Chapter 23: Rescue
The rented room at the inn had nothing special about it: stone walls, dark oak furniture, and a faded crest above the fireplace. Still, it was enough for Ethan Blake.
He still had plenty of money stored in his dimensional ring, earned from guild missions. He could stay there for a few months before needing to take on another mission, or ask the church for help.
Seated at the desk, he ran his eyes over a yellowed map of the capital and nearby regions, making small notes with a quill. The candle flickered, casting his shadow against the walls.
He had arrived there a few days earlier, keeping contact with others to a minimum. He only sent a letter to the local church to let Aeris and the others know he had arrived safely.
Ethan wasn’t in a hurry. Even though the kingdom stood on the brink of crisis, he knew he needed more information before doing anything. And he, more than anyone, knew exactly what was supposedly about to happen: an isolated princess, soon to face an assassination attempt within the palace walls. Something planned by the nobles to spark a civil war.
In the novel, it was written as if the princess had no idea it would happen, but after seeing her in person, he had his doubts.
Ethan had no intention of just being a spectator. He planned to rewrite that part of the story.
Outside, the city kept moving. Merchants haggled over prices, patrolling soldiers struck their spears on the ground, and a man read royal decrees aloud in the square.
Ethan watched everything through the half-closed window. Every detail, every rumor he picked up from taverns or overheard in alleyways, could be useful. Even the way people spoke of the princess revealed more than they realized: "too proud," "a sociopath," "I wish she’d step on me." Words tinged with fear, but also with a subtle respect.
In the novel, the hero was told those rumors were false, spread to isolate the princess politically. But Ethan could easily imagine they were all true. The real question was why the princess hadn’t even tried to hide it.
At night, a man knocked on his door. A tired-looking messenger, wearing simple but fine-cut clothes, the type paid to see and hear more than he should.