[26th Veyra, 495 IC, Dawnsworn[Emerald Castle — Crown Prince's Study
Early morning sunlight cut across the room.
Limon was already there, leaning against the mahogany desk with a stack of ledgers. He started to offer a standard greeting, but the words died in his throat. His gaze drifted down Alden’s silhouette, lingering on the crisp lines of the new uniform.
Limon let out a low, appreciative whistle, his lips curling into a smirk. "Elara outdid herself this time, Your Highness. It seems she understood the objective: you finally look the part of the Imperial Heir." He reached out, jokingly adjusting a tassel on Alden's shoulder with an exaggerated flourish. "The court won't know whether to bow or go blind from the glare."
Alden didn't mirror the smile. He moved past his aide. "What’s on the docket for today’s morning session?"
Limon took a step back, his posture stiffening as he snapped the ledger open. He flipped open the top ledger.
"The mood is sour." Limon tossed three thick folders onto the mahogany desk. They landed with a heavy .
"East is burning," Limon said, tapping the first folder. "They have a leader now. The Council is annoyed." He tapped the second. "And Mord is begging. They claim Ravencliff elves are torching granaries. They want gold, again."
Limon rubbed the bridge of his nose, then paused, his hand dropping to his side mid-motion. "Oh, and another piece of news I heard in passing. Advisor Aldric is ahead of schedule. He’s expected to return by tomorrow morning," Limon noted.
"What were his objectives for this trip?" Alden inquired, stopping by his desk.
Limon retrieved another file from the table and presented it to Alden. "They vetted the Mord delegates. He left to know if the Dark Elves are actually a threat, or if Mord is just incompetent, before he wastes the Emperor's time with it."
Alden nodded once, then fixed Limon with a commanding gaze. "Limon, head to the Green Spire and bring her to me..."
Limon blinked, tilting his head. "Her? Who? Tower Master Torvenn will be here in a few days anyway. Who else do you..."
"The Veiled Poison," Alden cut him off, his voice dropping. "Don't hunt her. Just walk the Green Spire. Look lost." Alden didn't look up from the map. "She finds the lost ones. When she offers you a drink, wait a full minute. If the glass doesn't fog, it's safe, but not more than a sip."
"That’s... uncomfortably specific." Limon slumped against the doorframe, throwing a hand over his heart. "You want me to roam aimlessly? Your Highness, I swore to be your right hand, but I didn't realize I was signing up to be the sacrificial lamb..."
The next moment his eyebrows shot up.
"Did she try to poison you? Or was this some sort of—"
"Go," Alden snapped, his hand dismissing the rest of Limon's sentence into the air. "I will handle today's session by myself."
Limon met the Prince's stare, held it for a beat, and finally lowered his head in a deep bow. "I understand, Your Highness. I’ll return—hopefully alive."
The heavy door clicked shut. Alden didn't sit. He stood by the desk, listening to the fading rhythm of Limon’s footsteps.
After Limon had left, Alden opened the bottom drawer, retrieving a leather-bound folder titled [Aldric Corlen]. He flipped to the page with an ink-red circle encircling an entry and traced the edge of the paper, fixated on the date.
Closing the folder and sliding it back, he walked out. The morning session was about to begin.
[The Imperial Court
To the right of the golden throne, a block of seamless obsidian stood below the highest dais, starkly contrasting with the room’s glittering opulence.
Duke Viremont swirled the vintage red in his goblet, leaning against a pillar. The gathered nobles formed a restless tide.
"His first day," a baron muttered, his gaze darting toward the black chair before flicking away as if the stone might burn him. "What’s the move? A purge of the registries?"
"The registries?" A veteran merchant twisted a heavy ruby ring, his knuckles white. "He holds a quarter of the Silver Star’s gold. That isn't just a prince; that is a treasury vault with a pulse."
"Wealth is a given for the bloodline," a minor lord sneered, though his eyes hungrily tracked the empty dais. "But look at Helbart... I’d give ten gold pieces just to watch his shadow shrink when he realizes his influence has been hollowed out."
