The sound of clashing steel and grunting echoed up to the third floor of the inn, muffled but still discernible.

Council Leader Armella's eyes widened with alarm, her heart pounding in her chest. She stood frozen for only a moment before darting towards the door with urgent strides, her long dress swishing behind her. "The staff!" She gasped fretfully. "They're in danger!"

"Lady Armella, NO!" Barton's voice was a thunderclap, stopping her cold. He stepped in front of her so his wide frame could block her path. "It’s not safe for you to run off alone.”

“Then come with me, please!” Armella begged, her lips trembling. “I’m personally acquainted with many who work here! What if they’re hurt?”

Outside, the sounds of battle continued to creep through the walls.

Barton's jaw clenched as he weighed his options; his main priority was to keep Laurence and the advisors safe, not the inn staff or even Moridgale’s Council Representative. If the king knew he was considering splitting off from the prince to help others in need…

Laurence cut through Barton’s thoughts with an assertive demand. "We will all go together and help who we can on the way. It's best if we move as a group."

"Remaining here would definitely be asinine," Avril added bluntly. "We might as well be prey waiting helplessly for our predator to pick us off."

Barton conceded the point with a nod, then straightened into a more commanding stance as he barked orders to his knights. "Evette, with Reya. Gelias, your charge is Tellos. Jorah, stick to Cecil like a shadow to light."

Each knight nodded, their expressions etched with determination as they closed ranks around the advisors.

"Armella, by my side," Barton said, turning towards her. She gave a small nod, her fingers trembling slightly before she tucked them into the crook of his arm, grateful for the solidity of his presence.

It went without saying that Avril would remain with Laurence, who let himself be herded without voicing complaint.

"Let's move," Barton directed, motioning for the group to carefully advance out into the hallway. He led the way down the shadow cloaked stairs, each step a venture into the unknown. They descended silently, all eyes scanning for danger.

As they neared the bottom of the stairs, a part of the darkness seemed to bleed out from the wall and step directly into their path. 

Barton went rigid, and raised his sword defensively.

A figure dressed completely in black emerged from the shadows below. They held knives that barely glinted in the low light, and with a swift motion, unleashed a barrage of blades towards the group.

"Projectiles!" Barton shouted in warning.

The knights sprang into action, their trained eyes tracking the deadly steel and meeting it halfway, deflecting the flying knives with their swords.

Wasting no time, Barton surged forward, using his great body like a battering ram to knock the unprepared assailant further down the stairs.

The attacker tumbled gracelessly, desperately trying to find purchase on the steps to right themselves.

With a primal roar, Barton launched himself into the air, his silhouette a dark omen against the inn's muted backdrop. His descent was meteoric, his broadsword cleaving a path straight through the enemy’s resistance and flesh alike.

A geyser of crimson burst forth, painting the walls with the brutal brushstrokes of death.

Their enemy was as still as the innocent victims upstairs. 

Silence reclaimed the stairwell, punctuated only by the tense breaths of the wary knights braced for the appearance of further assailants.

Blood still dripped from the tip of Barton's sword as he straightened, his chest rising and falling evenly despite the exertion.

Laurence’s eyes were exceedingly wide behind his glasses, reflecting a mixture of horror and admiration for Barton’s gruesome efficiency. Beside him, Avril gave a short whistle, mildly impressed.

Armella looked upon Barton with brief awe, before she quickly shook off the shock and hurried to his side. 

"Are you hurt?" She asked, doing her best to examine him for injuries despite the darkness.

Barton merely shook his head, the corners of his lips quirking upward in a display of nonchalance. "Didn't even break a sweat," he declared, wiping his sword on the fallen knife thrower's pants.

The group continued the rest of the way downward and reached the lobby, which was eerily illuminated from the outside by an orange glow coming in through the windows.

They all turned toward the front door which swung partially off its hinges, revealing the macabre production just beyond.

Four knights who’d been left to guard the perimeter of the building, as well as several of the inn’s staff, lay gruesomely contorted, strewn about the dirt and grass with splashes of red decorating the ground.

The smell of charred wood and flesh stung their nostrils. The three carriages they’d rode in on were all up in flames, and the large, decapitated bodies of the rocheros who’d pulled them were not far off.

