The King took the hit to the gut without fanfare. Just the swing of metal and the sound of a meat sack hitting the floor as His Majesty was mid-comment about the strange ink colour of the new tax reform. The man folded like laundry, and blood seeped.
Noah reacted without thinking. Which, of course, was always ill-advised.
He dropped to one knee and aimed dead centre at the ribcage. The bang echoed, louder than it needed to be. It sounded like a shot. It looked like a shot.
The King jolted. The bleeding stopped. Oh thank fuck.
Which would've been fine, heroic, even. if the guards hadn’t shown up the very next second with six swords pointed at his chest and someone screaming for the rope. “No, no, hang on, hang on...”
A lady shrieked. “He aimed at the King.”
Right. Technically true. If you ignored context. And intention. And physics. Noah retorted, “I healed him, you fucking meat pie.” The guards dragged him off the ground instead. He caught sight of tú in the crowd. “You! You saw it!” he shouted. “I helped! I literally helped! He was leaking like a bloody wineskin and I fixed it!”
