Oath of the King-Chapter 24: The Pride of the Lionfelt – Part 2.3

Leonhardt stabbed his fork into a slice of venison, the juices pooling with roasted garlic and thyme. Finally—a moment's peace.

"Master Healer!"

The steward burst in, panting. "The guards—all fifty-six—they've been brutalized. They need immediate treatment."

The fork bent in Leonhardt's grip. "The fool who did this... When I find him, I'll break bones he didn't know he had." He rose, his cloak swirling like a stormcloud. "Bring the wounded. Now."

Alden's Pursuit

Alden vaulted over a fishmonger's cart, sending cabbages rolling across the cobblestones. One guard? Easy. He skidded to a stop—and froze.

Behind the lone pursuer, ninety armored knights rounded the corner, their synchronized footsteps shaking the ground.

"Oh, you've got to be joking," he muttered.

A spear grazed his shoulder.

"NOPE."

Alden bolted, his earlier bravado dissolving into pure survival instinct. The market square erupted into chaos—stalls overturned, screams filling the air as the knights advanced in perfect formation.

Their leader, a scarred veteran with a halberd, bellowed: "By order of the Patriarch, you will—"

Alden was already gone, scrambling onto a rooftop with the desperation of a man who'd suddenly remembered his mortality.

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Leonhardt worked like a man possessed.

The infirmary had become a battlefield—moans of agony, the metallic tang of blood, the hiss of red-hot pokers sealing wounds. His masked assistant moved like a ghost between cots, her delicate fingers stitching flesh with spider-silk precision. The giant simply held men down when their screams threatened to crack the rafters.

"Compound fracture," Leonhardt snarled at his latest patient—a young guard whose kneecap protruded at a sickening angle. "Whoever did this fights dirty."

The guard whimpered. "He... he said he was looking for his father."

Leonhardt's hands stilled. A cold understanding settled in his gut.

Then the screaming started again.

The infirmary stank of crushed pride and broken ribs. Leonhardt circled the first guard, a mountain of muscle now whimpering on a cot.

"Shattered collarbone," he barked to his assistants—a cloaked giant with hands like anvils and a masked woman whose fingers danced with surgical precision. "Hyssop poultice. Bone-setting splints. Move."

The giant pinned the guard down with one palm. The woman slathered greenish salve over swollen flesh.

"NEXT!"

Leonhardt worked like a siege engine:

Dislocated jaws → Popped back into place with a sickening crack.

Splintered ribs → Wrapped in linen soaked in arnica and vinegar.

Egos → Left permanently bruised.

Dusk painted the Annex in blood-red light when the steward returned. "The Patriarch requests your presence."

Leonhardt knelt in the shadow of the Lionfelt crest, the Patriarch's voice rumbling above him. "Your work today honors the Pride. Name your—"

CRASH!

The doors exploded inward.

Alden stumbled in, sweat-drenched and wild-eyed, his sword clutched like a lifeline. "Father! Tell these zealots I'm—"

Twelve Holy Knights blurred into motion, their blades encircling Alden's throat before his next breath.

The Patriarch raised a hand, freezing the knights mid-strike. His gaze slid to Leonhardt. "You... know this mongrel?"

Leonhardt rose slowly. "No, Patriarch."