Marcus' POV
I grabbed the torn note with shaking hands.
*"If you're reading this, I'm already dead. They call themselves The Covenant. They choose kings. And they're coming for—"*
The paper ended there. Ripped. Like someone interrupted the writer mid-sentence.
My mind raced. This wasn't a hallucination. The paper felt real. The handwriting was rushed, desperate. Someone knew they were going to die and tried to leave a warning.
And now I was wearing their body.
"Your Highness?"
I spun around. The maid stood in the doorway, holding fancy clothes over her arm. She looked at me strangely.
"Are you... are you all right? You look pale."
I shoved the note into my pocket. "Fine. Just tired."
She didn't look convinced but didn't argue. "I've brought your Council attire. Shall I help you dress?"
"No." The word came out too sharp. I softened my tone. "I can manage. Thank you."
She curtsied again and left, but I caught the worried glance she threw over her shoulder.
I needed information. Fast.
I searched the room. Opened drawers, checked under the mattress, felt along the walls for hidden compartments. My hands knew what to look for—I'd hidden plenty of evidence in my time.
Behind a loose panel near the bookshelf, I found a journal.
The same handwriting as the note.
I flipped it open. The first entry was dated three months ago:
*"Father looked through me again today at breakfast. Like I'm invisible. Cassian got praised for his swordwork. Even Mother's portrait gets more attention than I do. Sometimes I think they wish I'd never been born."*
My chest tightened. I knew that feeling. Different world, same pain.
I flipped forward. More entries about feeling invisible, unwanted, weak. This Aurelius kid had it rough. Treated like garbage by his own family.
Then the tone changed. Two weeks ago:
*"I saw something I shouldn't have. Lord Greymont meeting with people in black robes in the old chapel. They didn't see me, but I heard them talking about 'choosing the next king.' About controlling the throne. I need to find out more."*
Next entry, one week ago:
*"I know their name now. The Covenant. They've been controlling our kingdom for generations. Every king, every law, every war—all planned by them. Father doesn't even know. I have to tell him. I have to tell Isadora. She'll know what to do."*
Last entry, three days ago:
*"They know I know. I see it in Greymont's eyes. The way Evangeline watches me. I'm going to die. I feel it. So I'm trying something desperate. An old book in the library mentioned a ritual. A way to call a soul that matches what the kingdom needs. Someone strong. Someone who can survive. Someone who can finish what I started. If this works, whoever you are—please save them. Save Isadora. She deserves better than—"*
The entry ended. Unfinished.
The door opened. I slammed the journal shut.
A different servant entered—older, male, stern-faced. "Your Highness, you must dress now. The Council waits for no one."
"Right. Give me five minutes."
He frowned. "You require assistance—"
"I said five minutes." I used my mob boss voice. The one that made grown men reconsider their choices.
It worked. He backed out quickly.
I looked at the fancy clothes the maid left. Buttons everywhere. Complicated. Nothing like the suits I wore in Chicago.
It took me ten minutes to figure it out. The shirt alone had about thirty tiny buttons. Who designed this torture?
When I finally emerged, two guards stood outside my door. They straightened when they saw me.
"Your Highness, we're to escort you to the Council chamber."
I studied them. Young. Nervous. They held their spears wrong—too tight, knuckles white. Not real soldiers. Just kids in uniforms.
"Lead the way."
We walked through hallways that seemed designed to confuse people. Turn after turn. Paintings of stern-looking people in crowns stared down at me. Probably dead relatives of this body.
Other servants pressed against walls as we passed, eyes down. Some whispered. I caught fragments:
"—looks different—"
"—eyes are colder—"
"—three days since the fall—"
The fall. The journal mentioned Aurelius knowing too much. Then he "fell." Convenient.
We reached massive doors. The guards pushed them open.
A circular room spread before me. Twelve men sat in high-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle. All old. All rich-looking. All staring at me like I was a bug they wanted to squash.
In the center chair sat a man with silver hair and calculating eyes. He smiled, but it didn't reach those eyes.
"Prince Aurelius. How gracious of you to join us. We worried your... recent accident... might prevent your attendance."
The way he said "accident" made my skin crawl.
I walked to the center of the circle, keeping my face blank. Never show fear. First rule of survival.
"Lord Greymont." The name came from Aurelius's memories, floating up like a bubble. "I wouldn't miss this for anything."
Murmurs around the circle. Surprise. The old Aurelius probably would've apologized for existing.
Greymont's smile tightened. "Indeed. Well then, let us begin. This Council has gathered to discuss your... fitness... to remain in the line of succession."
Another man spoke up, fat with a wheezing voice. "You've been a disappointment your entire life, boy. Weak. Cowardly. A stain on the royal bloodline."
Others nodded. One laughed.
My hands curled into fists. In Chicago, I'd have broken his nose for that. But I wasn't in Chicago anymore.
"We propose," Greymont continued, "that you be removed from succession entirely. You'll keep your title and rooms, of course. But you'll have no claim to the throne. No power. No voice."
"You want to erase me," I said flatly.
"We want to protect the kingdom from incompetent rulers." Greymont leaned forward. "You have two months to prove you're worthy. Show us strength. Intelligence. Leadership. Or the Council votes to strip your rights forever."
Two months. Same timeline from the journal.
They were giving Aurelius—giving me—a death sentence. Because even if I proved myself, they'd rig the vote. They controlled everything.
"I understand," I said quietly.
More surprise. They expected me to cry or beg.
"Then we're dismissed—" Greymont started.
"But I have a question."
Silence. You could hear a pin drop.
I looked straight at Greymont. "This Covenant you work for. Do they know you're so obvious about it?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Greymont's face went white, then red. "What did you say?"
"You heard me." I smiled. Not friendly. The smile I used before ending problems in Chicago. "Old chapels. Black robes. 'Choosing kings.' You should really check for witnesses before your secret meetings."
Greymont stood, knocking his chair back. "You—you know nothing, boy."
"I know you're going to kill me. Just like you killed whoever wrote that warning I found." I pulled out the torn note, held it up. "But here's the thing. I'm not the scared prince anymore. And you just made a big mistake."
"What mistake?" Greymont's hand moved toward his belt. Toward a weapon.
"Giving me two months." I turned toward the door. "That's plenty of time to destroy you all."
I walked out before anyone could respond. My heart hammered. That was stupid. Dangerous. I just painted a target on my back.
But I needed to see their reactions. Needed to know who was part of this Covenant.
The answer? All twelve of them. Their faces told me everything.
The guards escorted me back to my room in heavy silence. When the door closed, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
A soft voice spoke from the shadows near the window.
"That was either very brave or very stupid."
I spun around.
A woman stepped into the light. Early twenties. Dark hair. Grey eyes that missed nothing. She held a dagger casually, like it was part of her hand.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Lady Isadora Thorne." She tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle. "The real question is—who are you? Because you're definitely not Prince Aurelius."
My blood turned to ice.
"Three days ago, Aurelius could barely speak in full sentences without stuttering," she continued. "Now you're threatening the Council? Using words like 'destroy'?" She moved closer, dagger still ready. "So I'll ask one more time. Who. Are. You?"
I had two choices. Lie and probably get stabbed. Or trust the one person Aurelius's journal said t
o save.
Before I could answer, she pressed the dagger against my throat.
"And choose carefully," she whispered. "Because if you're working with them, I'll kill you right now."