A Secessionist's sentiment of Succession

Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their prompt, 'The Ambush"

Today was... tense. Hell, the last year had been tense. Every public event the Queen had attended had some group, alliance, or union picketing outside of it. Not once in twelve months had any event been this... normal. Not even quiet, just normal. So why were Johnathan's ears ringing like a particularly abusive violinist was walking behind him?

For twelve months, the Queen's sheer presence brought, at the minimum, a disdainful crowd out to see her, with distant yells heard in the pauses of any speech or question period as protestors sought to be heard, however impolite it may have been. He'd lost count of the times the Queen had to remind the local Sheriff to keep his lads from being "proactive," as had been the lingo under her father. Unbeknownst to those Chiefs, she'd kept a list of them, ones she needed to replace, and fast if she wanted to realize the promise of reform her father's death had allowed for. Remarkably, she'd already established enough support with the nobility, impressing upon them all that should the murmurs of rebellion prove true, their heads were no safer than hers.

And yet the quiet here set him far more on edge than even the near riot three weeks back. "Ma'am, I think we're in the most danger we've been in." He whispered as he stayed close to her, umbrella in hand, the steel-lined royal carriage just behind them.

"I rather agree, but I will not hide needlessly. My father feared them. I have to try to be different if I'm to regain their support." She put on a good face. Had Johnathan not been her guard for 20 years, he might not have caught the waver in her voice or the stiffness of her breath. She was terrified today. She'd been nervous when this tour started, grown accustomed to the insults and protests, but the normalcy here was almost too much.

Then, the bellow of the constable cut the tension free.

"RIFLE! On the roof, rightside!"

Immediately, Johnathan was blocking any view of the Queen from that direction as he pushed her back down the street to the carriage, a distance of fifteen feet stretching to a mile as rifle fire crackled behind. The heavy reports of the Royal Guards pepperboxes thundered back, and a low moan could be heard as the echoes of gunfire died, the would-be assassin draped over the decorative topper of the warehouse he'd hid atop.

Silence reigned in the main street as Johnathan and sixteen sworn men waited for any other fool to try their luck. He signalled the driver to advance slowly again as another man mounted the other side of the carriage. Then they heard it. Over the steady hoofbeats, the wretched wail of a mother who lost her child. And every door in the street burst open. Four rifles were in each door, the brief moment between the hammer's strike and bullets flying dragging on for eternity as Johnathan ordered the driver to get the horses running, beating his hand blue against the cabin's side.

The hail of bullets took ten men's lives in a single second; the six who survived fired into every doorway, scrambling along the ground for the weapons of their fallen friends, fighting for every chance at survival.

But no second volley came. No charge. No orders at all. Just four rifles, perfectly still in every doorway. Then, the worst sound in the world came. The heavy thump of distant cannons. The driver had wisely kept the horses running, but Johnathan still saw one of the survivors running towards them. Saw the shell impact the ground beside him. I saw the man stumble before the flash of explosives turned the man into nought, but ash and blood spread along the street. The local garrison had betrayed them.