The Three Musketeers

"Tonight, we three shall move together. You and Morven will stand guard outside while Elyra and I seek clues within. Should Tyrrel chance to return, you know what must be done," Grayson instructed Andros.

Andros nodded his agreement, and with Grayson's brisk stride towards the quarters, their plan was set in motion.

Watching Grayson's disappearing figure at the doorway, Andros and Morven exchanged glances, only to be interrupted by Grayson's exasperated voice from within the room, "Elyra, put down the smoked meat and butter cake—that's my dinner! Get down from that chandelier!"

...

The night deepened over Hurricane Cliff, leaving only the howling cold winds to accompany the stone-like sentinel giants perched upon the city walls. The gales smothered all other sounds, reaching even the secluded depths of Tyrrel's palace.

Outside Tyrrel's study, two fully-armored guards stood rigidly by the door, their sharp eyes betraying no hint of fatigue or distraction.

A chaotic patter of steps suddenly echoed through the corridor. A six-legged great hound charged forth, bounding past the guards with such haste it struck the study door, nudging it ajar.

The guards hastened to restrain the massive patrol beast, preventing it from bursting through. The hound growled, its eyes locked on something inside the room that had enraged it, eager to destroy its unseen aggravator.

One guard glanced inside, noting nothing amiss, then turned and roared thunderously. The beast, recognizing the ire in the guard's voice, cast one last longing look into the study before retreating.

As the guards secured the door, not far down the corridor, Andros and Morven concealed themselves behind a wall, silently observing the scene.

"They're in. That kid sure knows his stuff," Andros whispered to Morven with a chuckle.

The adventurer raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with double meaning, "Of course, he's a master of underhanded tricks after all."

"After all, he's not a knight. We can't hold him to chivalrous standards," Andros replied, equally profound.

The adventurer turned his attention elsewhere, only to notice a towering figure approaching from the far end of the hallway.

"Tyrrel's coming!" Morven nudged Andros, who turned to see Prince Tyrrel advancing towards them, flanked by a general and two guards, engaged in hushed conversation.

"We have to stall them, give Grayson time!" Andros said to Morven.

The adventurer glanced towards Tyrrel and subtly unsheathed his curved dagger, signaling to Andros, who nodded in understanding.

Tyrrel, who was conversing with the officer, halted as he noticed the commotion around the corner. Recognizing Andros and Morven locked in combat, he raised an inquisitive brow.

"Your Highness, shall I intervene?" the Titan general offered, stepping forward.

Tyrrel calmly waved him back, choosing to observe the mock battle unfolding before him.

Andros, leveraging the reach of his knight's lance, unleashed a frenzy of thrusts at Morven. His strikes were serpentine, swift as silver lightning, each aiming for vital spots.

The adventurer, seemingly at a disadvantage, parried with precise cuts of his curved blade, deflecting the spear's tip as he closed in on Andros, his dagger sparking against the lance's shaft.

Andros swung his lance wide, but Morven leaped, evading the tail-whip strike. He threw his dagger in mid-air, which Andros sidestepped, flinging a spearhead back at Morven.

In a flash, Morven deflected the projectile with his sheath, seizing the spear's chain to pull it from Andros's grasp, eyes fixed on the returning curve of his own blade.

Without looking back, Andros caught the dagger with his gauntleted left hand, both warriors locking eyes, a chilling intent flaring between them.

"Well fought, indeed!" Tyrrel's applause brought the duel to an abrupt close. Both men turned to see the advancing prince and swiftly released their weapons, presenting themselves before Tyrrel with evening salutations.

"Your valor in combat is a sight to behold, worthy knights and rangers both!" Tyrrel beamed, "But tell me, why such a contest at this late hour?"

"Your Highness, being our first visit to Titan lands, curiosity thwarted our sleep. We decided to stroll through your grand hall and, on a whim, to test our mettle. We hope we haven't disturbed you," Andros bowed respectfully.

"Not at all. Yet I must remind you, the grounds are not entirely safe," Tyrrel leaned in, his voice grave, "Our six-legged hounds do not distinguish friend from foe. You'd do well to tread carefully."

"Thank you for the caution, Highness," Andros expressed his gratitude.

"Now, since the night grows deep, may I offer an escort to see you both to your rest?" Tyrrel proposed.

As they were about to reply, a voice from behind them interrupted, "There's an urgent matter for Your Highness, one that would be best settled now."

Turning, they saw a man in a broad hat and white cloak stride confidently from the corridor to join them. Andros and Morven, surprised by his daring, watched him approach.

"Isn't this Mister Grayson?" Tyrrel observed the newcomer, "I wasn't expecting you here. What pressing issue do you refer to?"

"I speak of the letter from Solon, inviting Your Highness to his coronation at Thunderhold," Grayson stepped forward, eyes locked with the prince's suddenly stormy visage, "It has pushed you to a precipice."

"How did you come by this information?" The general beside the prince gasped, pointing at Grayson.

"Rangers have their ways," Grayson stood undaunted, "The dilemma now, Highness, is stark. Attend, and Solon will never let you leave alive; refuse, and defy royal command—either choice leads to a deadly end."

"If Solon dares march against me, he and his men will learn the cost of folly," Tyrrel replied, his composure unshaken.

"With but three-quarters of your forces?" Grayson asked, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips, accompanied by a subtle shake of his head.

"The Ghost Pirates of Grey Harbor have been bought by Solon. Their ships will force you to divert a quarter of your forces to contend with them—in vain, for you cannot eradicate those phantoms."

As Tyrrel's complexion turned ashen, Grayson pressed on, "Depending on the remaining three-quarters, you cannot hope to defeat Solon. Already outmatched, diverting a quarter spells certain defeat."

"What exactly are you proposing?" Tyrrel demanded, his tone dark.

Grayson's smile carried a hint of cunning, "I merely wish to point Your Highness towards the light."