The Prince’s Road

Script

INT. ABANDONED INDIGO STOREHOUSE - NIGHT

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.

CROWE
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.

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

Crowe meets her eyes. He nods.

CROWE
Then speak it.

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

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

A murmur. Agreement.

The TEENAGE DRUMMER swallows hard.

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

Crowe’s gaze lands on Kestrel.

CROWE
Tom.

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

KESTREL
I swear to the King.

The circle tightens, chill.

CROWE
We’re not in London. We’re in mud.

KESTREL
And mud doesn’t absolve mutiny, Captain.

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

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

Kestrel doesn’t take it.

KESTREL
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 t