'Where is my son?' The King’s voice boomed, echoing down the corridor like a thunderclap.

Jacques flinched, the words slicing through the heavy silence of Rick’s empty chamber. Every syllable reverberated through the cold, airless room, pressing down on him like an iron weight.

Jacques sat slumped in a chair to the left of his brother’s bed, his body rigid, trapped between a grief that refused to loosen its hold and the dread creeping steadily up his spine. He fixed his gaze on the vacant sheets. Every inch of that bed felt like an accusation.

Across from him, Sir Theon sat in silence, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword as if it might anchor him against the coming storm. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the weight of his own emotions. Neither of them spoke. Words felt brittle, useless.

Damn them all. The thought seized Jacques’ mind, fierce and all-consuming, roiling through him like a torrent of blackened water. He wanted to damn his father for his cold, calculating decisions, for the distance that had carved its way through their family like a festering wound. He wanted to damn Rick for his reckless, foolish bravery that had led him into the jaws of death. He wanted to damn Sofia for her blindness, for the grief that had consumed her. Lord Serben, with his honeyed words and his influence, Lord Gallo, with his restless thirst for war, Prince Luis, who had taken Rick’s life in the darkness of that prison hall, and King Geraldo, whose death had sparked this inferno of violence and death. And he wanted to damn Sir Theon, Sir Orchis, Sir Finn—all of them, each who had lived while his brother lay dead.

Most of all, he wanted to damn himself, to curse the helplessness that had kept him trapped in that prison cell while Rick swooped in to save him.

Please, Rick… Please forgive me.

Footsteps stormed down the corridor, growing louder, faster, each one like a shard through Jacques’ heart. He could feel the tremors in the floor, the rage pulsing through the walls as King Rickard approached. Jacques clenched his fists, trying to steel himself against the torrent he knew was coming, but his fingers shook, betraying the strength he tried to summon. He didn’t know if he could face his father, if he could bear the judgement he would find in those icy, unrelenting eyes.

I must.

The door flew open with a force that might have ripped the hinges clean off. King Rickard stormed into the room, his presence like a maelstrom, dark and furious. He filled the space with a wrath that sucked the air from the room, making it harder to breathe.

Father halted the moment he saw Jacques and Sir Theon alone in the dim chamber, his eyes wild, his posture tense like a feral animal. The realisation must have hit him all at once. Loss was not a dish King Rickard tasted often, and vulnerability even less so. Yet as the terrible truth washed over him—that his firstborn son, his heir, his golden legacy was dead—anger flared beneath his grief, creeping up his neck in a visible flush, a seething heat radiating from his body.

'No…' he muttered, voice breaking as he clenched his fists, his face contorting, twisting between anguish and fury. His hand shot out, seizing a glass wine jug from a table. 'No, no, no! NO!' The final scream tore through the room like a war cry, and with a swift, savage motion, he hurled the jug across the room. It smashed against the stone wall, exploding into a shower of glistening fragments that rained down like broken stars. Wine trickled down the wall, a dark stain spreading like blood.

'Stupid boy!' he spat, his voice filled with rage but hollow, betraying the depths of his pain.

Jacques’s chest tightened as he forced himself to speak, his voice fragile, quivering. 'Rick… he was trying to protect me, Father.'

The King turned on him, laughter escaping his mouth—a harsh, bitter sound edged with agony. 'Protect you?' he scoffed, each word sharper than the last, slicing through Jacques like a blade. 'My son died for nothing. Nothing!'

Ordinarily, Father’s barbs would slide off Jacques’ back, but now they cut deeply, exposing a rawness he could hardly contain. Each word dug into him, twisting in his chest. He watched as his father’s gaze drifted over to Rick’s empty bed, and saw, for the briefest moment, the glimmer of a tear forming in his eye, an emotion his father would have never allowed in the past.

'My legacy,' King Rickard choked out, his voice low, pained. 'All that I built… all that I bled for… nothing but an empty bed.'

Jacques’ grief welled up, clawing at him from the inside. His vision blurred, the heat of unshed tears burning his eyes. But he wouldn’t let them fall, not in front of his father. Not in front of the man who had hardened himself so deeply that he could barely recognise his own sons as anything but extensions of his own ambitions.

Then Father turned to face him, his eyes dark and hollow. 'This is my reward,' he sneered, his voice a low growl. 'For all my sins, for all I’ve done, the Gods take the wrong son from me.'

Something within Jacques snapped. Anger roared to life in his chest, a fiery, churning force that bubbled up, nearly spilling over. He wanted to scream back, to blame his father for the coldness that had driven Rick into harm’s way, for all the schemes and the bloodshed that had led to this moment. It’s your fault he’s dead, you cunt! The words trembled on his lips, tearing at his throat, desperate to escape.

Instead, all Jacques could see was Rick’s face in his last moments—the flicker of fear, the pain, the regret as he lay dying in that dark, unforgiving hall, giving his life for…

For what?

'Go.' The King’s voice sliced through Jacques’ thoughts, cold and commanding. He pointed a finger at the door, his jaw clenched. 'Get out, the both of you.' He took a shuddering breath, as if even the weight of his own grief threatened to crush him. 'I want a moment alone… with my son.'

Jacques glanced over at Sir Theon, whose face was etched with lines of newly carved anguish, his shoulders sagging. The knight bowed, as if finding strength in his routine, and rose from his seat. Jacques followed, each step heavier than the last as he heard his father sink into the vacant chair, settling into the silence beside the remnants of Rick’s spirit. The doors closed behind them with a solemn clang, sealing King Rickard alone in the room with his eldest son’s absence, a sadness too thick for witnesses.

Jacques lingered with Sir Theon by the door, silence wrapping around him, broken only by the soft crackle of torchlight casting jagged shadows over the stone walls. The darkened halls stretched ahead, narrow and oppressive, like the corridors of a nightmare he could never wake from.

Sir Theon’s quiet voice broke the stillness, heavy with sorrow. 'I failed him.' His voice trembled, the steady strength he was known for buckling under the weight of the confession. His head hung low, and his hand gripped his sword hilt, not in readiness but as if he needed its solidity to keep from crumbling entirely.

Jacques studied the old man, catching the sorrow in Theon’s faded blue eyes. Those eyes, which had once seemed so fierce, so unbreakable, were now clouded with the helpless agony of a man who’d watched the boy he’d helped raise slip from his grasp. The guilt clawed deep inside Jacques, sharp and unrelenting as he remembered cursing Sir Theon’s name, damning him in his heart for not saving Rick’s life.

King Rickard wasn’t the only one who’d lost a son in Eastamere. Sir Theon had been there for every victory, every wound, and every moment that had shaped Rick’s path. He had watched with pride as Rick grew from an eager boy to a powerful, fearless man, each duel won like a badge of honour not just for Rick, but for Theon himself. Jacques could almost see it, the memory of Rick in the training yard, the way he would turn and flash Theon a grin after besting an opponent. Theon had watched him bloom, watched his skill sharpen like the edge of a blade, only to witness that same blade fall to fate’s cruel hand.

'No. You didn’t,' Jacques said, putting a hand on Sir Theon’s shoulder. 'You were just doing your job.'

Jacques stayed his hand, trying to lend some comfort despite the storm raging in his own chest. The knight's shoulders were tense, the sorrow in his eyes mingling with something sharper—a simmering confusion that seemed to eat at him, gnawing at whatever certainty he once held.

'How did that blade fall into Jeffro’s hands?' Theon said, his voice low but insistent, as though hoping that by saying it aloud, the pieces might somehow fit together. 'It makes little sense. I knew Geraldo’s skill. I saw how good he was on the battlefield. Jeffro should’ve never come that close, should’ve never even had the chance to—' He broke off, his jaw clenching in frustration.

Jacques’ gaze drifted to the door that separated them from his father, a door that felt as heavy as the weight of everything unsaid. He knew, on some level, that his father was suffering too. And yet, the thought gave him no solace—only the hollow, jagged pain of betrayal. He wanted to tell Theon everything that had clawed at him since that night, to scream the truth until it filled the silent hall, until it broke the stone walls and left nothing standing. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not even to the man who had stood beside his brother every step of the way.

Sir Theon lifted his head, a grim shadow crossing his face, and looked past Jacques as soft, hurried footsteps echoed against the cold stone floor. Mirielle appeared from around the corner, her maids trailing in her wake, but her gaze locked solely on Jacques. The faint glimmer of her tears illuminated her face, pale and streaked with barely contained sorrow.

'Jacques... tell me it’s not true,' she whispered, her voice trembling, each word as fragile as a spider's silk glistening in the morning light. She clutched her hands to her chest as if trying to hold herself together, her desperation raw and bare.

