force. He gave a single, firm nod. "I will do it."

As Bhim departed, Amrit leaned back against his pillows, a faint smile on his lips. He had set his own pieces in motion. The King was playing his game of investigation and control. Grand Steward Kavi was playing his game of poison and shadows.

Amrit was playing a different game entirely. They all saw him as a powerful piece on the board—a rook, a queen, a king to be captured or controlled. They were wrong.

He was the hand that was about to flip the entire board over.