WE WANT A DEMOCRACY!”
They soon spot my limo and, realizing someone royal is inside, set their sights on it. My pulse starts to pound as they approach, chants increasing in volume, signs waving madly. All too quickly, we’re surrounded on all sides — an ocean of anger, engulfing us like an unexpected moon tide.
“Stay back!” Galizia yells, her arms thrown wide, as if she might singlehandedly keep thirty protesters at bay. She and the other guards have formed a human wall around our limo. I stare at her shoulder blades through my window and wonder how she keeps them so remarkably steady, even in a crisis.
“I SAIDSTAY BACK!”
Our guards trying their best, doing exactly what they’ve been trained for, but they’re vastly outnumbered. The small buffer of space they’ve created is now all that separates our Rolls Royce from the protesters. Six feet, no more.
This close, I can see their faces more clearly, along with the sigil emblazoned on their shirts. It’s the Lancaster crest — our double-headed lion — cut cleanly in half with a blood red sword. The symbolism is not lost on me.
Death to the monarchy.
A particularly bold protester lurches forward toward the limo, waving his sign fervently. Several guards place their hands on their holsters in response — a clear warning not to get any closer.
“You touch this vehicle, you will be arrested!” Galizia calls, her voice cutting over their persistent chants. “Your right to peacefully protest does not include the destruction of royal property!”
I expel a shallow breath of relief as the protesters back off a few feet. So far, they’re keeping their distance.
But how long can that possibly last?
“MONARCHY IS HISTORY!” They chant, their eyes burning through the tinted glass with a hundred years of pent-up resentment. “WE WANT A DEMOCRACY!”
“My god, the utter audacity of this!” Simms snaps, but there’s a quiver in his voice. “They should all be thrown in jail…”
I glance at him. “Technically, they haven’t done anything illegal, Simms.”
He huffs. “Yet.”
My knees bounce with nervous tension as I stare out my window at the standoff — the turbulent sea of protesters, the steady stone-faced guards. It’s only a matter of time before they collide. Only a matter of time before…
CLANG!
A sudden metal grating sound draws the scene to a momentary standstill. Everyone turns to look — guards and protestors alike. I can’t see through the dense throng, so it takes me a moment to register the piercing noise is the castle gate swinging open.
Someone’s coming out.
The protestors begin to move away from the limo and, through a gap in the crowd, I spot something that makes my stomach turn to lead.
No.
No, no, no.
A full contingent of the King’s Guard is marching out onto the street, dressed in black fatigues, helmets, and steel-toed boots. They haven’t drawn their weapons, but they’re carrying heavy riot shields and batons as they advance on the protestors.
What.
The.
Fuck.
There must be a hundred of them. It’s a clear show of force — like pulling out a firehose to extinguish the sparks from a small candle.
“Bane, you fucking idiot,” I mutter darkly.
“Your Highness! Language!”
I ignore Simms, eyes still fixed outward. “What the actualfuckis he thinking? Isn’t he supposed to be some kind of tactical expert?”