[27th Veyra, 495 IC, Dawnsworn]
[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Study]
Alden sat behind his mahogany desk, the surface buried under a geological layer of reports, missives, and urgent requests. The late afternoon sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, sharp shadows that sliced across his face.
After a few heartbeats, a knock shattered the quiet. The door creaked open, and Captain Lut stepped inside, standing at attention as his armor clinked.
“Your Highness,” Lut’s gruff yet respectful voice boomed, “Commander Freya has requested an audience.”
Alden didn’t lift his head, his quill gliding across the parchment. “Send her in.”
Lut, holding the door open, stepped aside.
Commander Freya entered, her crimson uniform now dark with sweat and gray street dust clinging to her boots. She marched to the center of the rug, and dust fell from her cape as she snapped her heels and saluted.
Alden ordered, “Tell me, Commander.”
Freya, maintaining her steady voice, began, “Your Highness, we have secured the disruptors at the scaffold.”
Alden picked up another document from the pile, his eyes scanning the text as he spoke, “Go on.”
“Twelve. They were dressed as beggars, but armed with blowpipes. We found the darts in the mud—poisoned tips still wet. They waited for the sinner’s first sentence, but it never came.”
Alden nodded. “Silencers.”
“But…” The Commander’s shoulders slumped. The military silhouette she had projected upon entering seemed to dissipate.
“… we missed a few. Professionals. They ran into the alleyways when our sentries, even without uniforms, closed the net. Despite searching the entire Gretencer, we found no trace of them.”
Alden stared at her for a long time. The room was silent except for the rhythmic tapping of his finger on the armrest.
“Good job, Commander Freya,” Alden said, turning the page of his report. “Twelve is... an acceptable number. The perimeter guard held where it mattered."
He pressed the red seal into a pool of hot wax and issued an order. “Question the twelve individuals and try to trace their sender through those who fled.”
“Understood, Your Highness.” Freya nodded, but she remained bowed. The only sound was her breathing as she refused to leave.
Alden, once more, lifted his head. “Would you like to add anything, Commander?”
Freya squeezed her eyes shut before opening them. “Your Highness, Commander Devon couldn’t report because he had to leave early. His wife and second son were injured. He managed to secure the perimeter before departing.”
Alden’s brow furrowed as he commanded in a firm voice, “Elaborate.”
As Freya spoke, her voice carried a hint of tension. “On the eve of the twenty-fifth Veyra, Lord Cedric’s hands were bitten by Lady Emmelyne’s mastiff. And while trying to shield him, Countess Devon was also injured.”
“My condolences,” Alden said, nodding gravely. “Please ask Commander Devon to take a break. He is to stay with his family for as long as he needs. I’ll send the royal physicians to the Devon estate. Please inform me if they need anything, like rare herbs, healers, or royal support. Upon his return, direct him to see me first.”
"Yes, Your Highness." Freya breathed out, the knot in her jaw loosening.
She began to rise, then froze. The leather of her gloves groaning as her fists clenched and unclenched.
Alden looked at the middle-aged woman, waiting. "Speak, Commander. You need not hesitate."
Fixing her gaze on the intricate patterns of the rug, Freya clenched her teeth beneath her lips. “Your Highness, that… was a matter of prerogative. House Viremont asserted its dominance over House Devon. Violently.”
Freya looked up, meeting his gaze with difficulty.
“The attack... it wasn't an accident. Lady Emmelyne ordered it herself. And the reason was...” Freya swallowed hard, her lips trembling as she struggled to complete her sentences.
"It was a matter of... claim. Cedric saw her wearing a token supposedly from another... man, he confronted her. That's how it happened."
She wanted to add more, how the rumors had spread, what was being said about her, the cruelty she had shown to her own friend and supposed lover. But the words tasted like ash in her mouth.
Lowering her head, she could only whisper. “Your Highness, I understand it’s not my place to say, but the rumors and this incident… Lady Emmelyne might not be…”
Stuttering, she glanced back at Alden’s face, which was pale and shadowed in the dim light. She thought, 'He’s too young.'
