Adrian's POV
"A bride?" Daemon burst out laughing. "They're sending Adrian a bride? The enemy general's daughter?"
The entire table erupted. Nobles whispered. Servants giggled. My brother laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
"This is perfect," Daemon gasped between laughs. "They're using their most beautiful weapon on our biggest fool. Poor girl probably thinks she can seduce secrets from him. Too bad Adrian's only secret is where he hides his wine bottles!"
More laughter. Louder this time.
I sat perfectly still, watching everyone like I used to watch rival mob bosses at negotiation tables. In my old life, I learned that silence made people nervous. Let them talk. Let them think they're winning.
Then you strike when they least expect it.
King Aldric didn't laugh. He studied me with those tired, sick eyes. Adrian's memories told me Father was dying—some mysterious illness that made him weaker every month. The doctors couldn't figure it out.
But I could see something else in his face: disappointment. Twenty-two years of watching his youngest son fail at everything.
"Well?" Daemon grinned at me. "Nothing to say, little brother? No drunken toast to your future bride?"
I picked up my water glass. Took a slow sip. Set it down carefully.
"I'm not drunk," I said quietly.
The laughter died like someone had cut its throat.
Daemon's smile faltered. "What?"
"I said I'm not drunk." I looked straight at him. "I haven't been drunk since yesterday morning. And now that my head is clear, I'm noticing some interesting things."
Princess Elara stopped eating. She stared at me with wide eyes—like she was seeing a ghost.
"Interesting things?" Daemon's voice turned sharp. Dangerous. "Like what?"
"Like your military contract from last month." I leaned back in my chair, casual. Relaxed. "The one where you bought five hundred swords from the Blackwood merchants."
Daemon's face went pale.
"Those swords," I continued, "normally cost two gold coins each. That's the standard price. Everyone knows it. But you paid six gold coins per sword. That's three times the normal price."
"I negotiated a fair deal—" Daemon started.
"For inferior weapons," I interrupted. "Adrian might have been too drunk to check the armory, but he heard the guards complaining. Those swords break after three fights. We paid three thousand gold coins for worthless junk."
The table went silent. Completely silent.
You could hear a mouse sneeze.
King Aldric set down his fork. "Is this true?"
"He's lying!" Daemon jumped up, his chair scraping loudly. "He's just trying to make me look bad because he's jealous!"
"Am I?" I pulled out a folded paper from my jacket pocket—one of Adrian's drunken notes he'd scribbled and forgotten about. "Here's the receipt. Signed by you. Six gold coins per sword. And here's a letter from the guards requesting new weapons because theirs keep breaking."
I slid both papers across the table to my father.
Daemon's face turned red. Then purple. He looked like he might explode.
King Aldric read the documents slowly. His hand started shaking—from anger or sickness, I couldn't tell.
"Daemon," Father said quietly, "explain this."
"I... the merchants assured me... I thought..." Daemon stumbled over his words like a kid caught stealing cookies.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
In my old life, I destroyed men like Daemon every week. Guys who thought being handsome and charming meant they could get away with anything. They always fell the hardest.
"Your Majesty," a noble at the far end spoke up nervously, "perhaps Prince Adrian is mistaken? He's been... unwell... for so long..."
"Do I look unwell?" I asked coldly.
The noble shut his mouth fast.
"Adrian." My father's voice cut through the tension. "Look at me."
I met his eyes. Really met them. Victor's confidence, Victor's cold calculation, all of it showing through Adrian's face.
King Aldric sucked in a sharp breath.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
For a second, my blood turned to ice. Could he tell? Could he somehow see that I wasn't really his son?
But then he shook his head. "No. You're Adrian. But you're... different. What happened to you?"
"I woke up," I said simply. "And I'm done being the family joke."
Elara made a small sound—almost like a gasp. When I glanced at her, she was staring at me with the strangest expression. Not shock. Not confusion.
Recognition.
Like she knew something nobody else did.
Before I could think about that, Daemon slammed his fist on the table.
"This is ridiculous!" he shouted. "One day sober and suddenly he's an expert? He's probably still drunk and making things up!"
"The documents don't lie," Father said tiredly. "We'll investigate this matter. Daemon, you're dismissed from today's council meeting."
"What?!" Daemon looked like someone had slapped him. "But Father—"
"Dismissed."
My brother shot me a look of pure hatred. If looks could kill, I'd be back in that parking garage with Tony's gun at my head.
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the paintings shook.
Victory tasted sweet. Just like old times.
But then Father turned to me with an expression I couldn't read.
"Adrian, stay after breakfast. We need to talk. Privately."
My stomach dropped.
Stay calm, I told myself. You've talked your way out of worse situations.
But in those situations, I'd been Victor Castellano—feared mob boss with an army at my back.
Here, I was Prince Adrian—the family disappointment in a weak body with zero allies.
As everyone left the dining hall, Elara walked past me. She paused, leaning close enough to whisper:
"I don't know what happened to you, brother. But whatever it is... be careful. Father's not the only one watching you now."
She walked away before I could respond.
The doors closed.
King Aldric and I sat alone in the huge dining hall.
He stood up slowly, walking around the table toward me. Each step echoed in the silence.
When he reached me, he did something that made my blood freeze.
He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
And his eyes... his eyes were sharp. Dangerous. Nothing like the tired, sick old man everyone thought he was.
"My son Adrian," he said softly, "was a coward. A drunk. A fool. He couldn't even look me in the eye without flinching."
His grip tightened.
"But you? You just destroyed your brother in front of the entire court without breaking a sweat. You have the eyes of a killer. A strategist. A man who's seen real darkness."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
"So I'll ask you one more time, and I want the truth:" His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Who. Are. You?"