Five days later.
The London street was filled with energy as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows upon the cobbled pavement. A sea of protestors, their fervor burning brightly in their eyes, filled the thoroughfare, their voices rising in an unrelenting chorus of indignation. Placards painted with bold words and vibrant drawings waved defiantly in the air, bobbing like a turbulent sea in the wake of an approaching storm.
The air hummed with the righteous anger of the masses, their grievances echoing through the ancient stone facades that lined the street. The city was ablaze with a collective fury that permeated every brick and mortar, infecting even the very atmosphere with its palpable weight. And at the heart of this tempest of discontent, a lone horse-drawn carriage ambled down the road, oblivious to the maelstrom it had become a part of.
Inside the carriage, Poul Nielsen, an Avalonian whose name had become infamous overnight, sat with an air of indifference. His flippant grin remained plastered across his face, a twisted mockery of the anger that roiled through the London streets. His eyes, cold and devoid of remorse, fixated on the scene outside the window, where the relentless protestors fought for justice.
As the carriage rolled forward, the cacophony of voices grew louder, their cries for retribution piercing through the protective layers of privilege that shielded Poul Nielsen from the consequences of his actions. He leaned back against the plush upholstery, his body relaxed and his confidence unwavering, confident in the deal his government had struck with the British.
Through the narrow gaps between the curtains, Poul glimpsed the faces of the protesters, contorted with a mix of frustration, grief, and anger. Their eyes blazed with an unquenchable fire, their voices raised in unison as they demanded justice for the kidnapped princess, Penelope Ascart. The crime had struck a chord deep within the hearts of the populace, shattering the illusion of safety and invulnerability.
"Do you know what you have done, you filthy Albian?" one of the guards stationed inside the carriage seethed, his voice laced with venom.
Poul Nielsen turned his gaze from the window to meet the guard's furious glare. His flippant grin faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of annoyance.
"You don't have to remind me. I can hear their shouts from here," Poul retorted, his voice tinged with irritation. He leaned forward, meeting the guard's furious gaze. "And why is your anger directed at me? Shouldn't you be infuriated with your own government, the one that brokered the deal with my homeland to set me free?"
The guard's eyes narrowed, his features etched with resentment. "Oh, don't worry. We are angry with our government too. But that doesn't absolve you of your crimes," he spat, his voice heavy with accusation.
He continued. "Penelope was the symbol of hope for us, the one who saved us from a catastrophe of a cholera outbreak. You took her from us…where is she? Where is the princess?"
"She is safe, that I can assure you," Poul interrupted, his voice calm but laced with a hint of mystery. He leaned back, his gaze fixed on the guard. "Rest assured that she is safe under my watchful eye. But her whereabouts shall remain undisclosed for security purposes…" he trailed off, his eyes shifting. "Guard, please stop talking to me, there has been a lot of noise outside and I don't want you adding up."
The guard clenched his fist and clicked his tongue in frustration. He wanted to punch Poul in the face but he couldn't as it would be considered an act of insubordination. The guard's duty was to protect Poul, despite his own personal disdain for the man.
Well, if there was an attempt on his life by someone, he would gladly let them do so. But for now, he has to act.
Outside, two men watched as the carriage drove down the cobblestone streets. They were puffing their cigars as their eyes followed the movement of the carriage. When it passed by them, the two exchanged a meaningful glance and then nodded.
One of the men opened his knapsack and pulled out a rectangular box, and handed it to his partner.
The man who received the box nodded in kind and ran ahead of the carriage. The moment he was at a distance, he threw the box at the carriage. The convoy, primarily composed of marines who were escorting the carriage, looked at the projectile heading onto the carriage; they wondered what that was.
Since the beginning of the journey, there have been some protesters throwing stones and other objects at the carriage, but this projectile seemed different. The box sailed through the air, its trajectory aligning perfectly with the moving target. The convoy guards, momentarily caught off guard, scrambled to react, but it was too late.