Despite the news, he remained still, almost too still. Adding this list of infidelity to his grief… telling him that the woman he had watched with such interest was like this…
Devon’s voice echoed in her mind—a father recounting the crunch of bone and his son’s past with the woman. If this woman became the Crown Princess, her liege’s wife, she’d retire or change allegiance. Clenching her fists, she steeled herself.
Alden studied her for a moment, then he leaned forward.
“Freya, your fear is understandable but misplaced." Alden’s face remained impassive. His tone was steady, his posture relaxed. "Do not mistake my silence for blindness."
He picked up his quill once more, twirling it between his fingers.
"I see what happens in my Capital.”
Freya straightened, the tension leaving her shoulders. "Understood, Your Highness."
Alden ordered, “Dismissed.”
Saluting, Freya stepped out of the study, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. She almost collided with Limon, who stood outside the threshold, clutching a parchment. With a nod, she walked away, and Limon exhaled deeply before he swung the door open.
Alden was exactly where Freya had left him, seated behind the mahogany desk. He was rhythmically pressing a seal onto a stack of decrees.
His left ring finger held the heavy blood-red ruby of the late Empress’s seal, while his right held the pitch-black onyx of the Crown Prince. Alternating between them, he was approving supply lines with the black and sealing Palace missives with the red.
A silver platter of sliced pears and grapes lay untouched to his left.
“Your Highness,” Limon said, his eyes searching for cracks in the Prince’s mask. “I’ve brought the Veiled Poison and arranged her accommodations. Would you like to meet her tomorrow morning?”
Alden replied, not looking up, “That would be preferable. Make sure she’s comfortable.”
Limon nodded but didn't leave, his nerves fraying. He drifted to the side table, picked up a pear slice, and chewed, his eyes fixed on Alden.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Limon,” Alden called out.
Choking on the fruit, Limon stammered, “Ye... yes, Your Highness?”
Setting the seal down, Alden inquired, “What do you believe is the appropriate punishment for causing harm to another noble within the Empire?”
Limon’s gaze remained fixed on the prince’s face. He grabbed a handful of grapes, popping one into his mouth. "The law is silent here, Your Highness," Limon responded, speaking while holding a grape. "The eagle does not answer for scratching the hawk. And in this particular case, Lord Cedric touched Lady Emmelyne first. It can be counted as self-defense."
Alden looked up at Limon. A small, humorless smile played on his lips. "The Old Rites," He murmured. "And... what do think about this situation?"
Limon moved closer to the desk. "Me? I... I am just worried."
"Worried?" Tilting his head, Alden repeated. "Worried about what?"
"About you," Limon responded, abandoning the pretense of decorum as he gestured with a half-eaten grape stem. "You favored Lady Emmelyne, and within days, she was painted as indecent. The timing is too precise to be accidental. And..." Limon lowered his voice, leaning in.
"A conspiracy?" Alden cut him off, turning back to Limon. He smirked, looking straight at Limon. "Which part of the event seems like a conspiracy to you?"
Limon faltered, tossing the grape stem onto the platter. "The rumors... It all started with the rumors."
Pacing around as if unable to stand still, he added. "Consider the timing. Ice does not catch fire," Limon muttered, stopping at the desk. "Not without someone holding the torch. This incident started because Lord Cedric confronted Lady Emmelyne about gifts she supposedly received. What if she’s innocent, and her alleged impurity is a lie? To exclude her from being your... potential partner."
Limon took a deep, shaky breath. "The Ashford Rose blooms best... in the shade of a fallen Oak," he murmured. "She need not swing the axe herself... she simply ensures it is sharp, and leaves it where a desperate man might find it. Culpability is a difficult thing to prove when the weapon was borrowed."
Alden nodded his head. "You are beginning to see the shape, Limon. Good."
"Your Highness..." Limon dropped his voice lower than a whisper. "If you wish, I can ensure Lady Emmelyne is shielded, without your hand ever being seen on the hilt."
Alden paused, the ring hovering over the paper. "How so?"
