The interior of the palace was a labyrinth of echoing marble and chilling drafts, a place where the grandeur of the architecture often masked the misery of those who kept it running. Prince Julian walked the lower servant corridors, his heart heavy. He had not slept well after the confrontation with Alaric, the sound of that slamming door still ringing in his ears like an omen.
As he turned the corner near the Great Laundry, he stopped. The air here was thick with steam and the biting scent of lye. There, hunched over a steaming vat of boiling water, was Elspeth. Her face was the color of curdled milk, and her hands shook so violently she could barely grip the wooden paddle used to stir the heavy linens. Every few seconds, a racking cough tore through her, forcing her to lean against the stone wall for support.
"Elspeth!" Julian rushed forward, heedless of the soapy water splashing his fine leather boots. He caught her just as her knees began to buckle. "I told you to stay in the infirmary. I told you I would handle Alaric."
"Your Highness," she wheezed, her eyes glassy with fever. "I... I cannot. The Master of the Household said... if I was not at my post... I would be cast out. I have nowhere to go, my Lord. I would rather die at the vat than in the gutter."
"Not on my watch," Julian murmured, his jaw setting in a line of uncharacteristic iron. He draped her thin arm over his shoulder, ignoring the scandalized looks from the other laundry maids. "You are finished here. We are going to see the King."
The walk to the Throne Room was a gauntlet of stares. A Prince of the Blood carrying a common laundress was a sight the Aethelgard court had never witnessed. Julian ignored them all. He reached the heavy doors of the Audience Chamber and demanded entry.
King Valerius looked up from his maps, his brow furrowing as he saw his youngest son enter, supporting a shivering, soot-stained girl.
"Julian? What is the meaning of this intrusion? And who is this... person?"
"This is Elspeth, Father," Julian said, his voice trembling but clear. He lowered the girl into a chair—a chair reserved for noble petitioners. "She has served this palace for three years. She is dying of lung-fever, yet Alaric threatened her with dismissal if she did not work today. I am not asking for a favor; I am asking for justice. Grant her leave to heal, or admit that this Crown values a clean tunic over a human soul."
The King stood slowly, walking toward them. He looked at Elspeth, whose head hung low in shame and exhaustion. He then looked at Julian.
"You are too soft, Julian," the King said, his voice a low rumble. "Kindness in a ruler is a scent that draws wolves. If you give one maid leave, ten more will claim sickness by dusk. They will take advantage of your heart until you have nothing left to give."
"Let them," Julian countered. "I would rather be a King of 'fools' who live than a King of ghosts."
The King sighed, a long, weary sound. He saw his own youth in Julian's eyes—a spark he had long ago extinguished in himself. "Very well. Take her to the Royal Healers. She is granted two weeks of rest. But do not think this makes you a leader, boy. It only makes you a patron."
"A patron of the pathetic, it seems."
The voice was like a cold blade sliding across silk. Prince Alaric stepped from behind a tapestry, having watched the end of the exchange with a look of amused disgust. He strolled toward his brother, his golden hair catching the light of the chandeliers.
"My dear brother," Alaric teased, circling Julian and the cowering maid. "I wondered where you had scurried off to. I see you've found a new hobby. Tell me, is it truly 'justice' you're after? Or have you fallen for the tragic beauty of the laundry pits? Perhaps you find the scent of lye and sweat more intoxicating than the perfumes of the court."
"Not everyone views people as objects to be used, Alaric," Julian snapped, stepping between his brother and Elspeth.
"Oh, spare me the sermon," Alaric laughed, though his eyes remained sharp and cold. "You're making a spectacle of yourself for a girl who will likely forget your name the moment she's well. You're weak, Julian. You prioritize the tiny flickers of individual lives while the Great Fire of the Empire demands fuel."
"The 'fuel' is people, Alaric! Our people!"
The two brothers stood chest-to-chest, the air between them thick with years of resentment. The King watched them, a dark shadow of concern crossing his face. He opened his mouth to intervene, but the doors to the chamber burst open with a violent crash.
A herald, breathless and pale, rushed into the center of the room. He did not bow; he simply shouted, his voice cracking with urgency.
"Your Majesty! Prince Alaric! The scouts have returned from the southern slums!"
Alaric turned instantly, his face lighting up with a horrific, expectant joy. "Did they find her? Is Marianne Freil outside?"
"No, Your Highness," the herald panted. "But they have found something far more grave. A Dwelfinth spy was uncovered harboring in the village. He escaped using Northern alchemy—a smoke shroud. But the traitors who sheltered him have been captured!"
The King's posture shifted instantly from a tired father to a warlike monarch. "A Dwelfinth? In my capital's backyard? Are you certain?"
"The residues were confirmed, Sire! The scouts are ushering the prisoners in now. They were found in the very house where the girl, Marianne, was hiding!"
Alaric's face twisted into a snarl. "Then she was in league with the North. She didn't just jilt me; she betrayed the entire Empire." He turned to the guards at the door, his voice booming. "Bring them in! I want to see the faces of those who would invite the mountain-wolves into our home!"
The heavy iron-studded doors groaned open. The sound of dragging feet and rattling chains filled the hall. Julian watched in horror, and Alaric in triumph, as a rough wooden cart was wheeled into the center of the Throne Room.
Inside sat a pale, sickly woman who could barely hold her head up, and a small, terrified girl whose eyes were wide with a trauma no child should know.
"The mother and the sister of the girl Marianne," the herald announced.
Alaric stepped down toward them, his eyes searching the shadows behind the cart. "And the girl? Where is the 'Great Patriot' who shelters spies?"
"She escaped with the Dwelfinth, Sire," the guard reported. "But we have her blood. We have her heart right here in this cage."
The King looked down at the sickly Elara, who was staring at the royal family with a dawning, terrible realization. She saw the gold, she saw the cruelty in Alaric's eyes, and she finally understood the world her daughter had tried to navigate.
"Traitors," the King whispered, the word hanging in the air like a guillotine.