novelraw Chapter 82: The Hunt
Chapter 82: The Hunt
In early July, the news of Assyrian Queen Amandra’s death spread throughout the world like a startled bird with wings, its ensuing chain reactions impossible to fully recount.
First, the Assyrian Sargon Dynasty instantly teetered on the brink of collapse due to the sovereign’s passing. Since the Queen had left no clear will, many opportunists emerged, claiming to possess a legitimate right to the throne. Each held a copy of a family pedigree, attempting to convince people that they were the closest blood relative to Amandra besides Sancha.
Of course, all claimants unanimously excluded Sancha’s right of inheritance. Their reasons were largely similar: as the Roman Queen, Sancha should not also ascend to the Assyrian throne. The two nations were too distant, and such rule would only lead Assyria back down the old path of civil unrest. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novelFirｅ.net
This group descended into a chaotic free-for-all, fighting tooth and nail over the Sargon Dynasty’s vast remaining wealth, frantically carving up the legacy Amneris left behind. Armies, land, and riches were swiftly rebranded under the names of various new lords. In different cities, six individuals emerged, each proclaiming themselves the “Rightful Heir to the Sargon Dynasty.” Establishing their own “Post-Sargon Dynasties” from various urban strongholds, Assyria witnessed the bizarre spectacle of six simultaneous “Sargon Dynasties” existing side-by-side.
Even the Heavenly Pilgrim Alliance was momentarily unsure which “Sargon Dynasty” they should attack first.
The Assyrian people mocked themselves with irony, but surprisingly, the Heavenly Pilgrim Alliance did not take advantage of the chaos. They opted for a more prudent approach: securing territory in the north, expanding slowly but steadily outward while consolidating their rule.
As for the south… those self-styled “Kings” would inevitably fight amongst themselves, depleting their own strength. Later, when the time was ripe, the Heavenly Pilgrim Alliance could effortlessly claim the prize.
Meanwhile, Rafael quietly left Florence, carrying the will, and prepared to meet Sancha in Roman.
This meeting was more fraught than the previous one.
He never hesitated to speculate the evil in human nature. There were no perfect saints in the world, only ordinary people who hadn’t yet been offered a high enough price. And a country… that price was arguably second to none.As Amandra’s sole heir for over twenty years, what would Sancha’s reaction be to such a will?
Even Rafael, who had corresponded with her for years, couldn’t be sure.
But he had to make this journey. If he wanted to gain an ally, if he wanted to eliminate all future worries—all profit came with risk. It was just that this time, what he desired was so immense that he had to stake his very life on the gamble.
However, he was no fool, recklessly charging into known danger. Though traveling light and appearing discreet, he brought Leshert and the most elite members of the Knights Templar, along with Ferrante and most of the Arbitration Bureau members skilled in assassination and stealth. Naturally, they followed routes repeatedly vetted by the Holy Crows to ensure safety.
Thanks to Ferrante’s frantic expansion, the number of people absorbed into the Arbitration Bureau—formerly the Inquisition—was something even Rafael wasn’t entirely clear on. The inns and taverns they passed might house Holy Crow members, stationed and watchful. Only Ferrante held the entirety of this vast network in the palm of his hand.
On July 10th, he arrived at the Roman border. To conceal his journey, Sancha used a border inspection as a pretense to travel to the same border city of Roman. The matter they needed to discuss was too sensitive; neither wanted any hint of it to be discovered.
On the evening of the 11th, Sancha slipped away from her retinue, accompanied by a few attendants, and arrived at the inn where Rafael was staying. This establishment belonged to the Holy Crows and had been cleared out. No one was permitted to remain inside except Sancha and Rafael.
Outside the inn, the Pope’s guards and the Queen’s confidants faced each other, tense and wary for the first time, listening intently for any sound from within.
They didn’t know what the two esteemed rulers were discussing, but they instinctively sensed danger. This time, they might truly face the clash of steel, awaiting only a single signal…
The atmosphere inside the inn, however, was not as tense or serious as outside.
The Queen wore a large black cloak that covered her whole body, beneath which was a simple round-neck dress. The snow-white collar fell softly with pleated silk decorations. There were no gemstone adornments on her clothes. Her golden-brown long curls cascaded loosely, clearly indicating she had hurried from her bedroom after pretending to retire for the night.
The Pope, seated opposite her, appeared more dignified, having at least donned a long coat.