With a resounding thud, the rectangular box struck the side of the carriage, instantly shattering into a burst of shrapnel and flames. The explosion engulfed the carriage, sending debris flying in all directions. The force of the blast reverberated through the surrounding area, rattling windows and causing chaos among the protestors.
Inside the carriage, Poul Nielsen was jolted from his seat as the explosion rocked the vehicle. Shards of glass and splinters of wood rained down upon him, cutting through the air with deadly precision. The guard who had been engaged in a heated conversation with Poul was thrown to the opposite side of the carriage, his body limp and bloodied.
In the midst of the chaos, Poul's survival instincts kicked in. With a surge of adrenaline, he fought against the disorienting impact, struggling to regain his composure. He could hear the crackling of flames and the anguished cries of the injured.
As the smoke and dust began to settle, Poul surveyed the aftermath of the explosion. The carriage lay in ruins, reduced to a charred wreckage. The guards who had accompanied him were scattered and wounded, their bodies strewn across the street.
"What the…" His vision blurring, and his hearing muffled, Poul struggled to gather his bearings amidst the chaos. The explosion had taken him by surprise. With each passing second, pain seared through his body.
"Are you okay sir?" One of the marines approached Poul, his voice laced with concern. Poul's gaze shifted towards the marine, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a mixture of shock and pain.
"I... I think so," Poul managed to reply, his voice strained. He struggled to push himself up, his limbs trembling from the impact of the explosion. The marine extended a helping hand, assisting Poul to his feet.
Meanwhile, the crowds that had gathered in the streets ran amok, their panic escalating with the unexpected explosion. Chaos reigned as people frantically scattered in all directions, seeking safety from the devastation. The once unified chorus of protest had transformed into a cacophony of screams and cries.
Poul Nielsen, his mind reeling from the blast, attempted to make sense of the situation. His body ached, and blood trickled down his forehead from a gash on his temple. He struggled to steady his breathing, fighting through the pain as he looked around for any sign of his guards or the princess.
The marine who had helped Poul to his feet scanned the chaotic scene, his eyes wide with alarm. "We need to get you out of here, sir," he said, his voice urgent. "It's not safe. Can you walk?"
Poul gritted his teeth and nodded, pushing aside his pain. Together, he and the marine made their way through the debris-strewn street, navigating the frightened and disoriented crowd. The remnants of the carriage smoldered behind them, a grim reminder of the danger they had narrowly escaped.
As they moved further away from the explosion site, Poul's attention turned to the two men he had seen before the attack. He strained his eyes, searching for any trace of them in the chaotic aftermath. The assailants seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving behind only destruction and confusion.
"Have you identified who threw the bomb?" Poul asked.
"Yes, we saw a glimpse of them. They ran after they threw the bomb and I ordered two men to chase after them. But since those men were affected by the explosion, I don't think they'll catch them. In the meantime, we need to get you to the embassy," the marine replied.
"I understand," Poul replied weakly.
As they hurried along, Poul's mind raced, trying to piece together the events that had just unfolded. The attack had been targeted specifically at him, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that there was more to it than just the anger of the protestors. Who were those men, and why had they singled him out?
"What did they look like? Are they wearing some sort of disguise or clothing that covers their faces?" Poul asked, his voice laced with urgency.
The marine glanced back at Poul, his brows furrowed in concentration. "It all happened so fast, sir," he replied. "But from what I could gather, they were wearing dark clothing and had their faces partially covered with masks or scarves. It was difficult to make out any distinguishing features."
Poul's mind raced, trying to connect the dots. Dark clothing and concealed faces only added to the mystery. Whoever these assailants were, they had planned their attack meticulously, ensuring their identities remained hidden.
"I see, well, whoever they are, we have to get to the Embassy fast. Since they saw me standing up and leaving the site means they are going to try again."
"Sir, I think it's best that you don't speak for now. You are wounded."
"I knew that this wouldn't be an easy leave," Poul mumbled.