Jacques opened his mouth, but the sight of her tear-streaked face—a portrait of hope about to be shattered—made his own voice falter. If he spoke the truth, he would have to face his own grief, a grief threatening to engulf him.

Sir Theon shifted his gaze to the princess, his own resolve tempered by years of duty. 'I’m afraid it is, my lady,' he said softly, each word a blade cutting through the silence.

The world seemed to tilt beneath Jacques’ feet. He watched as Mirielle’s legs buckled, and her maids rushed forward, encircling her, their murmurs of consolation soft but futile. She clutched at them weakly before breaking free, eyes wild, an anguish that demanded action overcoming her. She staggered toward the closed doors. 'The King shouldn’t be alone in there,' she choked out, her voice a mix of fury and sorrow.

Sir Theon moved swiftly to block her path, his imposing frame filling the doorway. 'I’m sorry, my lady,' he said, his tone kind but unyielding, 'but you cannot go in.'

Mirielle’s breath hitched, her tears continuing to flow, but her sorrow had sharpened into defiance. 'I said,' she repeated, her voice low and fierce, each word laced with an agony too great for her slender frame to contain, 'the King shouldn’t be alone right now, good sir.'

'I really must insist-'

'Stand aside, Theon! Now!' Mirielle roared, the hall ringing with the force of her command, the weight of her grief crashing over them all.

Jacques met her tear-filled eyes, his own heart breaking under the burden he bore. He gave a small nod, his permission as silent as it was painful. Sir Theon swallowed hard and, with a heavy sigh, stepped aside, his duty bowing to her will. Mirielle pushed past him, her movements almost desperate as she disappeared into Rick’s chamber. The heavy door fell shut behind her with a muted thud, leaving Jacques and Sir Theon alone in the echoing silence of the hallway.

Jacques could feel the familiar ache growing in his chest, a wound that had no hope of healing tonight. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, the memories flooding over him, each one ripping at his heart. Exhaustion called for him, a weariness so deep he feared it would never leave. He needed to be by himself. He needed to be with Aubery.

Jacques yawned. 'I’m going to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.'

Sir Theon managed a weary nod, the lines of fatigue etched into his face deepening. 'Yes... Yes, I believe I will, Your Grace. Shall I see you to your chambers?'

Jacques shook his head, unable to bear the weight of any more company, not even from those who cared about him. 'No... thank you, Theon.'

Jacques turned and trudged down the dimly lit hall, each step a battle against the tears. The palace, normally filled with whispers and soft echoes, now felt as hollow as the pain gnawing at his heart. Each guard or servant he encountered bowed with heads lowered, their voices hushed as they murmured, 'Your Grace.' Jacques could only offer a stiff, strained nod in return, his voice lodged in his throat, strangled by the enormity of his suffering.

He approached the stone steps and ascended, though each step dragged a thousand-ton weight. The stairway, winding up into the shadows, stretched out endlessly before him. Every footfall echoed, heavy and slow, like a mournful toll, and the palace walls seemed to close in, pressing the unbearable weight of his grief. The air grew thick as he climbed, each shallow breath mingling with his memories, making it harder to breathe.

At the top of the stairs, the door loomed like a shadowed monolith; the wood warped and weary. It sagged, melting like paint sliding down a forgotten canvas, its surface cracked and aged. Jacques reached out with a trembling hand, his fingertips brushing the cold, worn handle, and he took a shuddering breath, summoning the strength to turn it. The door creaked open, the sound almost a groan, as if the wood itself was weary of secrets and unfulfilled potential.

He stepped through and flung himself into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The sharp sound reverberated through the empty chamber, filling the silence with a lingering echo. Jacques pressed his back against the door, panting, the adrenaline of holding himself together beginning to ebb away, leaving only the raw ache of his grief. He clutched at his chest, his heart pounding against his ribs—a relentless drumbeat that refused to let him rest.

Then he saw her.

The unfinished portrait of Aubery stood on its easel, the colours as vibrant as they had been that last afternoon before the peace tournament. Her golden hair seemed to gleam in the light, each delicate stroke capturing the strands that had once danced in the breeze. Her smooth skin, the warmth of her smile, and the spark of laughter in her ocean-blue eyes—all so faithfully rendered that it felt as if she were standing before him, alive and breathing. Yet now those strokes were a cruel mockery, taunting him with the life he could never again share with her.

Images of Rick invaded his mind—the way he’d looked that day, clad in the battle armour of House Rue, the black and white cloak solemn and proud. He remembered Rick’s firm embrace, the desperation in his eyes as he promised to help solve the mystery of King Geraldo’s murder. But it was the memory of his brother’s final form that haunted him most—the cold, lifeless body he had left behind in the darkness, the face he had once known so well now a distant, hollow shell.

For a moment, Jacques glanced around, his eyes darting to every corner of the room, fearing someone might intrude on his anguish. But there was no one; he was truly and utterly alone.

As that realisation settled over him, a trembling sigh escaped his lips, and he surrendered to his anguish. The tears came freely, and he could not stop them. His body shook with each sob, each ragged breath a reminder of everything he’d lost, every thread that had held him together now frayed and snapping.

He stumbled forward, his hand outstretched, reaching for Aubery’s image, desperate to touch even a shadow of her warmth. But his legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed at her feet, his fingers brushing the floor as if hoping she might somehow reach back from across the veil. His forehead pressed against the cold ground, and he let his tears spill, a river of pain flowing unchecked. All he could do—all he had left to give—was this outpouring, an offering to the Gods that he hoped, prayed, might somehow ease his brother’s passage to wherever he had gone.

His mind drifted to their childhood, to simpler times when they were just boys. He remembered dinners at the great hall, when Rick would sneak an extra potato onto Jacques’ plate when their father wasn’t looking. He remembered their playful scuffles, the laughter they’d shared, even the moments of jealousy or rivalry. He could picture Rick’s guilty expression the first time he’d seen Aubery’s painting, a mixture of pride and dread. All those memories were now his only connection now—a bloody inheritance that clung to him like a second skin.

Jacques pressed his hands to his face, his fingers digging into his temples, desperate to claw away the ache that settled deeper with each passing moment. He felt the weight of it—the emptiness, the endless, suffocating ocean as he walked this path alone, with no one left to share his burden. His father’s gaze would now be solely on him, the crushing expectation to fill a brother’s shoes, to live up to a father’s ambitions, all without a soul to lean on. In the heavy silence, it was only a matter of time before it broke him completely.

A thunderous bang rattled the door, jolting Jacques from a shallow, haunted sleep. His eyes snapped open, only to be assaulted by the piercing midday light flooding the chamber. The bright, unyielding rays burned away the remnants of sleep, exposing every shadowed corner of his exhaustion and dragging him, unmercifully, into consciousness.

'Your Grace.' Sir Orchis’ voice slithered through the door’s narrow cracks, thin and insistent, its sickly cadence needling into Jacques’ skull like an unwelcome echo. 'Your Grace… are you awake?'

Jacques groaned, his head throbbing as if Sir Orchis' words were worms burrowing deeper into his mind, each one laden with the oily malice he had come to recognise. He forced himself upright, his body a symphony of aches and protests, each muscle as heavy as lead. With a shallow, shuddering breath, he murmured, 'Yes, Sir Orchis… I’m awake.'

As he staggered to the door, Jacques braced himself against the cold, unyielding wood, leaning into it as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He cracked it open, his gaze dull and weary, only for The Hawk Knight’s face to immediately fill the narrow space. The man’s smile was sharp, calculated, slicing through Jacques' thin resolve with an archer’s precision. There was nothing kind or comforting in that expression—it was the smirk of a predator who had found his prey weakened and alone.

'You look awful,' Sir Orchis observed, his tone dripping with a feigned sympathy that barely masked his satisfaction.

Jacques’ mouth twitched. 'Thank you for noticing,' he replied, forcing steel into his voice. 'Now, have you come to comment on my appearance, or do you actually need something?'

Sir Orchis’ eyes gleamed, his smirk unfaltering as he took a small step closer, his form shadowing the doorway. 'I wish to speak with you,' he replied smoothly, 'in private, if I may. Can I come in?'

Jacques sighed, weariness carving deep lines into his face. 'Sir Orchis,' he replied, his voice a hoarse murmur, 'I’ve just lost my brother. Whatever you have to say, I’m sure it can wait.' He moved to close the door, his fingers gripping the wood as if he could bar The Hawk Knight—and all that he represented—from his world.

Sir Orchis’ foot shot out, jamming the door with an unyielding force. 'It can’t wait,' he hissed, his voice dropping, losing the slippery charm it had held a moment before. There was a hunger in his eyes now, a glint of something dark and dangerous.

Despite the hot flare of anger in his gut, Jacques hesitated, a nagging suspicion gnawing at the edges of his mind. Sir Orchis Vortigon was insufferable, but he was no fool—he wouldn’t risk angering the King’s only living son without a reason. And whatever that reason was, Jacques sensed it was something calculated, something twisting in the bleak spaces of Sir Orchis’ mind.