The two sat across a table from each other. For a long while, neither spoke.
This wasn’t their first meeting, but previously, neither had known the other’s true identity. With Amneris’s death, they had suddenly transformed from orphans standing alone in the world into each other’s only family—even closely related siblings. This change was profoundly jarring.
“…I never knew I had an elder brother,” Sancha finally broke the silence. The girl who had become Queen had shed the sweet, gentle liveliness of her princess days, becoming more composed and cautious. Her mother’s death had clearly caused her immense pain; she was much thinner, her cheekbones sharper, and the innate steeliness, similar to Amandra’s had emerged more strongly than ever. “And I never imagined that person would be you.”
A calm scrutiny entered her blue eyes, as if seeing Rafael for the first time, or perhaps searching for something in him—what did she want to see? She herself wasn’t quite sure. Maybe she sought traces of resemblance to herself, evidence that this blood connection truly existed.
Sancha was silent again for a moment: “Actually, I’m not entirely surprised.”
Rafael showed a slight look of surprise, a silent invitation for her to continue.
“…Mother mentioned that I could trust you. During the time when news of your coronation spread, she was very happy. Although I didn’t know why she was so pleased at the time, her mood was genuinely excellent. Even the Parliament’s rejection of her application to amend the Succession Act didn’t anger her. I just didn’t understand why back then. Thinking back now, it was probably because of this.” Sancha said softly.
“Mother rarely expressed trust in anyone, especially someone she hadn’t even met at the time. She had me send you that dagger inlaid with the ‘Ocean of Glory.’ I once asked Mother for that gem, but she didn’t give it to me.”
The girl’s voice was gentle and soft. Perhaps everyone unconsciously uses their softest tone when reminiscing about the person they loved most.
Rafael did not speak. He could not join this conversation—this conversation mourning their mother—because in his barren memories, there was no “unique” Amandra he could share with Sancha.
He sat there, yet felt like an outsider.
If he had to join Sancha’s dialogue, he could only discuss his endless longing for his mother during his childhood, and the warmth given to him by Lia. But even he knew that such conversation would be extremely inappropriate.
So, he could only remain silent, quietly listening to Sancha’s words, carefully memorizing every word, attempting to piece them together into a mother he could call his own.
The silence between them stretched on for a long time. Neither mentioned the will. They seemed to have thought of much, and yet, perhaps, nothing at all.
Finally, the Queen stood up, retied the loose fastenings of her cloak, and prepared to leave.
Rafael rose to see her out. As the inn door opened, Sancha said, “I will have people arrange suitable identities for you to join my retinue. It seems we will need to spend some time together.”
Rafael smiled. Since the matter was of such importance, this meeting clearly couldn’t be concluded quickly. He had already settled his affairs in Florence; with Julius covering for him, his absence wouldn’t be discovered too soon.
“Actually,” Sancha said, pulling up her hood as she stepped out of the inn. The soft fabric obscured most of her face. Her muted voice came from beneath the hood. She hesitated for a moment before speaking softly, “…Actually, I’m glad. About you being my brother.”
The girl turned her face. Beneath the hood, a faint glimmer of moisture briefly shone in her blue eyes.
“…At least neither of us is alone anymore.”
Rafael was momentarily stunned. He watched as Sancha quickly ascended into the carriage waiting at the door, only recovering his senses after a long while. He couldn’t describe his mood; perhaps he still wasn’t as brave as Sancha, lacking the courage to trust others so readily.
Rafael, along with a few knights acting as his open escort, disguised themselves as merchants attached to the Queen’s retinue and secretly joined her traveling party. Their small number blended seamlessly into the massive entourage, drawing no attention from start to finish.
Apart from the rather hasty conclusion of their first meeting, their subsequent encounters involved no further discussion of extraneous matters. Having steadied their emotions, both Sancha and Rafael proved themselves to be competent politicians and strategists.
While a skilled strategist wouldn’t hesitate to use minor tactics, like emotional manipulation, to achieve their goals—and they certainly had the most suitable precondition for employing such a method—they both tacitly ignored this aspect.
After seven days of intermittent negotiation, they finally reached a basic consensus on the most important matters. Due to time constraints, the remaining, less critical issues would have to be resolved through correspondence later—something neither felt was cause for concern.