"I have been cultivating a new instrument in the lower districts. Broadsheets, printed by the thousands... if we can—"
“No need. You said it yourself—a desperate man. Why would a man in that situation be desperate if there’s nothing going on?” Alden’s once warm and inviting eyes now glazed over the parchments spread across the desk. "She may have been coerced into the confrontation, but her actions were her own."
The clacking sound of the onyx ring against the desk echoed.
When he spoke, his words came out as a low, heavy murmur. “Limon, just remember one thing: Humans are often crueler than you can imagine. Never be too trusting.”
Limon had forgotten to breathe while listening.
Tilting his head, Alden exclaimed, “But I’m curious… what do you think they’ll do when they’re the ones who are helpless?”
“What are you…” Limon blinked, startled. The Prince had already turned back to his papers, the red ring descending once more.
“Just answer my one question,” Limon fixated on the Prince with a piercing gaze. “Are you okay, Alden?” The words slipped out before he could retract them. Alden smirked. “I am.”
That was good enough for now. With a soft sigh, Limon bowed and left the room.
As the moon ascended high, Alden rose from his desk and made his way to his bedchamber.
The guards at the corridor entrance lowered their heads, their usual rigid posture giving way to a sagging, heavy defeat. Instead of a crisp salute, they clamped their lips into stiff, paper-thin arcs—smiles that refused to reach their eyes. They didn't look at him; instead, they shared a pained, sidelong glance, their faces a brittle mask of feigned cheer meant to cushion his fall.
Alden sauntered past them, the distance between them increasing with each step. After he made a turn, their hushed voices reverberated through the stone walls.
"You see his face?" Rem murmured. "Pale as death."
“Can you blame him?” Henrik whispered back, his voice barely audible over the rustling of his armor. “First the Empress, and now the girl. He might as well reach for a rose and get bitten by a dog. The boy is doomed to a lonely fate.”
“Keep your voice down,” Rem rebuked, before nodding in agreement. "But... aye. The gods have a cruel sense of humor with that one."
Alden maintained his stride, though a faint, ghost-like curve softened his mouth. It vanished before the next torchlight caught his face. By the time he reached the end of the hall, he was marble once more.
Exhaling, he pushed open the heavy door to his private chambers and commanded, “Order Commander Pavel and Commander Brandon to mobilize. In half an hour. Ensure absolute privacy.”
The shadow shifted in the corner. Alden opened his bedchamber door before taking out a robe.
[Duke Helbart’s Capital Residence – Private Study]
A film of oil had formed over the surface of the Earl Grey, undisturbed. Helbart ignored the tea turning stagnant at his elbow. He kept his eyes on the man across the desk, while his fingers deftly walked a silver letter opener across his knuckles.
“It’s quite late at night, Advisor. What’s so urgent that you arrived at my door without even washing your face?” Helbart said, his voice smooth but lacking warmth.
Aldric collapsed into the chair rather than sitting. He didn't bother brushing the road-mud from his cloak. When he blinked, his eyelids seemed heavy, sticking for a second too long before opening again. “The road provides a man with time to ponder, Your Grace. Specifically, about how poorly a house stands when its foundation shifts.”
Helbart’s gaze narrowed. "Be specific."
"Bastian." The name scraped out of Aldric's throat, stripped of its title and rank. "He is moving to pledge his full assets to the Prince. Not just a dowry. A total economic integration. If that marriage holds, and the boy gains access to the Western Granaries, your seat on the Council becomes ornamental."
Helbart tapped the blade’s tip against the mahogany. "How is that any of your concern, Advisor?"
"Initially, it was not, but now..." Aldric countered, his hand sliding into his inner coat pocket. "I can’t stand by while this folly consumes us. You’ve also tasted the court’s iniquity." He leaned in, his voice a low rasp. "Why weather the storm when you can simply unmoor the ship?"
“You want to attack the Crown Prince when the entire court watches him?” Helbart chuckled. “Go ahead. Do not involve me.”
"Are you sure about that?" Aldric slid a heavy, twine-bound stack of parchment across the polished wood.
Helbart lazily flipped the cover page with the tip of his blade.
