Underneath The Crown

CHAPTER FOUR: CASIMIR

Winters are torturous.

The cold bites my skin like a thousand daggers and the dreary skies seem designed to match my mood. I wouldn't say I like the way the snow dulls the empire's vibrancy and beauty, especially since we are known to have the best gardens and crops in the region. It's a hard time for trade since our economy relies on our empire's markets to thrive.

Not to mention, all the beautiful gowns get buried under heavy furs that hide curves instead of accentuating them. How am I supposed to enthral the ladies with my captivating persona when they all look like walking human-sized marshmallows?

I hunch over my gold-encrusted diary, pouring my thoughts into poetic verses. Just as I am about to lose myself in another line, I hear a knock on the door – well, it's less of a knock and more of a loud urgent bang. A servant enters. I know this one. For as long as I remember, he's been my valet – Benjamin Maxwell. Though, for whatever reason, he prefers Ben. Just Ben.

"Yes, what is it?" I shut my diary, sliding it back into its designated compartment swiftly. "If it's about leaving that damn masquerade midway, I must inform you that I could not stand another minute-"

"The duchess is dead." His forehead's beaded with sweat and he looks like he's on the verge of collapsing.

I raise an eyebrow, turning to face him. "Which duchess? Do be more specific with your words, Benjamin."

"Ben." He automatically corrects me before realizing we have more important matters at hand. "Beatrice Ironwood, Duchess of the Kingdom of Phogon."

Oh. Her. I snort. "How...dreadful."

Ben frowns. "She fell off the balcony. Horrible drop. It was accidental."

"I've met a lot of idiots but no one's idiotic enough to trip from the balcony. The balustrade is higher than Father's ego. Either she intended to 'trip' or someone else did. Judging from her attitude at the ball tonight, I suspect the latter."

Ben looks unamused. "Well, whatever the reason of her death is, the emperor has requested your presence at the scene, Your Highness." He forces his politeness into his tone. I commend him for his patience. I am well aware that the great charisma I exude makes it quite difficult for many to bask in my holy presence.

I sigh as I stand up from my wingback chair. "Another evening spent on a mundane task..." I mutter and Ben looks at me weirdly but he doesn't question it. I suspect he's grown used to me since we grew up together.

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

When I arrive at the scene, the duchess's body is nowhere to be seen, although there is blood glistening off of the frost-covered plants nearby. This was no accident and Father knows it. The cogs in my head begin turning as I assess the situation. Too well-planned to be a mishap. Too topsy-turvy to be intentional. Everything is strategic, and in order. This was a set-up. Not just by any amateur – no. This was a full-blown envisioned murder that could have taken months of scheming. Judging from the amount of blood splattered, she had a nasty injury shortly before the fall – presumably a severe cranial fracture.

Father speaks up, jolting me out of my thoughts. "Casimir! What were you thinking, sneaking out of the masquerade like that?" He strides towards me, his face a mixture of anger and worry.

"Ah, Father, you know me. I thrive in chaos." I reply with a smirk. "Besides, it seems there is more excitement here than in your endless speeches."

He glares at me, his ocean-blue eyes icy and piercing. "This isn't a joke, son. A duchess is dead and we must handle this situation delicately."

"Delicately? With all due respect, Father, the only thing delicate about this situation is your reputation if word gets out that we can't keep our nobles safe." I glance at Ben, who's watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow. "And I'm sure our dear friend here would agree."

Ben nods, stepping forward with his head bowed. "Your Highness, if I may... There's something off about this whole thing. No one simply falls off a balcony without a reason."

"Exactly," I say, crossing my arms. "We need to find out who wanted her dead and why. I doubt she made many friends with that tongue of hers."

Father looks tensed. His wrinkles are more prominent than usual. "Very well. I shall further discuss this topic with the royal council. Escort the guests, son. Ensure the crowd is maintained and calm."

I nod, suppressing a yawn. "As you wish, Father." I can feel the weight of his expectations bearing on me, and the thought of dealing with an unruly crowd is hardly enticing.

As I turn to leave, I beckon Ben to follow me. "Come on, let's see what kind of chaos we're dealing with." The grand hall looms ahead, its opulence a stark contrast to the grim situation. The chandeliers hang like frozen stars, casting glimmers of light across the marble floor, now marred by the remnants of the evening's festivities.

As we step inside, I brace myself for the scene. The hall is still buzzing with whispers, tension crackling in the air. I raise my voice slightly, channelling the authority that comes naturally to me. "Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that everything is under control. Please remain calm and orderly as we clear the area."

Some guests exchange nervous glances, while others seem too shocked to respond. Ben moves beside me, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the chaos. "They're just scared, Your Highness. Give them a moment," he murmurs, his tone steady.

I take a deep breath, trying to project confidence despite my growing impatience. "Right. Let's get this sorted quickly."

Within a few minutes, with Ben's help, the grand hall begins to empty. Guests filter out, their murmurs fading into the distance, leaving only echoes of confusion and fear. I scan the remaining faces, watching for any signs of dissent or hidden agendas.

Once the last of the crowd has cleared out, I turn to Benjamin. "I'm heading to my chambers for the night. Pass the message on to Father." I don't wait for him to reply as I leave.

Shutting the door behind me, I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Goodness gracious..."

I blow out the candles as I settle into bed. Today has been anything but ordinary. It's not often one stumbles upon the not-so-accidental death of a high-ranking aristocrat. Yet, it's nothing compared to the allure of real freedom. Something derived not just from irregular actions—no, those are too basic—but from callousness, from the diabolical? Whatever you want to call ending tyrannical smidges pathetic lives.