With a reluctant sigh, Jacques pulled the door open, stepping back into his chambers. He watched as The Hawk Knight stepped in, his movements slow, controlled, like a viper curling up for the strike. A tension crackled in the air between them, a silent threat looming, heavy and suffocating, as the door clicked shut behind him.

Sir Orchis began to pace, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a smudge of blood, each heavy step punctuating the quiet in the room. His sharp gaze fixed ahead, unseeing, as though speaking to someone invisible. 'You are the heir to the throne now, Your Grace,' he said, his voice low as he circled Jacques like a wolf circling wounded prey. 'You know that, don’t you?'

Jacques’ scowl deepened, a sharp tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. 'Thank you for reminding me.'

The word heir had become an iron weight on his shoulders, something he hadn’t yet allowed himself to fully accept. Yet here Sir Orchis was, forcing him to confront it, pressing the crown into his hands as if daring him to drop it.

Sir Orchis tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of amusement. 'Ah, but you’ve created a dilemma for yourself,' he drawled, almost like he’d rehearsed it. 'A sheepdog running straight into the buzzard’s claws.'

Jacques’ patience was wearing thin, Sir Orchis' cryptic insinuations grating against his fraying nerves. 'What are you trying to tell me, good sir?' he snapped, his voice laced with simmering frustration.

Sir Orchis stopped his pacing, turning sharply to face Jacques, his expression hardening into something sharper, colder. 'Before your brother left for Eastamere, Princess Mirielle had a gift made for him—a sword, exquisite in design, crafted by the best smiths, or so she claimed. I asked to inspect it, out of curiosity, of course. She obliged.'

Jacques’ frown deepened, a sick feeling crawling up his spine. 'And?'

Sir Orchis paused, letting the silence stretch between them, thick with unspoken menace. 'The blade was… peculiar. It looked like steel at first glance, yet under closer scrutiny…' His lips curled into a smirk. 'It shattered like glass the moment I tested its edge.'

Jacques felt a shiver creep into his bones, flashes of his brother’s duel with Prince Luis replaying like a terrible spectre. The song of steel, his brother's gasp—a moment that had burned itself into his memory. 'What are you saying?'

'I’m saying that the Jubilees had a hand in your brother’s death. And they’ve been at this far longer than you realise. Think, Your Grace: Lord Wesley oversees the royal navy, his influence vast, his reach unseen. The princess—your brother’s devoted wife—placed a weapon in his hands that would’ve failed him, a fatal flaw hidden in plain sight. And Sir Mandon, a knight of the royal guard…'

He let the implication hang, his eyes narrowing as they met Jacques’. 'They’ve positioned their pieces with exquisite care. King Geraldo’s death was the first move, and your brother’s demise… the second. The game has begun, Your Grace, and whether you realise it or not, you are their next target.'

Jacques could only stare, his heart racing as his mind swirled in a storm of suspicion and denial. Sir Orchis’ words burrowed into him, unyielding and relentless. Mirielle Jubilee—a traitor? A murderer? He’d distrusted her from the moment she arrived at court, yes, but this? His blood ran cold, his thoughts tangling into a knot of anger, grief, and doubt.

'What about my father?' Jacques said, his voice dropping to a hard whisper. 'He had better cause than anyone for wanting me dead.'

Sir Orchis froze mid-step, the smirk sliding across his face like a knife glinting in the dark. He turned slowly, and for the first time, Jacques saw the man’s teeth in a full, unrestrained grin—sharp and white. 'That’s treason you’ve just uttered, Your Grace,' he said softly, drawing out each word with a dangerous, almost mocking emphasis.

Jacques clenched his fists, biting back the retort that hovered on his lips. So is accusing the future Queen. But he kept his silence, swallowing his defiance as his mind spun, sifting through the dark web of implications in Sir Orchis’ words. Each accusation felt like a stone added to the weight already crushing his shoulders. His father, his brother, his sister-in-law… they had all been players in this deadly game, and now he stood ensnared, thrust onto the board as the unwitting king-to-be.

For a brief moment, he allowed his gaze to flicker toward Aubery’s portrait, her face soft with laughter that only he could hear, her eyes bright with a kindness he hadn’t felt since the day he’d met her. The sound of her laughter echoed in his mind, a ghostly reminder of a world where betrayal and suspicion had yet to take root.

'I need you to be certain, Orchis,' Jacques said, dragging his gaze back to Sir Orchis, his voice tinged with desperation. 'Are you sure the Jubilees are involved?'

Sir Orchis’ face tightened, the grin vanishing as he fixed Jacques with a level, unreadable stare. For a heartbeat, there was no sound in the room but the muffled thud of Jacques’ pulse, his heartbeat pounding like the beat of a distant war drum. Without a word, Sir Orchis nodded, his silence carrying more weight than any spoken affirmation could.

Jacques stroked his chin, his fingers brushing over the rough stubble as he mulled over the words. Whether he liked it or not, he would have to ‘play the game,’ as Sir Orchis had so eloquently put it. He’d have to question everything, trust no one, and mask his every thought behind a veneer of calm. But this is my brother we’re talking about, he reminded himself, the memory of Rick’s easy laughter like an ache in his chest. He clenched his jaw and fixed Sir Orchis with a stare as cold as iron.

'If you knew Mirielle was trying to kill my brother, why didn’t you try to stop him from going to Eastamere?' The accusation edged his voice, each word laced with barely contained resentment.

Sir Orchis’ expression was hard to read, a smooth surface masking whatever calculations lurked beneath. 'I tried, Your Grace,' he replied, meeting Jacques’ gaze without a flicker of hesitation. 'Trust me, I did.'

'Trust you,' Jacques scoffed, the bitter taste of disbelief in his mouth. 'Why should I trust you? How are you any different from everyone else in this place?' His voice cracked through the silence like a whip, the accusation heavy between them.

For a long moment, Sir Orchis said nothing, his face an impassive mask. Then, a slow, thin smile crept across his lips, one that felt as practised as it was unsettling. 'I am a knight of the royal guard, Your Grace,' he replied, each word smooth as polished stone. 'I took a vow, and it is my duty to keep it.' His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, his fingers drumming lightly over the hawk crest engraved into the pommel. 'On my honour as a Vortigon.'

And how much is that worth? Jacques thought with a bitter twist of his lips, a stab of disdain shooting through him. Sir Orchis hadn’t sworn on his honour as a knight, he’d noted, nor on the King’s life. Instead, he’d invoked the name of his own house—as though the hawk’s loyalty carried more weight than the blade.

Sir Orchis’ smile widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes, as if he could sense Jacques’ suspicions simmering just beneath the surface. 'You’re wise to question me, Your Grace,' he said, voice soft, almost approving. 'Trust is a rare commodity these days, especially for a prince who’s lost a brother to treachery.' He let the words hang in the air, watching Jacques with a gaze as sharp and as cold as steel. 'But make no mistake—I serve you, Your Grace. My oath binds me to your protection, no matter the cost.'

Another weight settled on Jacques' chest, cold and unyielding, adding to the crushing burden of being heir to his father's throne. He glanced again at Aubery’s painting. She called to him, her laughter soft and lilting in his memory, filling his mind like a song he couldn’t silence.

I love you, Aubery’s voice floated to him as if on a distant breeze, gentle yet haunting. Her love had been nothing but an illusion—a mere mask Aubery had worn, just as every other figure in his life seemed to wear one. No one had truly loved him, not with a whole heart. No one except Rick, who was now a lifeless memory—a casualty of ambition and duty. Rick had been his one ally, his one source of warmth in a kingdom so ruled by shadows and power that even sunlight struggled to reach him. And now… now all he had was the throne, that cold, golden monstrosity in the throne room. His father’s legacy of steel and splendour. And it was Jacques’ duty to protect it. Rick can’t protect it anymore.

Jacques took a deep breath, the air cutting cold and sharp in his lungs. 'Thank you, Sir Orchis,' he said at last, his voice flat, the words thick with the taste of iron as he tightened his jaw to swallow the pain rising in his chest. The knight’s revelation had ignited something fierce within him—a blaze that burned hotter than his sorrow, a fire that demanded not just justice but something far darker, more primal. Revenge, perhaps.

Any misstep in this treacherous game could bring ruin upon him faster than any blade. Every move now would be another trial, a different trial, each decision a test of his own endurance, and each enemy a silent predator in the shadows.

Sir Orchis inclined his head, his expression neutral, yet his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a hawk watching its prey move precisely where he wanted. 'Thank you, Your Grace,' he said smoothly, as if he’d already expected this response, as if he had been waiting for the moment Jacques would submit to duty.

