The Prince’s Road

Rain needles through a broken tile roof. A single lantern hangs from a beam, turning puddles into molten brass.

A burlap sack is slit open on a crate: SALTPETRE—white crystals like coarse snow.

CAPT. SILAS CROWE (30s), coat stained with mud and cordite, looks over a circle of MISFITS: gaunt GUNNERS, a COOK with a cleaver, a TEENAGE DRUMMER with haunted eyes.

ASHA MUKHERJEE (20s), calm, ink on her fingers, watches the door as if it might speak.

LT. TOM KESTREL (20s), too clean for the frontier, stands a half-step outside the circle.

This is what they deny us so we’ll beg. So we’ll break. Saltpetre. The spine of every shot we fire.

He scoops a pinch, lets it fall back into the sack.

CROWE (CONT'D)

No more begging.

Asha produces a small paper packet—twine-tied—like a medicine dose. She places it on the crate beside the sack.

Oaths are cheaper when written. But words are lighter to carry.

Crowe meets her eyes. He nods.

Then speak it.

The GUNNERS glance at each other. One, OLD ROY (50s), missing two fingers, steps forward.

I swear—by powder and bread—no man here gets sold to a ledger.

A murmur. Agreement.

The TEENAGE DRUMMER swallows hard.

I swear... if they come for one of us, they come for all.

Crowe’s gaze lands on Kestrel.

Tom.

Kestrel’s jaw works. He steps in, finally part of the circle.

I swear to the King.

The circle tightens, chill.

We’re not in London. We’re in mud.

And mud doesn’t absolve mutiny, Captain.

Asha shifts—subtle, protective. She holds out the twine packet.

Say it without crowns, Lieutenant. Say it with names.

Kestrel doesn’t take it.

Names don’t keep you alive when orders arrive.

A sound outside—soft, deliberate: a FOOTSTEP, then stillness.

Crowe kills the lantern with his hand. Darkness. Breath.

CROWE (WHISPER)

No one moves.

A moment. Then—SCRAPE of metal on wood from the far door.

Asha’s hand goes to the small dagger at her sash.

OLD ROY (WHISPER)

Company patrol?

Not with that patience.

A thin line of moonlight appears under the door as it’s eased open—

—A FIGURE slides something across the floor: a SMALL LEATHER SATCHEL. Then the door shuts again without a creak.

Silence returns like a held grudge.

Crowe relights the lantern. He crosses, lifts the satchel carefully. Inside: a folded LETTER, sealed in red wax with an EIC crest.

Kestrel goes pale before anyone reads it.

Who’s writing headquarters from a starving gun line?

Kestrel’s eyes flick to the door, to the men, to Asha.

You don’t understand—

Asha snatches the letter, breaks the seal with a practiced thumb. Her eyes scan fast.

It’s not headquarters.

She turns it so Crowe can see the bottom: a signet impression—stylized peacock feather.

ASHA (CONT'D)

Begum Farzana Ali.

The men shift, hands near knives, near nothing.

“Lieutenant Kestrel. Deliver the Captain’s cannon roster by the next new moon. In return—your debt is erased.”

Kestrel’s voice cracks, then hardens.

They had my father’s name in Calcutta. A warrant. A rope. I didn’t— I haven’t given her anything.

But you will.

Kestrel steps toward Crowe, desperate.

I came to you first, I tried to— I’m trapped.

Crowe holds the letter like it burns.

We’re all trapped. That’s why we swore.

Asha listens—then tilts her head. Another sound: WATER dripping… no, not from the roof.

A soft, wet THUD on the outer wall. Then another.

She moves to a gap in the boards and peers out.

Not patrol.

Crowe joins her, looks through.

In the rain-dark, SHADOWS glide between trees—four, five—bare feet. Blades wrapped in cloth. A woman’s silhouette with a veil that doesn’t move in the wind.

Farzana’s agents.

Crowe turns back to his circle—his brotherhood—fractured by a letter.

They’re here.

Old Roy spits.

For the saltpetre?

For the paper. And for him.

All eyes on Kestrel.

Kestrel’s hands shake. He lifts them, empty.

I didn’t call them.

No. But someone did.

Crowe looks at the satchel again—then at Asha.

CROWE (CONT'D)

That wasn’t slid by an enemy. It was delivered.

Asha’s face tightens—calculation, not guilt.

They want you to turn on each other before they touch the door.

Crowe makes a choice. He tears the letter in half—then quarters—lets the wet pieces fall into the saltpetre sack like dead moths.

Then we don’t.

He grabs the twine packet from the crate, shoves it into Kestrel’s palm.

CROWE (CONT'D)

Swear. Now. Or walk into the rain alone.

Kestrel looks at the packet like it’s a verdict. Outside—another wet THUD. Closer.

He closes his fist around it.

I swear… by the men beside me.

Old Roy nods once—acceptance, thin as thread.

Crowe gestures to the back—an old loading hatch.

Asha—lead them out. Roy, take the sack. Quiet.

Asha moves, commanding without rank. The misfits gather the saltpetre, feet careful on wet wood.

Crowe stays with Kestrel at the front door. He hands Kestrel a ramrod—more club than weapon.

CROWE (CONT'D)

If she bought you, she’ll try to collect.

Kestrel swallows.

And if the Company finds this—

They already did.

A shadow crosses the crack under the door. A hand tests the latch from outside—gentle, confident.

Crowe leans close to Kestrel, voice like flint.

CROWE (CONT'D)

Welcome to the war no one invoices.

The latch lifts.