The envoy from House Velire never intended to start anything. He had come for a trade review—standard coastal access, nothing controversial—and scheduled a short tour of the estate to satisfy diplomatic etiquette. He smiled, took notes, asked nothing. Until he reached the west corridor.
There, he made a comment in passing. Loud enough for the guards to hear. Loud enough for staff to repeat.
"Curious," he said, gazing at the portrait of Queen Aldira's sons. "There's still only three."
No one corrected him.
And he didn't wait for clarification.
He simply walked on.
The fourth portrait—Percival's—had been removed years ago and never restored. A decision made quietly, in grief, then left unspoken when he returned. Now that void was speaking again. Not through words, but reactions.
Thalric heard about the remark before dinner.
Solen delivered it, quiet and controlled. "He said it in the corridor. Then kept walking. The guards didn't flinch."
"And?"
"And three staff repeated it to me before the hour was out. Two whispered it like gossip. One repeated it like fact."
Thalric nodded, then stood from the desk.
He didn't call the steward. Didn't summon the Queen.
Instead, he asked Solen for a list of thirty estate workers—no titles, just names. Different wings. Mixed duties.
She returned with the list by candlelight.
"Why these?" she asked.
"They pass through all the rooms. They hear every door open and know who opens it."
He spent two hours with the names. Not analyzing them—ranking them. Not by status. By pattern.
How many had bowed too deeply. How many had avoided eye contact. How many had adjusted their route to walk past him instead of away.
He pulled fifteen names.
The next morning, he drafted an invitation.
You are requested for a brief consultation regarding updated procedural protocol for court assemblies. Attendance will not exceed twenty minutes. Location: Outer Study Room. Time: Three hours past noon.
No signature. No crest. Just clean parchment and careful delivery.
When the fifteen arrived, they found the study calm. Chairs arranged in an open circle. No guards. A single table with bread and water. Thalric waited, seated—not elevated.
When they settled, he began without introduction.
"I've asked you here," he said, "not to pledge loyalty or report gossip. I asked you here to answer one question."
He paused.
Then:
"When that envoy pointed to three portraits and ignored the fourth… did you agree?"
Silence.
Then a slow shift in posture. One hand gripped a chair edge. One throat cleared.
Finally, a woman in gardening attire spoke: "I didn't flinch. That's not agreement."
"But you didn't speak," Thalric said.
"It's not our place."
"No," he said, steady. "But it is your weight."
A younger man—laundry attendant—sat straighter. "It's complicated, my lord. The house is large. We don't always know what truth we're allowed to say aloud."
A few heads nodded.
Thalric stood and walked to the table. Took a cup. Poured water. He didn't sip.
"The Queen has not formally reinstated my name. But I'm already rewriting documents. Leading reviews. Attending votes."
A pause.
"I don't need you to choose sides."
He turned.
"I need to know who'll look me in the eye when that choice is made for you."
The room stayed still.
One by one, they met his gaze.
Most held it. Some flinched. But none looked away entirely.
When the twenty minutes passed, he dismissed them with a simple gesture. No oath. No threat.
The next day, the portrait of Percival was returned to the corridor.
Not the original.
A new commission. One completed after the feast, without official order. The Queen did not claim credit.
No one did.
But it was hung.
And this time, the plaque beneath it read:
Percival Worthing, Prince. Returned.
Date of original confirmation: Pending.
Influence: Undeniable.