Silence lingered in the room, thick and suffocating, wrapping around Jacques like a shroud as the wind howled just beyond the window, an eerie whisper through the gaps in the stone. It sounded almost like a voice, a mournful cry from some long-forgotten part of him, the part that called for Aubery, for Sofia.

'There’s a meeting in the throne room, Your Grace,' Sir Orchis said, his tone now clipped, perfunctory. 'It’s already been going on for an hour.'

Jacques clenched his fists, jaw set, and he let out a long huff of irritation, though he felt a small relief at having missed the initial drudgery of court. Even so, he could already feel the heat of his father’s displeasure, the unspoken reprimand that awaited him for arriving late. 'Fine,' he said with a reluctant nod. 'Take me to the throne room.'

Jacques felt the heavy grandeur of the throne room pressing down on him. It stood aglow with the flickering light of braziers, casting shifting shadows on the opulent carvings that decorated the walls, each flame illuminating tapestries woven with tales of war and victory, reminders of a legacy Jacques’ father had crushed. The scent of smouldering embers mingled with the thick perfumes that clung to the courtiers, a pungent, heady blend that made the air feel almost stifling. Around the throne, nobles clustered in vibrant hues, their silks and velvets a kaleidoscope of reds, greens, pinks, and purples, vivid yet dissonant against the muted browns and greys of the gentlemen standing nearby. Each gaze in the room was a weapon, cutting, judging, masked by decorum yet sharp, nonetheless.

Jacques entered from the side, flanked by Sir Orchis, as his eyes drifted over to the throne itself—a looming, gilded cage of cold metal and jewels. His father sat upon it, bathed in a radiant golden light that seemed almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the stern, unmoving face he wore. Jacques could feel the King’s presence, silent yet commanding, watching with a gaze as hard and unyielding as the throne itself.

Across the hall, Jacques caught sight of Mirielle. She stood apart, her ladies-in-waiting arranged around her like sentries, their faces serene yet alert. The princess’s gown was the colour of wet ink, its flowing fabric pooling at her feet like a dark stain against the polished stone. As their eyes met, she smiled—a slow, familiar smile that sent a cold shiver down Jacques' spine. It was the same smile she had once reserved for Rick, a smile that held promises, soft laughter, and hidden glances.

Jacques remembered the first time he’d seen her. She had been twenty then, her beauty like a burst of light in the stony halls of his father’s palace. Lord Wesley had presented her as if she were a gift, her beauty so dazzling even the hardest men would soften at the sight of her. She had looked every inch the angel, with her hazelnut hair and her gentle laugh. For a fleeting moment, Jacques had believed in beauty for beauty’s sake, believed that such a person could be genuine in her affection. Now, that image lay in tatters, the angel transformed into something else entirely.

Jacques’ mind drifted to a story his Uncle Malleon had told him when he was young. Ancient tales of demons from the underworld, creatures that took the form of beautiful women, each one a servant of the devil. They said these demons could enchant even the noblest of hearts, bending powerful men to their will with nothing but a glance. He remembered one story in particular—of Jaceryon, an elven lord who had fallen to the wiles of one such demon. Her name had been lost to time, but her deeds lingered, like a stain on history. With her beauty, she had seduced Jaceryon, her words like poisoned honey, her laughter a web in which he became hopelessly entangled. She had convinced him to murder his kin, to turn against his own, until he was finally brought low by his treachery.

Jacques couldn’t shake the feeling that he was staring at one right now. Mirielle’s allure hid something dark now, insatiable. Her smile felt sharper, each glance a calculated move in a game he hadn’t even known he was playing. She was no angel. She was something else entirely—a devil clothed in silk, a temptress with blood on her hands.

Seven of the ten royal guard stood in a rigid line before the throne, their black armour gleaming in the golden light that poured from the high windows. At their centre stood Sir Theon Balogun, his broad frame casting a shadow that stretched across the polished marble floor. Their gloved hands gripped the hilts of their swords, the leather creaking faintly under the pressure of their grips. Though silent, their presence loomed heavy, a shield of flesh and steel separating the King from the rest of the court.

To the left of the throne, Dennis, the King’s steward, stood with his shoulders stiff and his head slightly bowed, unfurling a scroll that trembled faintly in his hands. His voice, thin but steady, echoed through the chamber, commanding the attention of everyone present.

'And finally,' Dennis declared, 'in light of recent events, it is the wish of His Majesty that the safety of himself and his family be at the pinnacle of priority in the coming days.'

The hall fell still, the murmurs of courtiers evaporating into silence as all eyes turned to the throne. Slowly, deliberately, King Rickard rose from his seat, his movement underscored by the faint creak of the ancient chair beneath him. Though his age showed in the careful way he straightened, his presence filled the room with unyielding authority.

'Sir Theon Balogun,' the King said, his voice firm and clear, cutting through the tense air. 'Please, stand before the king.'

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The air grew heavier as Sir Theon stepped forward. His boots struck the marble with measured precision, each step echoing ominously in the vast chamber. When he reached the centre of the room, he turned sharply and dropped to one knee, his head bowed low. The soft clink of his armour reverberated through the room like the final note of a dirge.

'Your Majesty,' Sir Theon said, his voice calm and unwavering. 'As always, you have my sword.'

'Yes, Sir Theon,' the King replied, nodding slightly, his tone distant. 'Very good. Please, take off your helm.'

Sir Theon hesitated for the briefest of moments—so fleeting it might have gone unnoticed to any but the most watchful eyes. He reached up, the gesture slow and deliberate, and removed his helm, tucking it under his arm. His face was a canvas of weathered lines and scars, a testament to decades of service. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was tight, and his blue eyes burned with grim determination, as though he already sensed whatever King Rickard would say next.

'I understand, good sir, more than anyone, your skill and your honour,' Father began, his words measured but carrying an undercurrent of burning rage. 'But now it is time to put your armour aside and live out your days as a citizen of this country.'

The words fell like a hammer blow, sending a collective gasp rippling through the room. It wasn’t loud—just a hushed, startled exhale from the crowd—but it carried the weight of disbelief, as if the very foundation of the throne room had shifted beneath their feet.

Jacques’ heart lurched in his chest, a cold dread spreading through him like icy water. His gaze darted between the King and Sir Theon, his mind struggling to process the significance of what he’d just heard.

'I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I must’ve misheard you,' said Sir Theon Balogun, The Silver Knight, veteran of three wars and the King’s most trusted protector. His voice, usually steady as a war drum, wavered—a rare crack in his unshakeable composure. The weight of his words hung in the air, as though the mere act of questioning the King was enough to set the court aflame.

'Oh no, you heard me quite well, good sir,' the King shot back, his tone sharp as a dagger. His back straightened as he stood, the divine light of the braziers catching his dark hair. But there was no divinity in his expression, only the cold, unrelenting authority of a monarch who had made up his mind.

Silence gripped the throne room like a vise. Courtiers exchanged wide-eyed glances, their whispers dying in their throats. All eyes locked onto The Silver Knight and the King, the tension so thick it seemed to choke the air from the room.

Sir Theon’s gaze darted around aimlessly, as though seeking an anchor in the sea of disapproving stares. His jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as he struggled to find words. The great hall, so vast moments ago, now felt stifling, its walls pressing in with the weight of unspoken judgement.

Finally, Sir Theon spoke. 'Your Majesty,' he began, as if addressing a petulant child who had crossed a line, 'I have been a knight longer than your sons have been alive. My blade has spilled blood to protect this crown and fuel your… ambitions. I have more experience than the rest of the royal guard put together.'

His words carried the weight of truth, but beneath them simmered a dangerous defiance, like a storm brewing just beyond the horizon.

The King prowled forward, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury. 'And yet,' he said, his voice cutting through the thick air like a sword, 'it was you who betrayed me, Theon. You, who allowed my son to go on that suicide mission—a mission I strictly forbade, a mission that cost my son his life!'

Sir Theon’s shoulders tensed, as though bracing for a physical blow from his king. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the leather of his gloves stretching. For a fleeting moment, his mask of composure faltered, and his emotions flashed across his face—shock, disbelief, and a deep, festering betrayal.

Jacques felt a wave of nausea wash over him, his stomach twisting. He gripped the edge of the column he stood beside, his knuckles whitening.

Not a single courtier dared to speak or even move. The air thickened, pregnant with unspoken tension, every breath measured and held as all eyes remained fixed on the two figures at the centre of the storm.

Sir Theon raised his head, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He locked eyes with King Rickard, defiance and sorrow swirling in his gaze, like a storm clashing against a stone fortress.

'He would’ve gone anyway, Rickard,' Sir Theon said at last, his voice low but steady, like the rumble of distant thunder. The use of Father’s given name landed like an earthquake, a stark departure from protocol that sent ripples of unease through the silent crowd. Sir Theon’s words were not spoken with disrespect or malice, but the intimate weight of a shared history, of years spent side by side on battlefields and council chambers. 'I’m proud of the man he became. As you should be.'