It was all a stark declaration of murderous intent, clearly stating that no one from the Loros royal entourage was meant to leave the inn alive.

Who exactly was responsible, and why? Were they here for Laurence, making everyone else collateral? The prince didn’t know; he couldn’t think of any enemies, personal or political, who would come after him in this way. 

Laurence’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, each breath measured to keep his rising panic at bay. Anxious energy sparked beneath his skin, but he had no idea where to point his need for proactivity.

"Gods," Reya whispered, unable to tear her watery gaze away from the disaster.

"Keep together," Barton ordered.

Shadowy figures surged through the open doorway as if awaiting their cue. They were all dressed head to toe in black garb like the stairway attacker, making them appear spectral against the backdrop of flames with gleaming knives and swords in their hands.

"Remember your priority!" Barton bellowed to his knights as complete chaos ensued. His broadsword sang as it cleaved through the air, meeting the blades of two attackers simultaneously. Barton’s muscles strained against the onslaught, veins bulging in his neck as he pushed back.

The rest of the knights also did their best to nobly defend those they were assigned to protect.

Gelias grunted as several knives clanged against his raised sword. Though frightened, he stepped in front of Tellos with determination, showing off the fruits of his training by deflecting more airborne weapons, though he received several scrapes in return.

Evette's sword was a silver blur as she parried a vicious thrust aimed at Reya’s throat. The advisor stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror, but Evette's free hand shot out, steadying her. "Don’t stray," she hissed, never taking her eyes off the advancing foes.

Jorah grunted as a throwing knife grazed his cheek, leaving a thin line of red. He shoved Cecil behind a sturdy table, using it as a makeshift barricade. "Stay down!" He commanded, pivoting to parry another strike aimed at his charge.

Purposefully standing apart from the rest of them was Avril, whose grip snapped onto Laurence's wrist like a shackle. His voice was venomous as he whispered against the prince's ear, "Don’t you dare move an inch from me."

Laurence's pulse thundered beneath Avril's fingers, a testament to the terror coursing through his veins, but he nodded without argument. 

Avril stared at him for a long second, ensuring that Laurence took his words seriously, before dropping the prince’s wrist. His hand swept towards the back of his glove, where the stone embedded within flickered to life with an ominous glow.

With a flourish that cut through the air as sharply as a warning bell, his rapier slid free from its sealed sheath, the fuchsin blade catching the burning light from the still crackling fires beyond the front door.

Avril positioned himself squarely between Laurence and the oncoming assailants, every line of his body ready to unleash hell upon anyone who would dare try to get past him.

A few fools decided to throw their lives away on his rapier, and Avril offered them no mercy, his weapon whipping across throats in deadly arcs. 

Laurence’s breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes darting wildly as he tried to process the blood and death unfolding around him. He’d never been witness to such butchery.

Avril's eyes darted around the chaotic scene, assessing their predicament with cold calculation. He saw that the other knights were being pushed back, struggling to protect their charges, and promptly dismissed them as irrelevant.

The front door was a lost cause, swarming with black-clad assassins. He needed another way out.

"Hold on tight, Your Highness," Avril muttered, his tone uncannily cheerful given the circumstances.

Before Laurence could protest, Avril's arm snaked around his waist. With a grunt of exertion, the knight hoisted the prince up and settled him in the crook of his right arm as if he weighed no more than a sack of feathers. Laurence let out an undignified squawk, his arms instinctively wrapping around Avril's neck for stability.

"What are you—!?" Laurence's question was cut short as Avril took off like a bolt of lightning.

The knight's legs pumped furiously, eating up the distance between them and the nearest hallway. His small frame belied an extraordinary strength and speed that left their pursuers momentarily stunned.

Avril's feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he sprinted, rapier held ready in his left hand.

An attacker lunged from a shadowy alcove, blade whistling through the air. Avril didn't even slow down. His rapier flashed, and arterial spray painted the wall. The assassin crumpled, clutching their throat.

Laurence's stomach lurched at the sight, but he had no time to be sick. Avril barreled onward, deeper into the labyrinth of the inn.