On the afternoon of July 19th, Rafael and his men quietly left the Queen’s convoy, just as they had arrived. Sancha’s traveling party was immense, filled with various retinues, their attendants, shrewd opportunists, and idle sightseers. People came and went every day, and Rafael’s group’s departure drew little attention—or so he had thought.
Two days later, while rushing back to the Papal States, they were ambushed by a large group of assassins at the border where Rome, Calais, and the Papal States met.
Rafael admitted that he had let his guard down.
He had focused all his vigilance on the negotiations themselves. During the long meetings, he had confirmed Sancha’s sincerity in cooperation. Coupled with his typically discreet travel, he never anticipated danger would strike after everything was concluded.
This shouldn’t have happened.
These attackers couldn’t be Sancha’s; she had no reason to do this. Rafael was shielded by Leshert, jostled roughly on his horse, yet his mind remained cold and sharp, racing through possibilities.
There was only one possibility: They were assassins from Calais.
That young Emperor, after moving against Amandra, had now set his sights on Rafael.
But this was also strange. Such murderous intent seemed baseless, unless… unless he knew the contents of the will and did not want Rafael to take control of Assyria.
This was a very reasonable guess. If Rafael were the Emperor of Calais, he wouldn’t be happy to see Assyria have a true, legitimate heir. A chaotic Assyria best served his interests. Of course, if the heir was Sancha, that was another matter; as his fiancée, Sancha acquiring Assyria was equivalent to him gaining it.
Who had leaked the secret?
Rafael struggled to think amidst the jolting ride, his joints aching from the strain. To dodge the arrows, the Knight Commander was demonstrating his finest horsemanship, which was far too thrilling for Rafael’s comfort.
Almost no one in the Papal States knew about the will. Rafael hadn’t even told Julius. The Secretary-General thought he had gone to Rome only to discuss the alliance between the Papal States and Rome after the Assyrian Queen’s death. Perhaps the damned mole was in the Roman convoy.
After all, the Queen’s entourage was truly a mixed bag. It wouldn’t be surprising if there were Calais spies among them, who only needed to bribe a chamberlain to glean a few words…
Rafael gripped his bruised forehead, silently cursing once more.
The assassins had chosen a highly advantageous ambush spot. The terrain was flat, and the Holy Crows secretly protecting Rafael were too far behind to reach them in time. The knights frantically tried to hold off the assassins, but faced with their fearless attack, the resistance was merely a drop in the bucket.
Leshert led Rafael, fighting and fleeing, attempting to circumvent the hills and quickly return to the Papal States’ territory. However, the enemy seemed to have anticipated their move, accelerating their pursuit. Leshert managed to maneuver against them for a time, but soon even Rafael realized the enemy’s goal.
“They are herding us toward Calais,” Rafael and Leshert said simultaneously.
Speaking on horseback was difficult; one could easily bite one’s tongue. They said no more, but both confirmed the same thing: these assassins were subtly tightening the circle, pushing them toward the Calais border.
Perhaps, more than death, they wanted to capture Rafael alive.
A living Pope would indeed be more useful than a dead one. Did François want to stage a second “Disgrace of Florence,” establishing a Papacy in Calais to control the faith?
Such things had happened before. Rafael recalled the unfortunate Pope captured and taken to East Calais after the fall of the Knights Templar. He presided over the faith in a foreign land, yet everyone knew he was but a puppet. The Church’s history books never acknowledged his reign, even though he had been legitimately crowned in Florence.
Rafael did not want to be the second “Captive of Calais.”
But the current situation didn’t leave him much choice.
“Then let’s head for Calais. I want to see what he intends to do,” Rafael ordered Leshert, yelling over the wind. He bit his tongue, wincing in pain, and a dry, metallic taste of blood filled his throat.
“To Calais!”
The loyal Knight Commander offered no word of doubt to the Holy See, swiftly changing direction and galloping toward the Calais border.
Leshert was the Knights Templar’s finest knight. He used their horses to escape the sight of the pursuers, quickly changed their clothes, roughly altered their appearances, and blended into the crowds entering a border city. From there, they used the river to reach Belem. Of course, as the prime target of the pursuit, Rafael had to make a significant sacrifice.
When that name left his lips, Leshert’s expression froze and twisted slightly. Rafael offered a somewhat insincere apology to his diligent Secretary General, far away in the Papal States.
But in the end, an apology was just an apology. He had no intention of discarding the name.
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