Jacques saw the change ripple through his father. The steel in King Rickard’s expression faltered, cracking like ice under pressure. His lips parted, as though to retort, but no words came. The fury in his eyes softened into something else—something darker, heavier. Regret? Grief? The transformation was almost imperceptible, but Jacques caught it, and the sight sent a chill down his spine.

Father took an unsteady step backward, his boots striking the stone floor with a hollow echo that reverberated through the chamber. The space between the King and his knight widened, but it felt far more than the few feet it truly was.

For a moment, it seemed as if King Rickard might recover his composure, might lash out or counter Sir Theon’s defiance. Instead, his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and he turned away, retreating to stand in front of the throne. He tried to maintain his glare, to summon the commanding presence that had always defined him, but the effort was brittle, fragile. His jaw tightened as he folded his hands behind his back, his posture rigid once more.

'Who shall replace me as captain?' Sir Theon asked, his voice measured but taut, the strain evident in his clenched jaw. His eyes bore into the King, searching for some semblance of reason, something that might salvage the dignity being stripped away from him. 'At least tell me that.'

The King’s steward, Dennis, stepped forward, unrolling the scroll with meticulous precision. The faint crackle of parchment echoed through the silent hall as the steward's eyes scanned the text. Every second of hesitation stretched unbearably, a creeping dread coiling around Jacques’ chest like a viper. He already feared the answer, though he prayed to be wrong.

'The King has determined that Sir Mandon Jubilee will take your place as the captain of the royal guard.'

A sudden, sharp clang shattered the oppressive silence as Sir Theon hurled his helm to the ground. The polished steel bounced and rolled, the sound reverberating like thunder against the high stone walls. The violent act stunned the court into an even deeper silence, broken only by the sharp intake of Jacques’ breath as he fought the urge to cry out.

Jacques’ gaze darted to the far side of the room, where Mirielle stood, her brown curls catching the flicker of brazier light. She wore a grin—a slow, triumphant curve of her lips—that froze his blood in its veins. It wasn’t just a smile. It was a weapon, sharp and deliberate, designed to mock and wound.

You fucking idiot, Father. What are you doing?

'SIR MANDON!' Sir Theon’s bellow roared through the throne room, shaking the very air. His face, ruddy with fury, betrayed every ounce of composure he had clung to moments before. 'The boy’s never even seen an arrow come his way!'

'My decision is final!' the King roared, his scowl icy.

'The King and his councillors have nothing but gratitude for your years of service, good sir,' Dennis said, his voice faltering as he fumbled with the edges of his scroll. His hands trembled slightly, betraying the discomfort he tried so hard to mask. 'And he assures you that you will have a house and servants to care for you, at no additional cost to yourself.'

Sir Theon let out a derisive snort, his lip curling in disgust. 'Oh please,' he spat, his voice dripping with venom. 'A glorified pit to bury me in when I die, that’s what I call it.' His words sliced through the heavy air like a blade. 'I won’t stand for this! I am a knight, and I will always be a knight!' His voice rose, a thunderclap in the otherwise suffocating silence of the throne room.

King Rickard’s expression didn’t waver. His voice was calm, cold, and sharp as ice. 'Then I offer you a choice,' he said, his words slow and deliberate, each one falling like a thunderclap. 'I know you were accompanied by one other knight.' He leaned forward slightly, his presence towering over the room despite the distance between them. 'Name him, and the position of captain remains yours. Deny me the information I want, and you shall never set foot in this city again.'

The words hung in the air like the toll of a death knell, reverberating through the vast chamber. Jacques felt his pulse quicken, his heart hammering against his ribs as his gaze darted to Sir Orchis. The Hawk Knight stood at ease, his arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips as he stared at Sir Theon.

Frowning, Jacques’ attention flicked back to The Silver Knight. His frame remained rigid, but his eyes—those sharp, piercing blue eyes—burned with defiance. Sir Theon stood taller, his back straightening, his voice steady and unwavering. 'There were no other knights with us, Your Majesty,' he said, each word carrying the weight of conviction. 'The prince and I went alone.'

A palpable tension rippled through the room, tightening its grip on everyone present. Even the ever-present murmurs of the courtiers had died away entirely, leaving only the distant crackle of the braziers and the faint whistle of a breeze slipping through the stone walls. Jacques held his breath as his father’s hard glare met Sir Theon’s. The King’s jaw clenched, the faintest tremor betraying his frustration.

'So be it,' the King said finally, his voice low and dangerous, his words sinking like lead. 'Leave before I change my mind.'

Sir Theon didn’t move at first. His gaze remained locked on the King for a long, tense moment, as though he were burning the memory of this humiliation into his soul. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned on his heel. His boots struck the stone floor with a measured cadence, the sound echoing in the silence like the tolling of a bell.

Jacques stood frozen as Sir Theon marched away, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. The knight’s steps were heavy, laden with resignation, yet his head remained high, his back unbowed. As he passed, Sir Theon’s eyes locked with Jacques’, just for a heartbeat. In that fleeting moment, Jacques saw everything—rage, defiance, and an indelible bitterness that seared like a branding iron. There was no plea for help, no attempt to justify or explain, only the silent declaration of a knight who refused to yield.

The moment passed, and Sir Theon continued his march, the air seeming to ripple with his fading presence. Jacques’ throat tightened as he watched Theon’s figure grow smaller, retreating into the shadows at the far end of the throne room. The heavy doors groaned open, and then, with a resounding thud, they slammed shut behind him.

The warm light of the braziers seemed dimmer now, their flames dancing like shadows on the edges of Jacques' vision. The air thickened with disbelief, a cold stillness settling over the assembled lords and ladies. Jacques felt it seep into his skin, making his breath shallow and his fingers tremble at his sides.

The King’s face remained a mask of unyielding authority, his sharp gaze fixed ahead as though Sir Theon’s departure had been nothing more than a passing breeze. There was no hint of regret, no flicker of hesitation—only the cold determination of a king. It was the same expression Jacques had seen countless times before, and yet today, it felt more alien than ever.

'And I want this message spread across every corner of Galia,' The King’s voice rang out. 'As of today... we are at war.'

The announcement swept through the room like a cold wind, chilling everyone to the core. Jacques caught the wide-eyed stares of some of the younger lords, their faces pale as they whispered hurriedly to their companions. Others—the seasoned warriors and grizzled commanders—stood stone-faced, their expressions unreadable, though Jacques could see the glint of concern in their eyes.

The King moved from his throne with the deliberate grace of a man who knew the eyes of a kingdom were upon him. He cast one final glance at the room, his gaze imperious and unyielding, before turning sharply on his heel. His black coat engulfed him like a shadow as he strode towards the doors leading to the council chamber. The oak door groaned open, then slammed shut with a thunderous finality, leaving the throne room in a stunned silence.

For a moment, time had stopped. Jacques stared at the empty throne, his mouth slightly open, his body frozen. The ornate golden seat, once a symbol of stability and order, now seemed cold and forbidding, an unspoken reminder of the man who wielded its power with such ruthless finality.

The lords and ladies began to stir, their vibrant garments swirling like restless waves as they whispered among themselves. Some exchanged grim nods and hurried towards the exits, eager to begin their preparations for the long journeys back to their lands. Others lingered, their faces drawn with unease, their whispers carrying the weight of uncertainty. Jacques caught fragments of their conversations—words like war, madness, and Theon floating through the air like poison.

The room seemed to blur around him, the once vibrant colours of the nobles’ attire fading into a muted haze. His thoughts churned in a chaotic storm, memories of his childhood clawing their way to the surface. He was a boy again, standing in this very hall, watching his father declare war on Eastamere with fire in his eyes and a hunger for blood in his voice.

This is not strength, Jacques thought gravely, this is madness.

Sir Theon’s dismissal played over and over in his mind, the knight’s defiant words ringing in his ears. Jacques clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His father had discarded a man who had served the realm with unwavering loyalty, as though he were nothing more than a broken toy. And to replace him with Sir Mandon Jubilee? Jacques’ stomach churned at the thought. Sir Mandon, who lacked even a fraction of Sir Theon’s experience, who had never faced the horrors of battle, who had never felt the sting of an enemy’s blade. His appointment as captain of the royal guard was not just reckless—it was dangerous.

Jacques’ gaze flicked to Mirielle, who stood near the far wall, her delicate features lit by the flickering brazier light. She still wore her faint, knowing smile, her hands folded neatly before her. Jacques swallowed hard, his throat dry as a desert. Mirielle, Sir Mandon, and their father, were all playing a dangerous game, one that could tear the kingdom apart.

