FWOOSH!
The prince turned at the shifting shadows over Ronan’s bed, surprised to see a stack of papers suddenly appear on it.
"Was that there...?"
FWOOSH!
FWOOSH!
He barely had time to blink before more papers appeared. The prince immediately checked the contents and, to his surprise, found official documents.
Not all of them were useful, but some definitely could be.
"An S-Rank teleporter-based class. I see my prayers have been answered."
More paperwork soon began piling up, already covering half the bed, and the prince quickly moved it to the floor while searching the room for a makeshift container to hold it all.
The prince moved quickly, grabbing an empty crate from the corner of the room and dumping the documents inside as fast as they appeared. The shadows kept pulsing, each surge depositing another stack of papers onto the bed.
FWOOSH!
FWOOSH!
FWOOSH!
Within minutes, the crate was full, and he’d had to find a second one. Then a third. The paperwork covered everything from supply manifests to personnel rotations, equipment requisitions, and letters between officers that had clearly never been meant to leave the depot.
"You’re thorough."
The prince muttered, scanning a document that detailed a suspicious redirection of weapons to an unlisted location.
"I’ll give you that."
FWOOSH!
Another stack arrived, this one bound with twine and marked with a wax seal the prince recognized immediately. His expression hardened.
"That’s the royal quartermaster’s seal."
He broke the wax with his thumb and unfolded the top document. His eyes moved across the page, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
"These are orders. Signed by my brother..."
The shadows stirred again, and Ronan materialized beside the bed, Sarael emerging from his shadow a moment later.
"You didn’t overexert yourself, did you?"
"Nope. I’m completely fine."
The prince looked toward them as they appeared, and to his surprise, they showed not even a trace of exhaustion. Not a drop of blood.
They were professionals, through and through. He had given them the hardest job he could imagine, and they had completed it without a problem.
"This is it..."
He muttered low enough that only Sarael could hear. Then, all at once, he knelt, one fist to the floor and his head bowed low.
"Allow me to offer my thanks."
Ronan visibly recoiled, genuinely surprised that a prince would kneel before them simply because of a job.
The prince then lifted his head, a serious expression on his face.
"I apologize for the sudden request. But may I offer you another job?"
Ronan stared at the kneeling prince for a moment longer than was comfortable. A royal, bowing to a wanted fugitive and his goddess wife. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him.
"You can stand up first. I’m not a king. I don’t need you kneeling."
The prince rose smoothly, brushing dust from his white clothes. His eyes held a new intensity. Determination, maybe. Or desperation. Ronan had seen both enough times to recognize the difference.
"What’s the job?"
The prince gestured at the crates of documents.
"I want to commission a massacre."
The prince wasted no time explaining everything. He’d read enough to get the gist of it.
It turned out the second prince was planning a coup, driven by dissatisfaction with the current monarch’s stance on human integration within their territory. He knew the first and third princes shared that stance.
The first prince was untouchable, the heir to the throne, so he hadn’t been part of the plan. The third prince, however, had been.
As the third prince, he was far more vulnerable to manipulation, evident from the trolls. The plan was to weaken his group so they could be ambushed.
That plan had been abandoned after Ronan intervened, according to the most recent letter in the pile.
They were confident enough to send important messages without even an extra layer of encryption.
They hadn’t expected an actual S-Rank to risk their career by joining a conspiracy against them.
"Right now...?"
Sarael asked.
"No! Of course not. That would be rash, even by my standards. I’m just saying the three of you should stay in Frostheim for a while. Until I find the perfect time for the job."
"What’s your offer?"
Ronan asked, clearly. He was already risking a lot by taking on the first job for Anastasia’s sake. He needed more incentive than money if he was going to participate in mass murder.
"An elven alliance. Not as strong as an alliance with my father, but..."
The prince stopped, smiling, clearly confident in his offer.
"An alliance with a prince who owns a dukedom. Knowing someone of your... easy hireability, I’m sure you have to tiptoe around human laws. I offer a reprieve from that, a territory where even what you humans call the government cannot interfere."
He had found exactly the right leverage.
The offer was absurdly generous, which meant it was either genuine desperation or a trap. Given the prince’s willingness to kneel, Ronan was leaning toward the former.
"A dukedom..."
Ronan repeated, testing the weight of the word.
"You’re offering us diplomatic immunity in elven territory. Permanently?"
"Not permanently, no. Dukedoms pass to heirs. But for my lifetime, and I intend to live quite a long time, yes. You would have sanctuary. Land, if you want it. Resources. And most importantly..."
The prince’s pale blue eyes met Ronan’s without flinching.
"No extradition. The law could scream themselves hoarse, and I would have legal grounds to tell them nothing. Elven sovereignty is absolute within our borders."
Sarael stirred with interest. Another opportunity to get a second home with different kinds of luxuries that John’s mansion couldn’t offer.
She was already starting to imagine a sort of vacation home.
"You’d be safe."
The prince continued.
"Both of you. Your student as well, though I suspect she’s already safe enough if her connections could hire a tutor of your caliber."
"And in exchange, you want us to kill your brother’s supporters."
"It’s a small price to pay compared to what I’m asking you."
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