The Prince Who Was Meant to Die
308 Words
The attack had already begun.
Arrows sliced through the air, cutting past Evelyn’s line of sight before she could fully process the scene.
One of the soldiers jerked violently—an arrow embedded deep in his throat—before he collapsed from his horse.
Dead before he hit the ground.
“Protect His Highness!”
The command rang out sharply, slicing through the chaos.
Evelyn’s eyes locked onto him instantly.
The prince.
Even in the middle of violence, he stood out.
Not because of his clothing—though the deep, embroidered fabrics marked him clearly as royalty—but because of the way he moved.
Controlled.
Precise.
Dangerous.
He wasn’t retreating.
He was fighting.
Evelyn’s jaw tightened.
Idiot.
Three assassins broke through the defensive line, their movements synchronized—trained, efficient, lethal.
Straight for him.
No hesitation.
No distraction.
They knew their target.
Evelyn’s mind snapped into calculation mode.
Distance.
Speed.
Angles.
Timing.
If she did nothing—
He dies.
The certainty hit her like a blade to the chest.
Not a possibility.
A fact.
Her grip tightened around nothing—no weapon, no tools, no plan.
And still—
She moved.
Her body launched forward before her mind could argue.
Leaves crushed under her boots as she broke from the shadows.
One assassin lunged first—
Blade aimed for the prince’s spine.
Evelyn intercepted.
She grabbed his wrist mid-strike—
Twist.
Hard.
The bone snapped with a sickening c***k.
The man screamed—
Too late.
His blade slipped from his grip.
Evelyn caught it mid-air.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
She drove it straight into his throat.
Warm blood splashed across her hand.
Real.
Too real.
Her breath hitched.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then—
Movement again.
Two more attackers.
Closing in.
Evelyn shifted her stance, grounding herself.
Adrenaline surged.
Everything sharpened.
They attacked simultaneously.
- Writer
