(Arthur POV)
The report arrived without ceremony.
No seal. No flourish. No traceable hand.
It waited on my desk when I returned from the morning council—a single folder bound in ash-gray leather, the kind used only by the imperial intelligence bureau when a matter was too delicate to risk even a ciphered signature.
I closed the doors himself.
I dismissed the guards.
Only then did I sit.
For a long moment, I stared at the folder without opening it.
I had learned, over the years, that some knowledge did not need to be rushed. Some truths were better approached like a blade—tested, measured, respected.
Finally, I broke the seal.
The parchment inside smelled faintly of smoke and oil, the scent of documents that had traveled too far and burned too many drafts before being deemed worthy of survival.
I read once.
Then again.
Then a third time, slower.
Confirmed: A male child of my Imperial Majesty exists. Age estimated at six winters.
