192

192
Elder Syra pov

They say the Court is quiet now, the order has returned and the crisis was brief, but the crown endured, and the Council remains strong. They say this to one another in passing, whisper it over tea and behind fans, write it in perfectly inked scripts that no one will dare question aloud.

The court says all this because I haven’t yet stood to disagree. But I will and I will soon. Because lies, no matter how carefully pressed into the folds of court life, always come undone. Especially when laced into the hem of a royal robe that fits too tightly on the wrong Prince.

I stand before him now - the boy-king, the bastard-decoy, Orna’s precious puppet - and I think, not for the first time, how much of the world would crumble if anyone looked too closely.

He is handsome, yes, enough to fool the nobles who only care for symmetry and power. Tall enough, soft-spoken enough, but not right.

Not in the way Lester is, not in the way a bloodline is supposed to be.

He sits on the edge of the throne like it burns him, not because he is overwhelmed, but because he is playing at being overwhelmed. A performance, a mask, one I helped stitch on, and now I intend to tear it off.

“You asked for me, Elder Syra,” he says, voice steady, eyes blank - a perfect performance for anyone who doesn’t bother to look just a tad bit deeper.

I smile, carefully not to give out far too much of my plans. “Of course, Your Majesty. I come when called.”

He fidgets and I have to hide the smile that pulls at the corners of my mouth. I like watching him squirm, it makes him look less of what he pretends to be.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” I begin as I move slowly toward him, letting the long fabric of my robes drag against the floor, “this new decree - the one about removing the old temple titles. Was that your idea, or was it Orna’s?”

He blinks and answers far too quickly for the statement to be truthful. “Mine.”

“Mm, thought so.” I turn my head just enough to let the light catch the edge of the silver dagger hidden in my sleeve - ceremonial, yes, but still sharp, capable to slit throats without much pressure from the hand holding. “And the tax reform?”

He hesitates and glances at the dagger for a second. “Also mine.”

“Interesting.” I pause, then tilt my head. “You write beautifully, Your Majesty.”

A flicker of confusion dances behind his eyes. “Thank you…?”

I step closer. “I saw your signature on the latest missives. A refined hand, not one I recognize from any of your letters prior to the coronation.”

He stills and I smile wider. “I collect handwriting, you see,” I whisper, loading the words with more meaning than I probably should. “A hobby, perhaps a habit, it helps me remember who people are, not who they pretend to be.”

He tries to speak, but I cut him off gently, with one raised finger. “Your penmanship now is elegant, mature… almost Orna’s style, in fact. But the letters you wrote when you were younger - those we kept in the archives. Your enrollment records, a messier hand, left-handed, dominant with the wrong curves.”

He remains silent and swallows loudly. The decoy Prince knows that I know and yet, he tries, God, does he try to convince me the decisions aren’t Orna’s but his own doing.

“I practiced,” he says softly. “Orna said it would be wise to perfect my presentation-”

“Oh, I’m sure she did.” I step so close that he can smell the violet oil in my sleeves - court poison. It’s rare and expensive, but this time, more for intimidation than effect. “But your voice wavers on the third syllable of your title, Your Majesty. Your eyes skip over the Elder vows when we recite them. And you’ve never once addressed Theos by name. Do you know why that last part disturbs me?”

He swallows hard and looks away but I only smile wider and keep going. “Because Theos raised the real one,” I whisper.

He rises from his seat too fast, his body coiled with tension. “Elder Syra, if you have concerns, I will gladly-”

“Sit down.” I growl at him. My voice is cold, void of the polite tone I used addressing earlier.

Like the trained lap dog he is, the decoy Prince sits down and finally listens when I speak. “I don’t blame you,” I say and start slowly pacing the room. “I blame her - Orna. She took a boy with just enough resemblance and wrapped him in silk and secrets. But the problem with dressing up a corpse is that eventually, it rots under the gold no matter how hard you try to hide it.”

“I am not a corpse,” he whispers, but keeps his eyes cast down, proving that he doesn’t believe his own words just like I wouldn’t believe them.

I stop and turn to face him, this time chuckling at his words. “No, but you’re not a king, either.”

He still doesn’t dare to look up at me, rather avoids my gaze and remains silent for a longer moment until finally, he whispers, “what will you do?”

I laugh, the sound is low, cold and almost dangerous. “Oh, child, you think it’s that simple? That I march out and declare treason? No, I don’t lift the blade until I know exactly how deep I want to cut.”

He looks at the window near the seat he’s sitting on. “She said you would betray her.”

“She said correctly.” I say without any hesitation, knowing Orna doesn’t trust herself so she’d never truly trust me either.

“She said the Court needed me.” The decoy Prince whispers under his breath.

“No,” I snap, my voice rising to an uncomfortable height. “She needs you, we need the truth.”

He lifts his head, and for the first time, there is something like defiance in his eyes. “And what if the truth burns everything?”

I smile, slow and sharp. “Then let it burn, just like the real Prince burns everything in his wake. And trust me, when he returns, when Lester remembers the taste of home, he’ll burn you too.”

With that being said, I smirk, bow too low for it to be true and leave him behind - shaken, pale and quiet. I walk through the west wing of the palace and for once don’t rush anywhere.

The paintings stare too long, the marble is too clean and everything smells like control. That’s how I know Orna is preparing something worse than lies - she is preparing a war.

I return to my chambers and unseal the letter I swore I’d never open. It’s old, paper already turned yellow at the corners. The wax seal is Lester’s, but the handwriting is Cael’s, or whatever his name really is.

I run my fingers across it slowly and remember the boy who wrote it - the real bastard. The forgotten son,  one with too much anger and too little place to put it.

He once asked me if truth was worth dying for and I told him yes, but now I find myself wondering if I meant it.