**Chapter Seven: The Threads of Fate Are Woven in Shadows**
Linder returned to the palace grounds, the shadows of the distant tavern still clinging to the frayed edges of his dust-coated cloak. He passed through the main gate, where the training courtyard pulsed with the rhythm of wooden swords and the fervent shouts of apprentices. Coach Joe—a man whose weathered features bore the gravitas of decades—spotted him. The same coach whose voice had pierced the city's clamor earlier as Linder rode off on his secret mission. Linder hadn't ignored the call intentionally; his mind, preoccupied with a conspiracy finer than a spider's web, had drowned out all but his purpose.
"**Linder!**" Coach Joe's voice boomed, slicing through the courtyard's momentary silence. "I called out to you as you raced by like an arrow. Where have your wanderings taken you, boy?"
Linder approached with measured steps, his eyes glinting with a brilliance that belied his apparent youth, reflecting instead the depth of a millennium's worth of experience. He dipped his head slightly—a gesture of feigned respect for the man who had dedicated his life to training the princes of House Wren. "My apologies, Coach. My thoughts drowned out your call. May God forgive my distraction." His voice was calm, laced with a calculated apology that masked an ocean of secrets.
King Edward himself held Coach Joe in high esteem. The man had not only trained Linder's brothers but had honed the skills of generations of the kingdom's knights. The coach nodded understandingly, though a scrutinizing glint lingered in his eyes. "No matter, lad. Come—training awaits. Jin is expecting a rematch."
"Gladly," Linder replied tersely, as though indifferent, while internally, the gears of strategy spun ceaselessly.
Coach Joe tossed a wooden sword toward Linder, who caught it with the grace of a predator. He faced Jin, the boy hailed as a prodigy, for whom the sword was a natural extension of his soul. Jin bowed with equally feigned respect, born of youthful confidence in his unrivaled talent. "I hope this duel proves enjoyable, Your Highness."
The clash began. Jin lunged like lightning, his sword gleaming under the midday sun, targeting weaknesses he'd memorized from their past bouts. But Linder's reflexes were different today—not merely swift, but a blend of precise anticipation, economical movement, and an instinctual grasp of combat flow, as if he could foresee Jin's every strike. Wooden blades collided, sparks flying, yet the rhythm had shifted. Linder danced on the edge of danger, not just deflecting blows but steering them, luring Jin into invisible traps.
Coach Joe watched, not with open admiration but growing bewilderment. This was not the Linder he knew—the mediocre prince who struggled to match Jin's genius. The fighter before him possessed insight and cunning far beyond his years of training.
Linder noticed the coach's piercing gaze. *"Victory here would raise questions I can't afford to answer,"* he mused. *"I must lose—convincingly, without humiliation or revealing my true skill. A defeat that hints at improvement, not sudden transformation."*
In the past, matching Jin had been a genuine challenge for Linder, not due to lack of training but because of Jin's raw talent. Now? What did Jin know of true swordsmanship? He was a rough gem, unpolished beside Linder—a warrior who had crossed hundreds of battlefields as a knight, a samurai, even a shadowy ninja. A soul tempered by a millennium of life and death, cruelty and beauty, honing his spirit and blade to a degree Jin and Coach Joe could never fathom.
*"How is the prince keeping up so effortlessly? His reflexes… they're almost supernatural!"* Jin wondered mid-duel, an unfamiliar dread creeping into his confident heart.
*"Jin relies too heavily on talent, leaving glaring gaps in his offense and defense,"* Linder analyzed swiftly. *"Exploiting them fully would end this instantly—and expose me. I must show gradual improvement, not a leap."*
During a final exchange, Linder deftly dodged Jin's powerful strike. For a heartbeat, a fatal opening appeared in Jin's stance. Linder could have delivered a decisive blow. Instead, he slowed his counterattack imperceptibly, aiming for Jin's face in a telegraphed motion. Jin seized the chance, striking Linder's sword with force, sending it clattering from the prince's grip—a meticulously orchestrated loss, with Linder loosening his hold just enough to feign defeat.
Jin pressed his blade to Linder's throat, declaring victory. The boy bowed, still panting. "That was our fiercest duel yet, Your Highness. Your improvement is remarkable." Unaware his opponent could have ended him from the start.
Linder returned the bow, a flicker of satisfaction hidden in his eyes. He'd achieved exactly what he wanted: a plausible loss and impressive progress that invited admiration, not suspicion.
