Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Eight

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Eight
Alexander

The council room was packed.

Dark wood panels. Velvet drapes. The long U-shaped table gleaming like it had been polished twice. My mother sat to one side, calm and unreadable. Her eyes met mine only once as I entered, and I knew she was as in the dark as I was.

The royal ministers all looked unsettled. Shuffling. Whispering. The room held the weight of dread—like we were here for a royal funeral and didn’t yet know who had died.

I took my seat in silence.

Someone cleared their throat. Someone else dropped a pen. The sound echoed in the stillness like a cannon blast.

And then the King entered.

Silence fell instantly.

He looked older than the last time I’d seen him. His hair more silver, the stiffness in his movements more pronounced. But his eyes—sharp, unreadable—still commanded the room.

He did not sit.

He stood at the head of the table and placed both hands flat on the polished surface.

And then he spoke.

“I will not draw this out,” he said.

No greeting. No fanfare. Just a voice like steel over ice.

“For the past year, I have watched this monarchy change. Some say for the better. Some say for the worse. I have been called a tyrant. A relic. An obstacle.”

No one moved.

“And perhaps they’re right.”

I held my breath.

“I have spent too long trying to control what cannot be controlled. The world has moved forward. My son has moved forward.”

His gaze flicked to me. I couldn’t read it.

“And so, after long consideration and consultation with constitutional authorities, I have made my decision.”

I felt the air in the room shift. Every spine straightened.

He looked at the ministers. Then at my mother. Then, finally, at me.

“I am abdicating the throne.”

Silence.

Not the stunned kind—the broken kind. Like no one knew how to breathe.

“I will remain King until the official transition ceremony, one month from today,” he continued. “After which, Crown Prince Alexander will assume the throne.”

My ears rang.

The words were there. Clear. Simple.

But they didn’t register.

Not really.

He looked at me directly now. “It is time.”

That was all he said.

Then he turned and walked out.

The sound of his shoes on the marble echoed long after the door closed behind him.

Still, no one spoke.

I sat frozen, blinking at the empty space where he had stood. The words played again and again in my head like a scratched record.

I am abdicating the throne.

It didn’t feel real.

The ministers erupted into murmurs and rustling papers, each person turning to the other in a scramble for clarity. I barely heard them. My hands were gripping the edge of the table. White-knuckled. My breath shallow.

My mother rose from her seat and crossed to me, her heels barely making a sound against the floor.

“Alex,” she said quietly.

I looked up.

“I didn’t know,” she added, softer. “He didn’t tell me.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure I believed her. But I nodded.

She placed a hand on my shoulder. “You need to stand.”

“What?”

She tilted her head slightly. “They’re all looking at you now.”

I glanced around the table.

Dozens of eyes.

Some wide with disbelief. Some expectant. Some calculating.

They’re all waiting for me to act like a king.

I rose to my feet slowly. My legs felt strange—too light, like they no longer belonged to me. I tried to steady my voice.

“I… I’ll need time to prepare a statement,” I said. “Please inform the press that I will speak publicly within the next forty-eight hours.”

Someone nodded and wrote that down.

Someone else murmured, “Yes, Your Majesty—”

And then stopped, blushing.

I cleared my throat. “Not yet.”

The weight of that yet was suffocating.

My mother’s hand was still on my shoulder. It grounded me.

The meeting began to dissolve after that. Ministers filing out in pairs and groups, whispering, buzzing like hornets. Advisors with folders and schedules and questions already lining up. The head of the press office asked when I'd like to hold the first photo call. I barely heard him.

Walking silently toward the windows, I watched the overcast sky shift just slightly toward blue.

I was going to be king.

And I had never felt less ready.

God, I needed air—I needed Leo.

But before I even thought of calling Leo, there was someone I needed to see.

The only person in this kingdom I had always trusted with my life.

Now more than ever.

My father.

Not the one who had just walked out of the council room.

The real one.

Karl was waiting just outside the chamber.

He stood tall, as always, but there was something unsteady in his expression—something taut in the lines of his mouth, in the stiffness of his stance. He didn’t speak when he saw me. Just searched my face like he was counting every breath, every blink, every sign that I was still okay.

He looked pale.

Worried.

I didn’t stop walking. I went straight to him, past the aides and guards, past the staring staff.

And I hugged him.

Hard.

Tight enough that I felt the armor he always wore—emotional, not metal—crack just a little under my hands.

He stiffened for half a second. Protocol. Instinct.

Then his arms wrapped around me like the world could collapse and he’d hold it up anyway.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low, gruff.

“I don’t know how I am yet,” I whispered. “But a month from now… I will be king.”

His breath hitched. I felt it.

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“And all I know is that I need you by my side. Not just as my royal advisor. But as my father.”

His expression didn’t change much.

But his eyes—God, his eyes said everything.

“I’ve always been,” he said quietly. “Even when I wasn’t allowed to be.”

“I know,” I said. “But now I know… and the world will at least know how important you are to me and to our kingdom.”

His jaw clenched.

Then he nodded.

“Then let them see,” he said. “I’ll be right here. As long as you’ll have me.”

I left Karl with a squeeze of his hand.

There was too much to do. Too much to plan. Too many voices already echoing down the halls, clamoring for schedules and statements and headlines.

But I needed a moment to breathe first.

So I slipped out into the garden—my sanctuary since childhood. The gravel crunched beneath my shoes. The wind stirred the roses. Somewhere nearby, a fountain whispered against stone.

I took out my phone.

Leo answered before the first ring ended. “Al—?”

“I’m okay,” I said softly. “I think.”

“You sound… shaken.”

“I am.”

A pause. “What happened?”

I exhaled, pressing my forehead to the cool stone of the archway.

“He’s stepping down.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’m on my way.”

“No,” I said gently. “Not yet. Just… stay on the line with me for a minute.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Always.”