Jacques kept his fists clenched as he turned towards Sir Orchis, his voice low and strained. 'Ride after Sir Theon. Try to convince him to stay. If we’re at war, we’re going to need him.' Each word felt like a plea disguised as an order, laced with urgency and the weight of unspoken fears. He could feel the enormity of the request lingering in the air, a tension that even the steady flicker of the braziers couldn’t dispel.

Sir Orchis raised an eyebrow, his lip curling in a faint sneer. 'Judging by his tone there, Your Grace, I doubt he’d come back here even if I offer him a million gold coins.'

'I know,' Jacques said softly, though his throat felt raw, 'but please talk to him.'

For a moment, Sir Orchis stared at him, his piercing gaze weighing Jacques as though measuring the sincerity of the request. Then, with a reluctant nod, he relented. 'As you wish,' he said curtly, his tone clipped. 'But don’t hold your breath. Sir Theon Balogun’s a proud man, and you’ve seen what pride does to wounded hearts.' His gaze lingered for a beat before he turned to leave, his soft boots echoing off the marble floor like a countdown.

Jacques exhaled shakily as Sir Orchis made his way towards the entrance, a flicker of hope tempered by the sinking feeling that Sir Theon was already gone. His hand instinctively brushed the edge of the column beside him, as though grounding himself in the cool stone.

'What will you do?' Sir Orchis called over his shoulder, his voice carrying a note of curiosity, perhaps even doubt.

Jacques’ mouth felt dry as he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He turned his gaze towards the throne, its gleaming surface reflecting the firelight in molten waves. 'I need to have a little talk with my father.'

Jacques’ boots scuffed the marble floor as he sharply turned away from Sir Orchis. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with unspent fury.

When he reached the oak door to the council chamber, its ancient wood darkened by centuries of use, his hand hesitated for a fraction of a second before shoving it open. The iron hinges groaned in a drawn-out, metallic protest, as though unwilling to grant him entry.

The frigid air of the staircase hit him like a slap, carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone and musty parchment. He descended into the dimly lit chamber; the torchlight casting jagged shadows that seemed to claw at the walls. The narrow steps led downwards, their edges worn smooth by countless footsteps of those who had tread this path before him—kings, knights, traitors. His pace quickened as he neared the bottom, the faint flicker of lamplight ahead pulling him like a beacon through the gloom.

The chamber stretched out before him, its walls lined with shelves crammed full of knowledge and secrets: crumbling books, fragile scrolls, and maps curling with age. A scent of old ink and decaying parchment hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of candle wax dripping from iron sconces. The flickering light seemed to dance mockingly over the council table—a massive, polished expanse of oak that dominated the room, its surface scarred with the marks of countless arguments, strategies, and desperate decisions.

At the far end sat King Rickard himself, his figure cloaked in shadow save for the faint gleam of his signet ring as he tapped the table's edge with restless precision. Before him lay a sprawling map, its surface smudged and stained, the border between Galia and Eastamere marked by jagged mountains. He raised his head slowly, the movement almost deliberate, and fixed Jacques with a gaze as cold and unforgiving as a winter gale. His face, chiselled and pale under the lamplight, was unreadable but for the faint curl of disdain tugging at the corners of his mouth.

'You’ve finally come out of your room, I see,' he said, his voice low and cutting, each word laced with contempt.

'I must be in some lucid nightmare!' Jacques shouted, his voice cracking with a mixture of anger and disbelief. 'You’ve just dismissed Sir Theon from our royal guard, and now you’re declaring war? Have you lost your mind?'

Father leaned back in his chair and studied Jacques with the calculating gaze of a predator weighing its prey. 'You would be content,' he said slowly, deliberately, 'with being protected by a knight who failed to save the life of your own brother?'

Jacques’ chest tightened as the accusation landed, sharp and cruel. 'That wasn’t his fault, Father!' he retorted, his voice raw with emotion. 'He tried to save him!'

'Did he? He failed. I do not take failure lightly.'

Jacques’ fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms until they threatened to draw blood. 'But you’ve replaced him with Mandon Jubilee!' he shouted, the name dripping with disdain. His mind conjured an image of The Coast Knight’s smug face, the sharp lines of his jaw twisting into a smirk that mocked him even now.

'Why shouldn’t I?' Father’s tone was icy, his brows lifting as though daring Jacques to contradict him. 'He is a skilled warrior who will take his vows seriously. Something Sir Theon apparently could no longer do.'

The words struck like an arrow, and Jacques struggled to contain the storm of emotions churning inside him. His mind raced, unbidden memories flashing before him—Rick’s duel against Prince Luis, the deadly dance of steel in the dark. The sound of clashing swords echoed in his ears, each ring of metal a cruel reminder. He could still see Rick’s grim determination as he stepped into that duel, could still hear his own horrifying cries as his brother fell. And then there was Sir Theon, his grief frozen inside of him, yet his voice choked with the effort to contain it: I failed him.

'Sir Theon has served this family with unwavering loyalty for years,' Jacques said, his voice trembling with fury. 'How can you throw him away like this?'

Father’s expression hardened, his gaze piercing. 'Loyalty means nothing if it cannot protect my family.'

'The Jubilees are up to something, Father,' Jacques said, his voice dropping to a strained whisper. 'You should not trust them.'

Father’s fist slammed against the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber like thunder. Jacques flinched despite himself as Father rose from his chair, his towering presence casting a long shadow across the room.

'I will not change my mind!' the King roared, his voice booming with an authority that seemed to shake the very walls. His glare was like ice, freezing Jacques in place and stripping him of whatever resolve he had left.

He’s running into the buzzard’s claws, Jacques thought bitterly, his stomach twisting with dread. And he’s dragging me with him.

The King’s face softened slightly, his scowl easing into a thoughtful frown. 'Nevertheless, I’m glad you are here. I wanted to speak with you. Sit down.'

With a deliberate motion, the King pushed a chair out. The dark wood gleamed faintly in the candlelight, its ornate carvings catching Jacques’ eye as he clawed back his composure. He hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. When he reached the table, the polished oak felt cool and smooth under his fingertips, grounding him.

His gaze flicked to the flagon of wine at the centre of the table, its deep crimson contents sloshing faintly as if beckoning him. Jacques reached for it without waiting for permission, the faint metallic clink of the stopper breaking the silence. He poured himself a generous glass, fully expecting a sharp reprimand from his father.

'You think I haven’t dived into that jug once or twice myself over the last day?' King Rickard said, raising an eyebrow.

Jacques blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then, despite himself, he let out a quiet laugh. 'Rick used to tell me a story about the only time he ever saw you drunk,' Jacques said, swirling the wine in his glass. 'You lugged about like a bear, bellowing nonsense. I believe you even threatened your cupbearer with execution because he’d run out of wine.'

The King groaned, dragging a hand down his face. 'A level I’ll never stoop to again,' he muttered, though his lips twitched faintly at the corners. He raised his glass and took a measured sip, his movements slow and deliberate, as though savouring the act itself. Jacques followed suit, the warmth of the wine spreading through him as he drank.

When the King placed his glass back on the table, his gaze drifted, roaming the chamber. His eyes lingered on the shelves of books, the rolls of parchment tucked neatly into alcoves, the massive maps pinned to the walls like trophies of an unending hunt. There was a wistfulness to his expression, an unfamiliar softness that Jacques hadn’t seen in years.

'For the first time,' Father began, 'I’ve finally appreciated why these maps and books are here in the council chamber.' He gestured faintly toward the walls, his hand moving as though tracing invisible lines on the maps that adorned them. 'King Jacob used these maps whenever he planned a battle. It’s the reason he hardly ever lost one.'

'I imagine the lightning powers helped as well,' Jacques said dryly, wiggling his fingers in a mock display of magic.

'Yet I beat him,' Father said, his voice sharp and cutting through the heavy air. He’d ignored Jacques’ comment entirely, leaning back in his chair with a slow, deliberate ease. His chin lifted, eyes glinting with the pride of a man savouring a victory long past. 'As I saw my victory in my dreams, I made them come true. I brought down the greatest dynasty the world has ever seen.'

His voice grew stronger, brimming with a self-assuredness that seemed to breathe life back into him. 'My family was strong. My family stood uncontested.' His eyes, alight with memories of glory, glistened as though the golden days itself had come alive before him. The victories, the sheepdog banners, the cries of enemies falling before his might—it all shone in his expression. For a moment, he wasn’t a man staring down the present but a conqueror revelling in the echo of his past.

But then he turned, the fiery glint of pride in his eyes extinguished as his gaze met Jacques’. What replaced it was colder—harder. A glare that pierced Jacques like ice. 'Now what do I have?'

Father’s mix of disappointment and accusation twisted in Jacques’ chest like a dagger. Rage surged through him, rising from the pit of his stomach to burn behind his eyes.

