203

203
The decoy Prince pov

The crown feels heavier every time they tighten it. I think it’s the pressure more than the gold and the way they handle it - slowly, reverently, like it might shatter if their hands slip and that only makes it worse.

They place it on my head with so much ceremony you’d think I was a god. But no one worships me, not really, they worship the idea of me - the image and the mask.

They call me your Highness like the words taste sweet in their mouths, but I can hear the rustling behind their smiles. No one bows quite right anymore, they lean too far and hold their breath too long like they’re waiting for something to snap.

And I can feel it too, like a string pulled too tight, humming with tension just behind my ears. If I move wrong, if I breathe wrong, if I say the wrong name or forget how to hold my fork, something will break.

Someone will notice, maybe they already have.

This morning, my dressing room is filled with the scent of lavender oil and fear. Servants flutter like flies around an open wound, each of them more eager than the last to polish my boots, fix my collar, make me drink whatever tea has been steeped just long enough to taste expensive.

They speak in phrases that have no shape - compliments without teeth, praise without weight.

“Your Grace looks well-rested.” One of them says too loudly, voice too happy to be truthful.

Another one joins in, nodding their head too eagerly, the smile too wide on her face. “You wore that emerald sash best last week - the whole court whispered of it.”

“I’ve never seen the crown sit more rightly on a head.” Another servant adds in passing, kissing my ass so far up that if they don’t stop, I fear there won’t be any space left there for more to come.

Each one lands like a pinch, they sting, but only after the hand is gone.

They used to fawn over me differently. Not better, just differently. There was awe once, even if it was fake. Now there’s something else, a kind of pity buried deep behind the courtesy. Like they’re tending to a creature they know is sick, but they’re still pretending it can be saved.

I nod and murmur thanks like I’ve been taught. The truth is, I want to scream, I want to tear the sash from my chest and throw the tea into the fire and ask them what they really see when they look at me. But I don’t because masks don’t talk. They smile and I was trained to be a very good mask.

One servant lingers longer than the others - a boy, maybe fifteen, seventeen at most. His hands are too still, his face too blank. He brushes dust from my sleeve that isn’t there, I see the way he looks at me.

Not with hatred, not with respect but with guilt.

I don’t ask what he knows, I don’t want to hear it aloud, I only nod at him until he bows and disappears through the door, but his eyes stay with me long after he’s gone.

And now I think, maybe they’ve all been looking at me that way. Maybe it’s only today I can finally see it. By the time I slip away, they think they’ve pleased me. I walk the halls in silence, weaving between guards who look past me instead of at me. It’s always like this now.

I’m the centerpiece no one wants to touch - admired from afar, untouched, unloved. Not even feared. Just… tolerated.

I walk until the scent of lavender fades, until the stone beneath my feet stops gleaming, until the walls grow cold again. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I don’t want to be where they left me.

That room with too much perfume and too many voices praising nothing. That room that smells more like embalming oil than celebration.

A guard bows too deeply as I pass. Another one avoids my eyes altogether. Their weapons shine, but their stances are lazy now. Like they already know I’m not worth protecting.

I find myself near the Council chamber without meaning to. The doors are open a crack and I know better, I know not to listen but something about the hush inside pulls me closer.

Two voices, not loud, but clear enough to break me.

“...can’t keep him much longer.” One of the voices whispers, but from this far away, I can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man speaking, not even about what they are speaking.

“That’s Orna’s problem, not mine.” Suddenly comes another voice and I find myself pushing closer to the door, even holding my breath as I listen more carefully.

“She’s already preparing alternatives. You didn’t hear that from me.” There’s a long, heavy pause after the words and I swear, I feel like I’m drowning because I know that that means all too well.

“If he disappears, the kingdom will grieve for a day. Maybe two. Then they’ll follow the next banner.”

They don’t say my name but they don’t have to. I press myself against the wall, there’s a buzzing in my ears, like my blood is trying to drown out the sound of treason. Or maybe it’s not treason. Maybe this is just how power works.

I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had any, I’ve only ever been allowed to wear it.

My hand grips the stone so tightly it hurts. The blood drains from my face so fast I feel dizzy. I try to breathe slowly and quietly. If they hear me, if they know I’m here, maybe I vanish tonight instead of next week.

I wait, count ten slow breaths and then I back away from the door like I’m stepping off a ledge. My footsteps are too loud, my shadow feels too visible and every guard I pass seems taller now.

Every glance lingers too long, it makes me feel like my skin is being set on fire against my will.

I walk past the throne room but I don’t go in, I can’t. The throne looks too much like a noose now.

Later, I end up in the gallery, where the portraits of past rulers stare down with eyes full of judgment. None of them look like me, none of them were made.

When I finally stop moving, I look into a polished mirror. The crown is still on my head, my sash still perfect and the emerald glints in the low light like it’s proud to shine.

And for a moment, I try to practice what I’ll say if she calls me in. What I’ll beg for, what promises I’ll offer. I try to think of words that might matter.

But none come because I know there’s no turning back and no matter what I say or offer, they’re going to kill me.

And the worst part is - I almost don’t blame them because I was never supposed to survive this long. I was meant to dazzle, to distract, to shine for just long enough and now that my light’s gone dim, they’ll blow me out like a dying candle, like I was never a person at all.