A sharp, jagged snicker broke from a cluster of minor lords. They nudged one another, casting pointed glances at Duke Helbart. The Duke sat rigid, his fingers digging into his armrests despite the earlier mishap.
Countess Alderton’s silk fan closed with the force of a whip-crack. She tilted her chin, her eyes sweeping over them. "Lords, one would do well not to mistake a sturdy oak for kindling just because a new seedling has shown promise. Do the wise not know when to silence their tongues?"
Viremont hid a smirk behind his glass. Several lords suddenly found the patterns in the marble floor fascinating, clearing their throats to fill the void.
"His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Alden!" the herald bellowed.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
The heavy double doors groaned open. Every head in the hall turned in unison.
Alden entered. Viremont straightened. The rhythm of the court shifted to the of polished black boots on marble. Gone were the ceremonial silks. He wore a fitted black military jacket, the high collar stiff with silver embroidery that climbed his neck. A crimson cape, lined with heavy black satin, swept the floor behind him, fastened by silver chains that chimed softly with every step.
A young Viscountess leaned forward, her breath hitching audibly. Her father’s hand clamped instantly onto her forearm, a silent warning to breathe quietly or not at all. Even Countess Alderton held her bow a heartbeat longer than protocol required.
Alden stopped before the obsidian block. He didn't look at the golden throne. He turned, casting a gaze that swept the room before settling onto the black stone.
"Adequate," Duke Varik murmured from Viremont's left, a ghost of a smile touching his thin lips.
Viremont leaned in. "Adequate what, Your Grace?"
Varik didn't look at him. "Why not focus on your own house, Viremont? The cracks are showing."
Viremont’s expression remained smooth, though the wine in his glass stilled. "My house is secure. Though I wonder about houses whose daughters remain invisible. A bold strategy... And quite ambitious indeed."
"Ambitious?" Varik scoffed, finally turning. "If I were you, I would be terrified."
"And why is that?"
Before Varik could open his mouth to speak, the herald’s voice boomed again. "The Emperor is entering!"
The court’s reaction was slow. It wasn’t until Alden rose to his feet that the nobles scrambled, a chaotic wave of rustling fabric and scraping chairs as they hurriedly stood.
The Emperor took the golden throne.
"Crown Prince," his voice rolled down from the dais. "You hold the floor."
Alden stepped forward. His bow was geometrically precise, devoid of warmth. "Your Majesty. I wish to address the transition of duties. To ensure I do not misstep, I require guidance."
Alden paused, his voice smooth. "I request a written order granting me access to all of Aldric’s previous correspondence, ledgers, and progression reports. For the sake of continuity."
The Emperor rested his cheek against his fist. "You have a seal, Prince. Use it. Must you turn a paperwork request into a theatrical performance?"
"I merely desire a written order, Your Majesty," Alden replied, his tone flat. "So I may ask with... absolute confidence."
The Emperor sighed, waving a hand at the Chamberlain. "Very well. Give him the paper."
A quill scratched aggressively across parchment. The seal was pressed.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Alden sat back down.
Viremont shifted his attention from the obsidian throne to the dukes sitting in the front row.
Ashvale’s grin stretched wide, predatory and approving. Helbart’s eyes narrowed, tapping his armrest in a silent protest.
Viremont snorted and turned back to the prince. He watched the insignia adorning the Prince’s chest: two crossed swords.
Alden remained seated, his gloved hand casually resting over the hilt of his ceremonial dirk. The crimson and onyx signet rings, heavy on two of his fingers.
[Execution Plaza, late morning
After the morning court session concluded, Alden strolled to the Execution Plaza.
The plaza was packed with citizens—commoners standing afar pressed against the barricades, while the nobility occupied the raised, velvet-draped gallery closer to the stage. The guillotine stood at the center, its blade polished, catching the first rays of the afternoon sun.
In the front row of the gallery, Duke Ashvale sat with his legs crossed, smiling as he watched the preparations. Beside him, Duke Helbart was visibly displeased, his eyes darting toward the empty block. Duke Viremont stood slightly behind them, swirling a glass of wine he hadn't taken a sip of, his gaze fixed not on the stage, but on the Royal Platform above.