His mind churned with memories, vivid and relentless. The sound of ringing steel echoed in his ears—the clash of swords in the dim, filthy Eastamerean cells where his brother had fought. He saw it again in his mind’s eye: Rick’s desperate struggle, the blood spilling onto the cold stone, staining the hall like a cruel mockery of their family’s once-mighty legacy.

'You think you’re the only one suffering? The only one that’s ever suffered?' Jacques blurted, his words tumbling out like arrows loosed from a bow before he could catch them. His voice trembled with the weight of his grief, his anger, his unspoken accusations.

Father’s eyes narrowed, his entire frame going still. The air between them grew heavy, charged with tension. 'What did you say?' he asked, his tone deathly quiet—a dangerous calm that cut through Jacques’ anger like a warning.

Every instinct in Jacques’ mind screamed at him to back down, to swallow the words threatening to pour out. But his grief had no leash, and his scorn was a dam ready to burst. The memory of his father’s disappointed scowl—the same one he had worn so often, the same expression that had haunted him through long, sleepless nights in Sofia’s dungeon—now stood before him again, real and unforgiving.

This time, Jacques couldn’t contain it.

'All my life, you’ve acted as if you’ve only just defeated King Jacob yesterday,' Jacques said, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and bitterness. 'You beam whenever conversations turn to your rebellion. You take some sort of twisted pleasure in reminding everyone that you clinched victory. All this nonsense about seeing it in a dream.' His words came faster now, years of frustration spilling out unchecked. 'It’s obvious why you rebelled. You rebelled because my grandfather’s death made House Rue look weak, and you wanted to mend your wounded pride!'

Father sprang from his chair, the heavy oak groaning under his sudden movement. His towering frame cast a long shadow over Jacques, his presence dark and oppressive, like a storm closing in. 'How dare you speak about your grandfather like that!' Father roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Jacques didn’t flinch. Instead, he rose from his seat, his movements slow but deliberate. He stood eye-to-eye with his father, defiance burning in his glare. 'And my mother,' Jacques said, his voice quieter now but no less sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. 'You treated her death like a defeat on the battlefield rather than the loss of someone you loved. She made House Rue look weak, and you hated her for it. Oh, but it was fine, wasn’t it? You had a perfect son to carry on your precious legacy.'

Father’s face darkened further, veins bulging at his temples as his hands clenched into fists. 'You listen—'

'No!' Jacques bellowed, his voice louder than his father’s, the words echoing with a force he didn’t know he possessed. He jabbed a finger into his father’s chest, hard enough to make the king take a half-step back. 'For once, you’re going to listen to me!' He leaned in closer, his finger still pressing against the leather of his father’s doublet, his voice a low growl now, seething with years of pent-up resentment.

'No one is ever good enough for you, are they? Not me, not Mother, not Rick—no one!' Jacques’ voice cracked, but he pressed on, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his emotions in check. 'All you’ve ever seen is weakness. But what happens to your precious legacy now? What happens when I—Jacques Rue—the physical embodiment of everything you despise, stand as the only thing you have left?'

The air between them crackled with unspoken words, the tension almost suffocating. Jacques’ eyes locked onto his father’s, daring him to respond, to strike, to do something. But he did nothing. Not even a word.

A soft creak broke the silence.

Jacques turned his head sharply, his breath still coming in ragged bursts. The door to the council chamber had opened, and standing in the doorway was Princess Mirielle.

She stood there, striking as ever in her flowing black dress that seemed to drink in the dim light of the chamber. Her brown eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene before her: the King’s towering rage, Jacques’ defiance, the palpable heat of a confrontation moments after it had erupted.

What’s she doing here? Jacques thought, his jaw tightening as he clenched his fist, careful to keep it out of her sight. His gaze followed Mirielle as she swept into the room with an elegance that only deepened his unease.

Her dress whispered against the stone floor as she moved, her stride measured, her posture regal. She didn’t acknowledge Jacques directly, but he could feel her presence bearing down on him like a weight. She moved toward the council table with a confidence that set his nerves alight. His father, still as stone, watched her approach without a word, his face carved from ice.

Jacques exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, but his heart wouldn’t stop pounding, its rhythm echoing in his ears like the drumbeat of an approaching army.

'You are correct, Jacques,' his father said at last, breaking the suffocating silence. His voice was unexpectedly calm, almost weary, as if the storm of their argument had passed through him entirely. Slowly, King Rickard lowered himself back into his seat, his movements deliberate, his gaze piercing. 'You are all I have left. Your assistance will be vital.'

Jacques froze. His father’s words landed like icy water, momentarily quelling the fire in his chest, leaving only confusion in its wake. He frowned, the lines of his brow deepening as he watched his father. The tension between them hadn’t dissipated; it had simply shifted, taking on a new and unfamiliar shape.

'Assistance?' Jacques repeated, his voice cautious. He sank back into his chair, though it offered no comfort, the polished wood hard and unyielding against his arse.

King Rickard’s sharp eyes didn’t waver as he spoke, his tone steady but cold, like a general issuing orders before a final march. 'I will ride out and take our forces east,' he said, his words weighted with grim determination. 'Sir Finn Alisser will accompany me. Together, we will take Eastamere with one fell swoop.'

Father’s hand moved to the hilt of the dagger at his waist. He drew it with a deliberate slowness, the blade catching the light of the chamber’s flickering torches. Without breaking his gaze from the map spread across the table, he raised the dagger high and drove it into the parchment with a force that made Jacques flinch.

The point of the blade pierced the name Palomia, splitting the inked letters apart.

'I will avenge my son,' Father growled, his voice a low rumble of fury. The quiet ferocity in his words sent a shiver down Jacques’ spine.

For a moment, the room was silent but for the faint hum of the torches. Jacques stared at the blade embedded in the map, his mind racing. His father’s hands remained on the dagger’s hilt, his knuckles white with tension, as though the act of stabbing the map had not satisfied his wrath.

Images flashed through Jacques’ mind—Sofia’s eyes shimmering with fear, her neck tensing as her head separated from her body. He imagined her lifeless features mounted on a spike, the flesh rotting in the sun as a warning to all who dared oppose the sheepdog of House Rue.

A cold shiver rippled through Jacques’ body, twisting his stomach into knots. He could feel the weight of his father’s rage, the raw, unrelenting need for vengeance that burned in his eyes. It terrified him.

'Father,' Jacques said hesitantly, his voice unsteady. 'You don’t have to—'

'You will stay here in the capital,' King Rickard commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Jacques blinked, certain he’d misheard. 'What?' he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief. 'What do you mean? What are you asking me to do?'

'Rule,' the king said bluntly, the word dropping like a stone into the room’s tense silence. He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Jacques, the weight of his expectation almost suffocating. 'You’ll be named regent king within the day, and you will assume all the responsibilities of myself and your brother before you. You’ll steady this city and ensure it does not falter while I am gone. If you get even a whiff of treason from any of the council—Sir Orchis, Sir Robert, Sir Bryce—you will make sure they are disposed of.'

Jacques stared, his mouth slightly ajar, his mind struggling to process the enormity of his father’s decree. The room seemed to close in around him, the flickering torchlight casting the walls in restless, ominous shadows.

'Disposed of?' Jacques repeated faintly, his voice barely above a whisper.

'Permanently,' Father finished, his tone as sharp and final as the blade he had buried in the map only moments before.

Jacques felt the floor tilt beneath him, his stomach twisting with fear and dread. He had anticipated many things from this conversation—orders to march to war, rebukes, even a cruel punishment—but not this. His father had always seen him as a liability, a disappointment, someone unworthy of the family name. Now, suddenly, he was to rule in his father’s absence, to carry the weight of the Rue legacy on his shoulders.

A legacy that had already crushed his brother.

He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as the polished wood bit into his palms. His heart raced, the sound pounding in his ears like a war drum. Jacques’ gaze darted to the map, the dagger still lodged in Palomia, its hilt gleaming in the dim light.

'You’re putting him in charge?' Mirielle asked, a flicker of irritation breaking through her otherwise composed tone.

The King turned to face her, his expression cold and measured. 'Yes, my lady. He will rule in my stead. You disapprove?'

Mirielle blinked, her long lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks. The flicker of green flame in her pretty brown eyes extinguished almost as quickly as it had appeared. She smiled, serene and poised, though Jacques caught the faint tightening of her jaw. 'Not at all, Your Majesty,' she said smoothly. 'I have every confidence Prince Jacques will rise to this challenge.'

The King nodded, satisfied. 'Your loyalty is appreciated, Mirielle, and it will aid us in the war to come. That is why you will rule alongside him.'

Jacques froze mid-sip, the rim of the wine glass trembling against his lips. For a moment, he wondered if he’d misheard. He slowly lowered the glass, his fingers tightening around the stem as dread coiled in his chest.

