The aftermath of the ore lift demonstration attack left a palpable tension in the palace, a chilling reminder that the enemies within were far from vanquished. Mark, though recovering from his graze, knew the fight had escalated. Lady Seraphina's network might have been shattered, but the deeper, more insidious threat of the Black Hand, subtly pulling strings from afar, remained. Master Theron, the ruthless merchant from Tondo, was a chilling example of their reach. Lord Corvus, too, despite his renewed caution, harbored a deep-seated resentment that festered like an open wound.
Mark doubled his security, his days now a relentless cycle of strategic planning and vigilance. Ben became an ever-present shadow, his senses on high alert. Alfred, though still maintaining his playful façade, moved with a newfound gravity, his every jest carrying a subtle warning. Ellaine reinforced palace wards, and Grumble, with Elara, secretly fortified the Royal Foundry.
The attack came weeks later, a cunning, multi-pronged assault designed not merely to kill, but to incapacitate and demoralize. Mark was returning from the Royal Foundry in a carriage, accompanied by Ben and a small escort of guards, when their procession entered a newly paved section of road leading towards the palace. Suddenly, the air shimmered with an unseen force, and a wave of insidious, mana-infused neurotoxin, subtly dispersed by a cloaked mage among the surrounding bushes, washed over the carriage. Mark felt a sudden, crushing headache, his vision blurring as nausea surged through him. He instinctively reached for his side, but his limbs grew heavy.
At the same instant, the carriage was ambushed. Not by common bandits, but by a highly coordinated strike team of elite assassins, moving with chilling precision. They employed cloaking spells, silent blades, and even beastfolk mages who conjured powerful illusions to disorient the guards and amplify the toxin's disorienting effects. The combination of the immediate physical threat and the mind-numbing poison was designed to be overwhelming.
Ben, a wall of steel, moved despite the blurring effects of the toxin, deflecting strike after strike, protecting Mark with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. Alfred, who had coincidentally been riding ahead on a reconnaissance trip, heard the commotion and galloped back, joining the fray, his arcane-augmented rapier singing as it danced through the assassins' ranks. Their combined efforts, coupled with Captain Lysandra's swift arrival with reinforcements – tipped off by Ellaine's real-time magical tracking of suspicious mana signatures – repelled the assault.
But it was a brutal fight. Two guards were killed, several wounded. Ben himself sustained a deep gash on his sword arm, and Alfred barely avoided a lethal blow to his chest, his magical aura shattering just in time. Mark, already struggling against the toxin, witnessed the ferocity, realizing the sheer depth of the conspiracy. This wasn't just disgruntled nobles; this was a well-funded, professional organization operating at a continental scale. He found a strange, dark coin on one of the dead assassins, bearing the symbol of a black hand gripping a golden serpent. The insignia of the Black Hand. They were not just allied; they were directing.
The information from this ambush, coupled with the revelation of the powerful magical neurotoxin, sent shivers through the Royal Court. King Leonidas, distraught, wanted to confine Mark to the palace. But Mark, fueled by a grim determination, refused. "If I hide, Father, they win. etabsam will collapse. We must show strength, not fear."
Despite his resolve, the neurotoxin had done its work. The subtle magical poison, designed to gradually cloud the mind and weaken the body, combined with the stress of the ambush, proved too much. It happened during a quiet moment of reflection in his chambers, after a long day of strategizing. The crushing headache intensified, his consciousness felt like it was being squeezed from his skull. He tried to call out, but his voice failed him. His limbs grew heavy, his vision blurred. He felt a cold, foreign presence attempting to invade his mind, twisting his thoughts, pulling him into a terrifying, deep sleep.
Ben, alerted by a faint tremor in the mana wards Ellaine had placed around Mark's room, burst in. He found Mark collapsed, convulsing faintly, his skin clammy. A lingering, potent mana signature, dark and ancient, pulsed faintly in the air. This was no ordinary poison. This was a sophisticated magical assault, a curse designed to sever his connection to his own mind, to trap him in a waking nightmare, or worse, to extinguish his consciousness entirely.
"Crown Prince!" Ben roared, fear flashing in his stoic eyes. He lifted Mark, rushing him to the Royal Physicians, who were baffled, their conventional remedies useless against such arcane malevolence. Ellaine was summoned, her face stark with terror as she sensed the powerful, malicious magical residue clinging to Mark.
"It's a coma, Your Highness," the Royal Physician announced, his voice heavy with despair, days later. "A magically induced one. His body lives, but his mind… it is lost to us. We… we don't know if he will ever awaken."
King Leonidas wept openly. Queen Magayon collapsed in grief. The news spread like wildfire, plunging etabsam into a collective state of shock and profound sadness. Their rising hope, their brilliant young Prince, had been struck down. The largest black organization, the true power behind Theron and Seraphina – the Black Hand – had found its target, and delivered a devastating blow. Mark von Faust, the reborn breadwinner, lay lifeless, drifting in a cursed slumber, his kingdom teetering once more on the precipice. The whispers of the Black Hand had become a deafening roar.