Tower Master Geralt was dragged to the platform in chains, guards flanking him on all sides. His eyes were wild, darting across the crowd.
He tried to speak. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Only silence.
A ripple of confusion moved through the crowd. They strained forward, expecting a curse, a plea, a confession. Instead, they got the terrified pantomime of a fish gasping on dry land.
"Has he lost his mind?" Countess Alderton murmured, snapping her fan shut. "Or has fear finally stolen his tongue?"
"Better silence than slander," Helbart whispered, gripping the railing. "Let us hope it stays that way."
Prince Alden stood on the imperial viewing platform beside the Emperor, his posture perfect, expression composed.
Geralt's eyes found him. His face blazed. He raised his chained hands, pointing directly at Alden, his mouth forming words the crowd couldn't hear.
'Please—' he mouthed. 'let me live—please—'
But all the crowd saw was a condemned man gesturing wildly at the Crown Prince, his face twisted.
"He's cursing the Crown," someone whispered in the crowd.
"The audacity," Duke Ashvale chuckled low in his throat, leaning forward with interest. "Look at him. A rabid dog barking at a mountain."
"How dare he," a minor noble hissed from behind Viremont. "Shameless to the end."
Geralt's pointing became more frantic, fingers clawing at the air. He lunged, chains dragging him back, mouth moving soundlessly, teeth bared, tears streaking his face.
Viremont, however, narrowed his eyes. He watched the desperate shape of Geralt's mouth, noticed the missing tongue, then flicked his gaze to Alden. The Prince remained statuesque, unmoved by the frantic begging masked as aggression.
The executioner forced Geralt down onto the block, pressing him into the cold wood. Geralt thrashed, straining against the restraints, eyes locked on Alden's face.
Alden, with one hand resting lightly on the railing, ignored the nobles in the gallery. He observed the commoners standing far from the plaza’s center, pressed against the barricades. Among them, he noticed a few women sobbing, clutching their remaining children tightly against their skirts.
Esme, her eyes wide open and brimming with anticipation, stood present. Arpa, however, turned her gaze downward but quickly glanced back up. The young boy, Lin, with eyes gleaming, fixed his gaze on Alden, occasionally glancing at Geralt’s face.
Alden’s lips curved slightly, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Watch closely," he murmured. "This is my gift to you."
Below, the executioner raised the heavy steel. The sun caught the edge of the metal for a brief, blinding second.
The blade fell.
Thousands of faces erupted into cheers, grim nods, and shouts of approval. Chains rattled, and blood splattered the platform.
Esme's eyes remained fixed, her teeth clenched tightly. Thousands of people surrounded Geralt, but no one heard his voice. His struggle ended in silence, cared for by none. Just like her sister’s.
Tears streamed down her face, but her lips twitched. For the first time that day, Esme’s gaze shifted to Alden. She smiled, and there was no more doubt in her heart. Softly she mouthed, "Master."
Arpa turned one last time toward the head of their tormentor, which had rolled to a stop, blood pooling across the wooden boards. Lin was shouting in joy, along with other commoners. Finally, they were free.
"Done," Ashvale said, clapping his hands once, the sound sharp and final.
Helbart exhaled deeply, sinking into his chair with a sigh.
Viremont watched the lifeblood pool on the gray stone. Drawn by a morbid gravity, his eyes lifted once more to the Prince. Alden was gazing at the distant spires, bathed in the golden wash of the morning.
Those eyes. They were rare, captivating, and utterly wrong.
Viremont blinked rapidly, convinced the fatigue of the execution was clouding his sight.
A hallucination, surely. Yet, a chilling dread gripped Viremont’s spine. The harder he tried to avert his gaze, the more irresistibly drawn he felt.
The light touched the Prince’s irises and vanished, as if where a soul’s shine should have been, there was only matte darkness.
The hair on Viremont's arms stood on end. He instinctively recoiled, taking a step back.
But froze.
The Prince was staring directly at him.
And he was smiling.