Then, it stopped.
The blade clattered on the desk. Helbart flipped the cover page. His finger traced a column of numbers, stopping halfway down.
"The ," he murmured. "Viremont swore that ship sank three years ago. But there is a docking fee from last week." He flipped another page, faster now. "And Oakhaven? He owns Oakhaven’s debt? If the Emperor sees this..."
“The Emperor perceives treason," Aldric finished the sentence for him.
"This is..." Helbart slammed the book shut. "This is the skeleton of Viremont’s empire. His illegal tariffs. His shadow partners. How do you have this?"
Aldric’s lips quirked—a thin, humorless smile. Aldric tapped the empty space on his finger where a signet ring used to sit. "I simply... balanced the books as part of my secretariat duties."
Helbart ran his thumb over Viremont’s creditors, his gaze narrowing. “With this, I can sever his lifelines. I’ll bleed his accounts dry in a year, maybe two. And then, the man will be little more than a titled beggar.”
"A year?" Aldric chuckled, raising a single finger. "These are merely circumstantial evidence. A lizard can always detach its tail if given enough time."
Helbart frowned. "One month?"
"One day."
The sound of fire popping in the hearth filled the room.
"Don't mock me, advisor." Helbart hissed.
"The fuse is lit, Duke. The markets at Ravencliff shift at dawn." Aldric rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. "But a fire needs air to breathe before it can consume a house. I need fuel."
Helbart leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. "How much?"
"Ten million. In Imperial gold."
Helbart choked out a laugh. "Do you think the treasury is a jester’s purse? Ten million is a campaign budget! Get out."
With a knowing curl of his lip, Aldric rose, his fingers hovering over the vellum. "A pity," he purred, his eyes fixed on Helbart’s expression. "Perhaps Lord Ashford would find more utility in these. He has long desired a station within the Emperor's inner circle. I could have a carriage at his gates before the sun rises..."
Helbart’s hand shot out, slamming onto the papers before Aldric could withdraw them. The parchment crinkled under his grip.
"Sit down."
Aldric settled back into the chair, his brown eyes gleaming.
Helbart rang a silver bell, and the heavy oak door swung open.
"Beric," Helbart snapped without looking up. "The vault. Liquid assets. Now."
Beric hauled the heavy iron door open. It swung too easily. Inside, the torchlight illuminated mostly bare stone and a lonely stack of promissory notes where walls of gold should have stood.
"The chest is light, Your Grace," He whispered, afraid to look him in the eye. "After the levy... maybe four million. The rest is stone and mortar at the Ashra estate."
Helbart didn't look at his butler. He stared dead at Aldric, spreading his empty hands over the desk.
"Heard you even paid the prince. No coin from the Silver Tower anymore, Your Grace?" Aldric sneered, "What a predicament.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice. "I suppose land is acceptable. Assuming the deed is clean."
Helbart gritted his teeth and yanked a drawer open, rummaging until he produced a heavy document sealed with red wax. He threw it on top of the intelligence packet.
"The Iron-Vein Mine in the North. It yields two million a year. That will covers the difference and the interest in three years."
Aldric picked up the deed, inspecting the seal in the candlelight. "Acceptable."
He produced a contract from his coat—already drafted, leaving the amount blank. With a travel quill, he filled in the amount and pushed it toward the Duke.
Helbart signed. He pressed down so hard the nib tore the vellum, the signature stark and jagged against the smooth grain.
“One question,” Helbart inquired, his voice hushed as he observed Aldric blow on the damp ink. "Viremont has captains who have served him for several decades. Guildmasters who owe him their lives. Loyalty isn't severed in a day."
Aldric stood up, smoothing his robes. He tucked the deed, order, and gold requisition into his coat and waved the parchment before turning away.
“Your Grace, the contract is here. Why not wait for the results?”
The door clicked shut.
Helbart sat alone, staring at the stack of stolen secrets on his desk—the weapon that could bring down a Duke and cripple a Prince.
He grasped his cold, bitter tea and took a long, deep sip, savoring the flavors with his eyes closed.
