The sun stands high in the sky. Although we keep close to the wooden booth's wall, it provides little shadow. Droplets of sweat tingle my skin. I wipe my forehead and look around. To my right, the dry moat separates between us and the castle wall; to my left lies the market square, as full of people as it can be on a good sunny Sunday.

People walk from one stand to another, examine the merchandise, enter and exit the booths, stop to chat to each other. The sellers call out and occasionally grab passers-by to draw their attention. Children run among the stalls, some playing, others looking for an opportunity to steal something.

A couple of city guards pass us again, and I look away.

"We should move," I say. "We've been stuck in one place for too long."

"It's almost midday," says Oliver. "This is the place."

A couple of women walk past us, talking and laughing, and stop by the cheese stand. A group of peasants argue about something with the milkman nearby. The shoemaker sitting on his low wooden bench looks up from his work and winks at us.

The cheese seller steps out of his booth, glances at the closed castle gates, then at us, and retreats inside. He reappears a few minutes later and offers us two pieces of yellow cheese on the point of a knife. I shake my head, but Oliver accepts the offering and chews it slowly without taking his eyes off the gates.

"It's almost midday," he repeats.

"Perhaps they decided to not hunt today. It's too hot."

He shrugs. "That Justice sounded like he knew what he was talking about." He looks up at the sun and wipes the sweat off his forehead. "I wonder if we should strike anyway."

"With the gates closed?"

"We still have the secret passages—but yeah, we won't get enough people inside that way. We need –"

He's interrupted by the sound of trumpets coming from the other side of the wall. It momentarily drowns the noises of the market, and as it subsides, the last voices die away. There's loud noise of the metal chains and bolts being raised and unlocked, and then the giant gates begin to open.

People on the square kneel. I and Oliver exchange glances and follow their example.

With clopping of multiple hooves and clanging of metal weapons, the first horsemen, dressed in black and red, ride onto the bridge. The banners they are carrying flap in the wind. Hounds bark impatiently.

Then the trumpets sound again, and the King appears.

He sits high on his huge horse, his black clothes decorated with golden embroidery, occasional stones glimmering in the sun. A long red cape falls from his shoulders, covering the back of his horse. Beside him, Ferox rides on an equally tall horse. The father and the son look quite similar when seen from the side—the same willful jaws, straight noses and black beards.

To the other side of the King, rides Jasper, the knight who's been talking to Hadrian when I last saw him. After them, a dozen of nobles and officials appear, dressed in rich and colorful outfits.

Among them, I catch a glimpse of the familiar blond hair and arrogant profile. Hadrian sits straight on his white horse, looking ahead, paying no attention to the hundreds of people lying prostrate to the both sides of their procession. Just the look of him makes my blood boil. Damn spoiled brat. I wish I could get my hands around his throat right now.

"He's very much alive," mutters Oliver

"Huh?"

"The King. The note said he'd die. He doesn't seem to be dying."

"Perhaps Justice meant that it would be our job to kill him."

"He could have been more specific about that." He looks at me thoughtfully. "We could try—we must—but they are all armed and on horsebacks. We could use some advantage. Should I give the command?"

I swallow. It's a hard decision. Our people are prepared to risk their life for our cause, but are we prepared to make them take that risk? Are we prepared to turn this Sunday fair into a bloodbath?

The last riders cross the bridge, and I can see the King as clearly as I have never seen him before. He is a strong, big man in his fifties. He is frowning, looking ahead, probably imagining the chase and the kill that are awaiting them on the hunt, unaware that he himself is the object of a different hunt today.

The procession has moved past me and Oliver, and I catch a few glances thrown our way by our people in the crowd. The decision has to be made. Yet Oliver seems as paralyzed as I feel.

Then, the King's horse stops abruptly.

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