Chapter 10: The Architect of the Interregnum
The fires at the Lascourine Memorial Hospital were extinguished by dawn, but the smoke over Oakhaven remained, a physical manifestation of a government in collapse.
Lulan did not sleep. While the world watched the footage of Prince Leonard being led away in zip-ties, she was in the King's high-security recovery wing, which had been converted into a temporary War Room.
The Weight of the Crown
"The currency is flatlining," Kael reported. He had moved three monitors into the sterile room, his small face lit by the green glow of market tickers. "The European Union is threatening to freeze Belgravian trade routes until a 'legitimate' head of state is confirmed. They don't recognize your Council seat yet."
Lulan looked at King Alaric. He was awake, propped up by silk pillows, his breathing assisted by a rhythmic hiss of oxygen. He looked at Lulan not with the anger of a captive, but with the weary respect of a defeated general.
"They want a face they know," Alaric rasped. "They won't accept a Lascourine on the throne. Not yet. The blood is too fresh on the floor."
"I don't want your throne, Alaric," Lulan said, her fingers dancing over a tablet as she authorized a billion-euro liquidity injection from her Swiss accounts into the national bank. "A throne is a stationary target. I want the levers. I want the hospitals, the schools, the intelligence networks. You will remain King. But you will be a King who breathes because I allow it, and who rules because I script it."
The King closed his eyes. "And Leonard?"
"Exiled," Lulan said coldly. "To the same coastal shack he sent me to. Let's see if he can build an empire from the mud."
The Silent Reunion
In the hallway outside, the atmosphere was different. Silas Vane stood by the window, watching the sun rise over the capital. He looked out of place in the sterile, high-tech environment—a relic of a simpler, more violent time.
Lucian approached him. The boy stood with the same rigid posture as the Captain. They were two mirrors facing each other across a decade of lies.
"My mother says you were a hero," Lucian said. It wasn't a question; it was an interrogation.
Silas turned, looking down at the son he hadn't known existed. "Your mother has a generous memory. I was a soldier who failed his post."
"You didn't fail," Lucian countered. "You survived. In my mother's world, survival is the only metric of success."
Silas reached out, his hand hovering near Lucian's shoulder before he pulled it back, unsure of his standing. "She's built something incredible in you four. But the world is going to come for you now. They know who you are. The 'Lascourine Four' aren't just children anymore; you're the most valuable assets in Europe."
"We know," Lucian said, a small, chilling smile touching his lips. "Kael has already copyrighted our biometrics. No one can even take our picture without paying a royalty to the estate."
Silas let out a short, dry laugh. "God help this Kingdom."
The New Dynasty
By noon, the "Lascourine Regency" was no longer a theory. Lulan stepped onto the balcony of the Royal Palace, flanked not by advisors or politicians, but by her children and Silas.
The crowd below was tens of thousands strong. They were silent, waiting for a sign.
Lulan didn't wear a crown. She wore her white doctor's coat over her black suit. It was a calculated move—a symbol of healing and cold precision.
"Belgravia has been sick," she told the masses, her voice amplified by every speaker in the square. "For years, the rot was hidden behind gold leaf and old names. Today, the surgery is over. The tumor has been removed. We are entering a period of recovery."
As she spoke, a fleet of Lascourine Medical drones rose from behind the palace, carrying supplies and medicine to the poorer districts of the city. It was the ultimate PR move: a display of power masked as a gesture of mercy.
The Final Shadow
That evening, in the quiet of the General's old study, Lulan sat across from Silas. A bottle of vintage Cordovan wine sat between them, untouched.
"The King signed the papers," Lulan said. "The children are legally recognized as heirs to the Lascourine Estate and 'Guardians of the Crown.' But there's a problem, Silas."
"There's always a problem," he noted.
"The General's final file... the one you said I was missing a page of." She slid the folder toward him. "I read it. It wasn't just about you being alive. It was about why he let Leonard exile me."
Silas went still.
"He knew the King was sick six years ago," Lulan whispered. "He orchestrated the scandal. He wanted me to be cast out, Silas. He wanted me to go to Zurich, to become the best, to become bitter. He groomed me to be the person who would come back and take over when the Monarchy failed."
She looked at her hands—the hands that had saved a King and destroyed a Prince.
"My father didn't protect me, Silas. He 'sharpened' me. He treated me like a blade he was forging for his own legacy."
Silas reached across the table, finally taking her hand. "The blade is out of the fire now, Lulan. The question is: what are you going to do with the power he gave you?"
Lulan looked out the window at the city she now owned in all but name. "I'm going to do what any good doctor does. I'm going to make sure the patient never dares to get sick again."