Coach Joe approached, astonishment lingering. "What was *that*, Linder? How did you match Jin? You've improved unbelievably! A bit more focus at the end, and you might've won. Yesterday, Jin was toying with you!"
Linder felt a faint sting of regret—his near-exposure. But a millennium of combat had etched these reflexes into his marrow. In battle, even allies could turn, and split-second instincts meant life or death.
He scratched his head theatrically, feigning boyish embarrassment. "Ah… I trained alone for hours last night, Coach. My frustration drove me."
Coach Joe didn't fully buy the excuse but knew Linder's relentless resolve. "Perhaps… frustration *is* the best motivator," he conceded. "Well done, Linder. Keep this up." He clapped the prince's shoulder, pride mingling with puzzlement.
Linder continued training with the others, careful not to reveal his overwhelming superiority, showcasing only gradual growth to make his performance against Jin seem reasonable. At dusk, the session ended. Linder left the courtyard for his chambers.
After washing away the day's sweat and dust, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight seeped through the window, painting spectral shapes on the walls. The ceiling became a cinema screen replaying his millennia of memories—pain and joy, victories and defeats.
*"Every experience a lesson, every life a chapter in self-discovery,"* he whispered. *"Perhaps this final journey—returning to the beginning—is where I'll find true fulfillment. Not blind ambition, but the peace of understanding the game and playing it on my terms."* With these thoughts, he closed his eyes and sank into a deep sleep—the sleep of a warrior resting before the next battle.
Dawn broke, golden sunlight rousing Linder. He ate the breakfast brought by palace servants, then slipped out, heading to the secluded tavern at the city's edge—a place more akin to a derelict den than a public establishment. Few patrons frequented it, making it ideal for covert exchanges.
This was where Linder had agreed to receive messages from the Quendor Kingdom's minister under a merchant's pseudonym. Disguised again as a trader—a passable, if not flawless, ruse—he entered, retrieved the sealed letter from the designated corner, and left unnoticed. Or so he thought.
Returning to the palace via a different route, he shed his disguise and resumed his princely guise. By midday, he locked himself in his room and broke the seal. The message was brief:
*"Prince Linder, your words intrigue us. We are willing to listen. Share your plan."*
A cold, near-invisible smile touched Linder's lips. He'd anticipated this. The weakened Quendor Kingdom clung to any hope, even from an unlikely source.
He penned his reply on luxurious parchment, each word calculated:
*"First, demonstrate goodwill by tentatively accepting King Edward's treaty terms. However, request a one-week postponement of the signing. During this week, formally invite King Edward to visit Quendor as a gesture of renewed friendship. Though puzzling, trust me. I guarantee these steps will pave the way to an outcome that satisfies your ambitions."*
Sealing the letter, he disguised himself again and delivered it to the tavern. The den—a shadowy bourse of secrets—safeguarded the exchange.
The next day, as Linder predicted, King Edward summoned his three sons.
In the council chamber, the king sat on his throne, addressing his heirs with wary bewilderment: "Quendor has accepted the treaty. But they've requested I visit them before finalizing it. What do you make of this?"
Cain, ever suspicious, spoke first: "Father, this reeks of treachery! Refuse at once. It's a trap!"
Linder interjected calmly before Cain's words took root: "I share Cain's concerns, Father. Yet outright refusal may insult Quendor's king, who might genuinely seek peace. With your permission, let me go in your stead. This ensures your safety while appearing open to reconciliation."
The king erupted: "Absolutely not! You'll not walk into the serpent's nest alone! What if it *is* a trap?"
Ned, whom Linder had subtly primed earlier, intervened with pragmatic flair: "Peace, Father. Linder's proposal has merit. Quendor knows our army's strength—they'd never risk direct harm. Send a royal guard with him. We preserve our dignity and probe their true intentions."
A ghost of a smile flickered across Linder's face. All was proceeding as planned.
The king pondered deeply. Ned's arguments swayed him.
"Ned is right, Father," Linder reinforced.
Finally, the king relented: "Very well. Linder will go, guarded by our finest soldiers."
*Exactly what Linder needed.* The guards weren't for protection but for the illusion of legitimacy.
The royal procession—guards, soldiers, and trained steeds—departed at dawn, arriving in Quendor the next morning. The reception was extravagantly overdone: rose-strewn streets, banners fluttering above the palace walls. Quendor's king, ministers, and generals awaited in the main courtyard, prepared to greet King Edward—not the insignificant Prince Linder.
But this time, Linder was no victim. He was the hunter, patiently laying his traps