ALISTAIR
The study was dark except for the faint glow of the candlelight.
Alistair Montclair sat alone at his desk, surrounded by open books, sealed scrolls, and a half-empty glass of wine. The room smelled of wax and smoke, the air thick with the stillness that came only before a storm.
For three nights he had not slept. The rumor that haunted the capital had reached his ears in every shade of whisper.
The Grand Duke is not who he claims to be.
The Queen's child died at birth.
He is no son of royal blood, but a bastard born of sin.
He had laughed the first time he heard it. The second time, he had ignored it. By the third, he had begun to feel the weight of eyes upon him, curious, pitiful, cruel.
Rumor was a disease. It infected not the mind but the soul.
And now, it has infected him.
He had searched every record in his possession, every account of his birth, every decree signed by the late Queen. None of it proved anything, yet all of it felt suddenly false.
The truth, if it existed, was buried deep and somewhere beyond the reach of titles and ceremony.
Tonight, he would find it.
He rose and crossed the room, his steps steady, deliberate. A hidden latch behind one of the shelves gave way beneath his hand. The panel shifted, revealing a narrow passage leading down to the old archive chamber.
Few in the household knew of it. Fewer still dared to enter. It was where the private letters of the late Queen had been stored after her death, guarded, forgotten, and now his only hope of silence.
He took the candle and descended the narrow stairs. The air grew colder as he reached the small stone chamber below. Dust clung to the old wooden chests stacked along the walls.
He began searching, one box after another, careful but driven. Years of sealed correspondence passed beneath his hands, treaties, council decrees, personal notes written in the Queen's fine script. He was about to stop when he found a small packet bound with faded blue ribbon.
The seal was broken long ago.
Inside were letters written in the Queen's hand, softer and more personal than the others. One caught his attention immediately. It was addressed not to a courtier, but to the late King.
His name appeared nowhere in it, yet the words struck him like a blade.
My dearest,
Our son is gone. He never took a full breath. I cannot bear the sight of his cradle. I have told no one but the midwife, who wept with me. The court must never know. They cannot see me as a mother who failed. They cannot see us as cursed.
The child they will call ours must come from another. The Princess Royal has a boy, born of sin, yes, but blood of the same line. I will claim him as mine and raise him as such. It is the only way to keep the realm from breaking under the truth.
Forgive me, my love. I will live this lie for both our sakes.
The candlelight flickered, and for a moment the words seemed to move on the page.
Alistair felt his pulse pounding in his ears. His vision blurred, then sharpened again.
He read the letter once, then twice, then a third time, as if repetition could change the meaning. But the words did not change.
He was not her son.
He was no son of the Queen.
He was the bastard child of the late King's sister and some nameless man.
His whole life, his education, his title, the crown's trust, the power he wielded and built upon a single, beautiful lie.
He sank into the nearest chair, the letter trembling in his hand.
The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thin and heavy. He wanted to laugh, to shout, to destroy every relic of the woman who had called herself his mother. But no sound came.
Only silence, vast and hollow.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "All of it. A charade."
He looked around at the shelves, the letters, the portraits gathering dust above him. Each one stared back as if mocking the truth.
He rose slowly, clutching the letter. "You lied to me," he whispered to the shadows. "You gave me a crown that was not mine to wear."
He thought of the court and the nobles who had once bowed to him, who now whispered behind his back. They would feast on this secret. They would pick apart his name until nothing was left.
But it was not only them.
It was her.
Evelina.
He had loved her for years, quietly and desperately. Since their youth, when her kindness had been a light in the cold corridors of power. She had looked at him then as if he were worthy of trust. But lately, her eyes held something else. Pity, perhaps.
And she had chosen Ravenscroft.
He thought of Lucian, that careful, stoic man, all restraint and purpose, serving the Crown with silent precision. He had the Crown Prince's ear. He had the court's respect. And now, he had her.
A bitter laugh escaped Alistair's throat. "So this is the truth of it," he said. "The Queen lied, the Crown hides, and she—" He stopped, the words catching. "She turned away from me."
The anger came slowly, almost gently at first, then deepened until it shook his hands.
He set the letter down on the desk and poured himself another glass of wine. It sloshed over the rim, staining his fingers.
He drank it in one swallow.
The heat burned his throat, but it did nothing to quiet the rage beneath his skin.
He looked again at the Queen's letter, the edges trembling in the candle's breath. He thought of the years he had spent proving himself, the endless hours in council, the loyalties bought and betrayed, all built upon a secret no one had thought he might one day uncover.
The walls of the chamber felt close now. The silence had teeth.
He reached for the letter again, folded it carefully, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. "If truth is a weapon," he murmured, "then I will learn to wield it."
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step steady though his thoughts stormed within him. When he reached the study once more, he stood by the window and looked out into the night.
The city stretched far below, bathed in faint silver light. Beyond it lay the palace, its towers gleaming, its windows aglow with warmth. A kingdom of order built on deceit.
He pressed his hand against the glass. "You took my life from me," he whispered. "All of you."
The candle flickered, and the words seemed to echo in the empty room.
He thought again of Evelina, her quiet smile, her voice when she had spoken his name last, soft but distant. He had seen it then, the look of someone already lost to another.
His hand curled into a fist. "You knew," he said softly. "You must have known."
He wanted to believe otherwise, yet the hurt had already decided for him.
She had betrayed him. Just as the Queen had. Just as Ravenscroft would.
He closed his eyes and let the thought settle, hard and cold. When he opened them again, there was no sorrow left, only purpose.
He would not weep for the life they had stolen from him. He would take another instead.
He crossed to his desk and drew a fresh sheet of parchment. The first stroke of ink was slow, deliberate, his hand steady now. Orders, instructions, names.
If the court wanted to turn against him, he would show them what a bastard son of sin could do.
When the letter was sealed, he leaned back and looked once more toward the window. The city lights flickered like dying stars.
He whispered into the dark, "If the Crown is built on lies, then I will teach it how to fall."
His voice dropped lower, softer still. "And I will start with Ravenscroft."
For a long time he stood there, listening to the wind press against the glass. The candle burned lower, its light fading into shadow.
He closed his eyes, and for a brief, terrible moment, he thought of Evelina again, of her laughter when they were young, of how easily she had once reached for his hand without hesitation.
That memory hurt most of all.
When he opened his eyes, the warmth of it was gone.
Only resolve remained.