The convoy gates slammed shut behind them. Sirens blared once, then died down. Soldiers cleared the way as the "prince" Classic walked proudly up the grand steps of the Darnova Presidential Tower.
Cameras followed every step. Citizens screamed in awe. To them, the heir of Blackwood was royalty enough to bend knees.
The guards flanked him in perfect formation, their boots hammering the marble floors like thunder.
Among them—silent, faceless—Chris moved.
No one suspected.
No minister.
No soldier.
Not even Amara, who was watching the broadcast back in Blackwood Castle, lips trembling in unease.
Classic played his role flawlessly, shaking hands, bowing slightly where required, his smile calm but his eyes burning with knowledge: the King was here, hidden, and watching everything.
The Darnova President forced a smile, sweat glistening down his temple.
"Welcome, Prince Classic," he said, extending his hand.
Classic gripped it firmly, masking his unease. Behind him, the guards stiffened—
Chris's eyes, from beneath the visor, locked on the President with a deadly calm.
Still unseen. Still unknown.
And yet, his presence was heavier than any crown.
The true ruler walked inside as a shadow while the world cheered for his son.
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