'What did you just say?' he asked, his voice low and strained, the edges fraying with disbelief.

King Rickard turned his attention back to Jacques, his tone casual, almost dismissive. 'Princess Mirielle will be named regent alongside you. She is to share in your responsibilities during my absence.'

The words struck Jacques like a wet fish. He turned to Mirielle, his gaze meeting hers, searching for any sign of smugness behind her mask of innocence. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her smile polite, unreadable. But her eyes... they danced with quiet triumph, like a fox slipping into a henhouse. He remembered the story Sir Orchis had told him about the broken blade, and how Father had replaced Sir Theon with Sir Mandon.

His chest tightened, a cacophony of thoughts roaring in his mind. No, this can’t be happening. This fool can’t be serious.

'Father,' Jacques began, his voice wavering despite his attempt at control. 'What exactly does this mean? Rule alongside me?'

'It means precisely what it sounds like,' Father replied coolly. 'Princess Mirielle will share the duties of governance with you. Decisions will be made jointly. She will temper your inexperience with her good faith amongst the common folk and ensure no voice goes unheard in my court.'

Jacques’ hands curled into fists. The wine glass trembled dangerously in his grasp, and for a moment, he considered shattering it just to release some of the pressure building inside him.

Mirielle? My co-regent? He thought of the rumours, the whispers of the broken blade, of Mirielle’s connections to this conspiracy that circled this war. The image of Sir Theon’s grief-stricken face flashed through his mind, and then Sir Mandon’s smug smirk as he set to take his place. He could almost hear the winds changing, the ominous feeling that he was a helpless sea bird ready to be snatched out of the sky.

'Are you sure this is wise, Father?' Jacques said, his voice tight, barely concealing his anger. 'The council is already a battlefield of divided loyalties. Adding another regent, especially one with no—' He stopped himself before the words no Rue blood could escape, though the implication lingered in the air.

Mirielle raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. 'Your Grace,' she said softly, her tone laced with feigned offence, 'I only seek to serve the crown. Surely you don’t think me incapable of offering aid in such a trying time?'

Her words burned. Jacques clenched his jaw, feeling the trap closing in around him. 'I question no one’s capabilities,' he said, forcing the words out, though each one felt like swallowing shards of glass. 'I only wonder if this arrangement is... practical.'

Jacques’ eyes flicked to his father, searching desperately for any sign of wavering, any hint that this could still be undone. But King Rickard’s face was a mask, implacable and cold as carved stone. The silence in the chamber pressed down on Jacques’ shoulders, heavy and suffocating. His thoughts churned, spiralling into dark corners. No matter which path he imagined, every road lead to ruin. He saw the buzzards already circling, their dark, hungry eyes glinting with anticipation.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. If he had been given sole regency—true power—then perhaps he could have tackled the growing Jubilee threat. Perhaps he could have rooted out the snakes in his father’s court before they sank their fangs any deeper. But now? Sharing the crown with Mirielle was equal to surrender.

'The Jubilees will be a vital ally in our war,' his father declared, breaking the silence.

Your war, Jacques wanted to spit, the words burning in the back of his throat. But he clamped his teeth together, biting down hard on his frustration. He had already said enough reckless things today—more than enough to tempt his father into rescinding even this bitter scrap of authority. And Jacques knew, deep down, that as much as this arrangement filled him with dread, losing the regency altogether would be worse.

He took a slow, steadying breath, though it did little to quell the storm raging in his chest. 'This is a huge responsibility, Father,' Jacques said at last, his voice carefully measured, though a faint tremor betrayed him. 'You’ve never placed this kind of faith in me before. Why now?'

Father’s expression didn’t shift, but a flicker of something—pride? grief?—danced behind his piercing blue eyes. For a moment, Jacques thought his father wouldn’t answer at all. Then, with a heavy sigh, he said the words.

'You’re my son.'

A silence passed through the council chamber, Jacques unable to think, let alone speak. He held his father’s stony gaze, the conviction there for all to see. Strangely, Jacques’ throat clammed, threatening to choke him.

'And you said it yourself…' Father’s gaze dropped, his hand brushing over the edge of the map before them. 'You’re all I have left.'

King Rickard rose slowly from his seat, his movements deliberate, as if each step carried the weight of a kingdom’s expectations. His broad shoulders squared as he strode toward the wooden cabinet on the far side of the council chamber, the faint groan of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the march of an army. When he reached it, he paused, resting his hand on the intricately carved handle for a moment before pulling it open.

From within, he drew forth a blade. The metal gleamed in the candlelight, its craftsmanship flawless—an identical replica of the sword Jacques had left in Eastamere, the one stained with the blood of their king.

Father turned back toward Jacques, holding the sword with a reverence that made Jacques’ stomach churn. 'To mark the occasion,' the King said, his voice low but heavy with meaning, 'I had your sword remade.' He crossed the room with purposeful strides, halting before Jacques and lowering the weapon into his hands. 'Take it. It’s yours.'

The cold steel settled into Jacques’ grasp, its weight far heavier than its physical mass could justify. It pressed down on him like an unspoken accusation, a reminder of every failure, every life lost. His grip tightened instinctively, his knuckles turning white.

Jacques cast his thoughts away, grasping desperately for the vibrant brushstrokes of his paintings, for Aubery’s smile and the vivid colours that had once been his refuge. But those memories slipped through his fingers, smothered by the overwhelming gleam of gold—the gold of a king’s crown, the gold of a future he didn’t deserve.

Before he could find the words to respond, Father’s voice broke through the suffocating silence. 'But…' The single word hung in the air, taut with impending revelation. 'You also have a wedding to prepare for.'

Jacques’ breath caught in his throat. He looked up sharply, his chest tightening as his father continued, his tone as unwavering as ever. 'While I cover the land, you will cover the sea. For that, we will need ships. The Jubilee fleet is the largest in the realm. You, Jacques, will marry Mirielle, securing our relationship with House Jubilee—and the ships we require.'

The words pierced Jacques’ heart like a wooden stake. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He turned his gaze toward Mirielle, who stood poised and unflinching. Her brown eyes gleamed with a quiet victory, and her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.

A nest of adders writhed in Jacques’ gut, twisting and knotting until he thought he might be sick. He forced himself to meet her gaze, but the effort only brought Rick’s lifeless body crashing into his mind. The prospect burned—his brother’s blood pooling on the cold stone, the glint of a blade wielded in Mirielle’s hand.

It was actually happening.

History was repeating itself, playing out like some cruel jest of the Gods.

'I’m not—'

'I’ll hear no more of it, Jacques.' King Rickard’s voice was sharp and final, each word striking like the crack of a whip. His steely glare pierced Jacques, rooting him to his chair. 'You will do your duty, as I have.'

Jacques wanted to protest, to shout, to demand some semblance of choice in the life being thrust upon him, but his father leaned closer, his imposing shadow swallowing the light between them.

'I said this to your brother once,' Father continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. 'And I will say the same to you. You must choose. Become the man the realm needs you to be and see this house endure for a thousand years, or collapse into weakness like the Ayasems did. The fate of our family will fall on your shoulders now.' His words were a blade, sharp and merciless, slicing through Jacques’ resolve. 'I suggest the pair of you prepare for your first days as rulers. You have much to address.'

The weight of his father’s command crushed Jacques, leaving him paralysed in his seat. The enormity of what was being asked of him wrapped around his chest like iron chains, pulling him deeper into a pit of despair. Ruling an entire city, the lives of hundreds of thousands now resting squarely on his shoulders—it felt insurmountable. And now, Mirielle would be tied to that burden too, her scheming presence another weight to bear.

'Go.' The King’s voice was cold and absolute, a sovereign’s command that left no room for defiance. 'Now.'

Jacques rose slowly, the legs of his chair scraping against the stone floor with a jarring screech that reverberated in the oppressive silence of the chamber. He grabbed his wineglass with an almost defiant force and strode toward the staircase. Each step felt heavier than the last, his movements sharp and mechanical, as if his body were rebelling against his mind.

Behind him, Mirielle’s voice rang out, sweet and gracious, yet tinged with unmistakable triumph. 'Thank you, Your Majesty,' she said, the words dripping with practised humility. 'It is an honour to serve you.'

Jacques barely registered her words, his focus fixed on the door ahead. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand, its delicate stem on the verge of snapping.

As he reached the doorway, the golden flash of the throne caught his eye, its opulent brilliance cutting through the dim light of the chamber. The gleam blinded him for a moment, forcing him to blink. When his vision cleared, the throne still stood there, an unyielding reminder of his inheritance, its ornate carvings mocking him with their silent grandeur.

A cruel symbol of everything he’d never wanted, and everything he now couldn’t escape.