Chapter 194: The End Of Hadrian
Meanwhile, the clash between Elias and the other men continued in the narrow street beside the smoking wreckage, where shadows from the broken carriage flickered against the cobblestones.
Elias moved with precision, his blade gleaming in the fractured daylight, but the men who came at him were not bound by precision. They were bound by fury.
The first lunged like a beast unchained, his teeth bared, dagger flashing with no rhythm and only madness. Elias sidestepped, letting steel ring against steel, then twisted, aiming for the man’s ribs. The blade bit in, shallow but sure. Any trained soldier would have staggered, fallen back. Not this man. He roared, froth at his lips, and shoved forward, the wound ignored as though his blood were fire in his veins.
The crowd gasped, recoiling.
Elias swung again, quick as lightning, cutting a deep line across the man’s arm. He should have dropped the weapon, but instead, he only tightened his grip, slashing wild and low. Elias barely avoided the cut, boots grinding sparks against stone as he slid back.
The second man had broken away, circling Hadrian, who slumped against the alley wall. His clothes were torn, his face hollow from hunger, lips cracked and bleeding. He tried to push himself upright, staggering like a drunk. The man’s eyes burned only for him.
"No!" Elias pivoted, striking his opponent across the temple with the flat of his blade. The man reeled, blood spraying, yet he lunged again, faster, crazed. Steel scraped Elias’s forearm, hot pain searing. He gritted his teeth, parrying, but his heart thudded harder, not from the wound, but from the sight of Hadrian unable to rise.
The onlookers had gathered courage at last. A few men from the market hurled themselves at the second attacker, seizing his arms, wrestling for his long blade. For a heartbeat, relief rippled in Elias’s heart... Maybe they could hold him. Maybe Hadrian could be spared.
But the man roared like something less than human. He thrashed, headbutting one, kicking another in the gut. The blade swung wide in savage arcs, scattering them like frightened sheep. His strength was unnatural, a strength that came not from training but from frenzy, from rage so black it poisoned the air.
Elias struck again, this time plunging his sword into the belly of the first man. The steel sank deep, right to the hilt. The man gurgled, staggered, and then, with impossible force, he grabbed Elias’s collar, hauling him close. Their faces were inches apart, the stench of blood and spit hot in Elias’s nose.
The man smiled through his broken teeth, madness gleaming in his eyes, and with a guttural snarl he forced himself further onto Elias’s blade. Elias felt the jolt of resistance give way, the sword buried deep, yet still the man’s arm lashed out. The dagger carved across Elias’s side, shallow but searing, and he hissed through clenched teeth.
Pain flared, sharp and hot, but he steadied his stance, refusing to give ground. His grip tightened on the hilt, and with a roar he wrenched the sword free, blood spraying as the man staggered back. Elias’s breath came ragged, sweat running into the cut, but he held his guard firm. He had bled worse on battlefields; this would not stop him now.
Still, the man didn’t fall. He stumbled, staggered toward Hadrian...toward his prey.
"Hadrian, run!" Elias shouted, his voice hoarse. But Hadrian could not. His knees buckled, his hands clawed at the wall. He was parched, disoriented, a broken figure of a man who had no strength left to flee.
The second attacker, freed from the failed grip of the crowd, raised his long blade high. The onlookers screamed, some turned away, others froze as though rooted to the earth.
Elias lunged forward, but it was too late.
The blade whistled down.
Hadrian’s head fell clean, rolling across the cobblestones, eyes still wide in disbelief. His body crumpled beside it, blood pooling black beneath the ruined man he once was.
The street erupted into chaos, with women shrieking, men stumbling back, children swept up into protective arms. Elias staggered a step, his hand pressing instinctively against his side where the cut still burned hot beneath his tunic. His chest rose and fell in heavy bursts, the effort of holding himself upright betraying the wound more than he wished.
His sword dripped scarlet, gleaming in the fractured sunlight, but it felt heavier than iron in his grip. He had fought through wars, through blood, and dust and death, but this was different. The man they were meant to protect lay headless in the street, his lifeblood soaking into the cobbles. And Elias, battered and bleeding, could only stand there, trembling against the tide of failure clawing at his chest.
Still, he did not fall. He straightened his back, jaw clenched against the pain, unwilling to show weakness before the crowd. But his heart was heavy, heavier than the steel he carried.
The crowd’s cries rattled through the narrow street, echoing off the stone walls. What they had witnessed was no fight; it was a slaughter. The purpose of those two men had been plain from the first strike: they wanted Hadrian’s head, and now they had it.
When Leroy reached the side street, he was met with gasps and the press of bodies fleeing. His boot struck something soft, and when he looked down, his breath caught. Hadrian Arvand’s head lay at his feet, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted in a grotesque mockery of speech. Beyond it, the headless body sprawled in a widening pool of blood.
Leroy’s gaze shifted and found Elias. The man’s hand was pressed to his side, tunic torn and stained dark, yet his steps did not falter. He crossed the space and lowered himself to one knee.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," Elias said, his head bowed, shame roughening his voice.
Leroy’s eyes swept the street. He could see Elias had fought hard; the cuts, the bruises, the bodies told the story. And still, the half-alive attacker writhed nearby, muttering through broken teeth, laughing even as he bled out: "Got him... finally got the man who ruined my family."
It had to be Lorraine’s plan.
But Elias’s wound was real, seeping steadily through the torn cloth. Leroy set his hand firmly on the man’s shoulder. "Rise. And have that wound treated." His tone was iron.
"It’s not severe. I’ll—" Elias tried, but his voice caught.
"Go to a doctor," Leroy cut him short, the command final.
Elias inclined his head, steady even as the pain throbbed deep in his ribs. "I’ll go to the manor’s physician."
He could have found help here in the marketplace. But no. He wanted to be at the manor. He knew what this meant, what was unfolding. And if danger came upon the household, he would not be elsewhere.
The manor was where Emma was. His precious Emma. And no wound would keep him from her side.