Three, four? No—five. For some reason the number stirred a memory of the victory procession. The first time he had witnessed an assassination attempt against Her Highness had also been five.
Still keeping one hand connected to Her Highness, Friedrich drew his sword from the scabbard at his hip. The blade slid free in a long, fluid motion, following the sound of the wind against the window.
The faint candle flame illuminating the sick room snuffed out in the same instant.
Click. The latch of the window turned.
Friedrich let Her Highness's hand go with a quiet pang of reluctance.
He pulled the blankets up over her head completely—and in that same motion, his arm swept out in a wide arc.
Clang!
Simultaneously: the sound of something cutting deep into flesh, the clatter of a fallen blade against the floor.
The first opponent, still in possession of their less-injured hand,…
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