In the shadows above, a figure stood watching — golden eyes fixed on Nia as she sat eating beyond the glowing windows below. His cloak rippled faintly in the morning breeze as he leaned against the stone, unseen.
Lyssa almost glanced his way. Almost.
But by the time her gaze swept the window, he was gone — pressed flat behind the trunk of an ancient column, lips curled in a faint, mocking grin.
From below, a stern voice cut through the still air.
"Your Highness," the armored woman called up, arms folded across her chest, her steel pauldron glinting faintly.
"Have you finished eavesdropping yet?"
The figure gave a soft, scoffing laugh — then jumped.
His boots hit the cobblestone path below with barely a sound, a faint shimmer of dust rising where he landed.
He straightened lazily, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder.
"Am I hurt?" he said flatly, flicking her a look like she'd just asked him if he breathed. "Do I look like I'm hurt?"
The woman's jaw tightened — though she didn't answer.
The prince tugged at his gloves, rolling his wrists as he muttered, half to himself.
"Anyway… what excuse for a father is he hiding behind now?" His voice lowered into a hiss. "If only he'd finally choke on his own lies and make room for someone with a spine."
He exhaled, then straightened his gloves and added in a sing-song mockery:
"Long live the King."
"I… wouldn't know, Highness," the woman said stiffly. "It isn't my place."
That earned her a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Oh, right. I forgot — you're just the poor little 'guardian' they shackled to my paws." His lips curled faintly as he muttered, almost to himself: "That fool."
Her head dipped. Just slightly. Ashamed.
And though he smirked faintly, something in his gaze darkened as he stared back up toward the window where Nia still sat.
Then he placed one hand over his chest, fingers as though shielding his heart, while the other swept outward in graceful arc. Then, with all the calm poise of a seasoned performer, he dipped his head and bowed low – a silent gesture for saying I am honored
"Enough of this. Let's move."
✦✦✦
In the library, the prince sat in the corner, sunlight spilling lazily across the books stacked around him. The morning breeze stirred the pages as he read, the faint scent of old paper and ink filling the air.
A quiet sigh slipped past his lips.
"Nothing as refreshing as the morning breeze," he murmured to himself, flipping another page. Then, dryly: "Everything else, of course, is a lie. These history books? Garbage."
He shut the book with a soft thump, leaning back in his chair.
"I hate my own bloodline," he muttered, gaze fixed on the window. His voice rose slightly, as if addressing someone unseen:
"You can speak now. The guard's at the door — he won't hear you."
From behind the window frame, a quiet voice answered:
"Today… we plan to kill your father."
The prince didn't even flinch — only gave a faint, bitter smile.
"How many plans is that now? If you're here to offer just one more… go back."
The figure hesitated, then replied:
"No, Your… Sire, we—"
The prince let out a soft laugh and cut him off:
"Don't bother dressing it up. You don't need to flatter me — I'm not going to have you executed. …You're new, aren't you?"
"Yes," the figure admitted quietly.
"Ah." The prince's tone softened. He closed the book completely and rested his hands on it, glancing at the hidden figure with a faint nod.
"Alright then. Continue."
The figure stepped closer to the window, lowering a small glass vial onto the sill.
"We've drawn up four plans already," he said. "But… we'd like you to carry the fifth yourself."
The prince picked up the bottle and turned it in his fingers, the liquid inside catching the light.
"…Very well," he said quietly. "Leave it here. I know what to do next."
The figure started to speak again, but the prince raised a hand, cutting him off — gently, this time.
"You've done enough. Go. Get back to the others — and tell them…"
For just a second, something almost gentle flickered in his golden eyes.
"…Tell them I said good work."
The figure dipped his head and slipped back into the shadows without a word.
The prince stayed seated, turning the little bottle of poison in his fingers, its contents catching the morning light in a faint, sickly gleam. With a soft clink, he set it down on the table, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head toward the ceiling.
He hated this library.
He hated those books.
He hated how every word written here was inked in the blood of innocents who'd never deserved it.
And yet…
For them — the quiet ones in the dark, the ones he'd saved, the ones who still looked at him with trust instead of fear — he'd keep playing this wretched game.
The dutiful son.
The charming heir.
The loyal prince.
At least… until his father finally drew his last breath.
The faintest smirk touched his lips, though his golden eyes stayed sharp as blades.
"It's almost amusing," he murmured to no one. "That my first victim will be my father."
Then a soft sigh.
"And depressing… that it has to be me who gets his hands dirty."
His fingers closed around the bottle again. He slipped it into his cloak with practiced ease just as the faint creak of the library doors reached him.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps.
He didn't even bother to look up.
"Your Highness," the guard at the door announced stiffly, bowing low. "You've been summoned to the great hall. His Majesty awaits."
For a heartbeat, his golden eyes flickered — something sharp flashing behind the calm. Then, with perfect poise, he finally looked up and smiled faintly.
Polite. Cold enough to sting.
"Of course," he said smoothly, shutting the tome before him with a quiet thud.
"Wouldn't want to keep His Majesty waiting."
He rose with all the grace of a figure carved in marble, adjusting his gloves as though the room — and the guard — barely existed at all.
And as he strode out of the library, his fingers brushed the place in his cloak where the little bottle now hid — a quiet, invisible promise to himself.
One day.
One day soon.
✦✦✦
The great hall was already alive when he entered — nobles murmuring in little clusters, courtiers bowing, servants darting between tables. At the far end, on a throne of dark stone veined with gold, sat the King himself.
His father.
The prince's golden eyes swept the room as all heads turned toward him. He slowed his pace deliberately, letting the sound of his boots carry — one measured, deliberate step at a time.
A faint, courtly smile curved his lips — just enough to pass for warmth. Just enough to fool them all.
"Your Grace," someone murmured as he passed, bowing low.
He returned it with a graceful incline of his chin, his eyes already fixed on the King.
The King's pale, hawk-sharp gaze met his. Narrowed slightly.
The prince's smile only deepened — silk and poison.
Prince (smooth, deferential, bowing):
"I beseech thee — what illustrious affair compels my most esteemed father to summon his humble son before him?"
Translation: "What oh-so-important reason made you call me?"
King (coldly, with faint approval):
"A magnificent feast shall be convened anon. Thou shalt attend to its preparations forthwith."
Translation: "Banquet soon. You handle it."
Prince (soft laugh, tilting his head, still bowing):
"But verily, my lord — thy word is decree. Yet…"
He straightened just slightly, golden eyes faintly amused.
"…what, pray tell, dost thou wish me to accomplish? That I may render mine utmost service unto thee."
Translation: "Sure, but what exactly do you mean?"
King (with a dismissive wave):
"The hall of assembly, the roster of esteemed attendees, and such matters of import. I am beset with… other obligations."
Translation: "Figure it out. I'm busy."
Prince (bowing lower, voice honey-sweet):
"Alas. As thou dost decree, so shall it come to pass. Thy will, evermore."
Translation: "Fine. Whatever you say."
King (leaning back slightly, a faint smirk):
"That's my boy…"
The prince's smile remained perfectly in place as he murmured back, just loud enough:
"Evermore, Father."
Translation: "Always, Father."
He stepped away with the same regal calm, adjusting his gloves with meticulous care as he strode out of the King's sight.
And only once he reached the quiet of the hall outside did his smile harden into something bitter, his golden eyes cold as steel.
Under his breath, almost too soft to hear, he muttered:
"That's your boy? Gods help you… when your boy finally buries you."