Behind the Royal Mask

Shattering the Trust and Heart

Alaric's boots clicked sharply against the polished stone floors as he strode towards the prison, his expression cold and unreadable. Beatrice hurried to match his pace, her heart thudding against her ribs.

"Alaric, I want to come with you," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

He shot her a glance, his jaw tight. "This isn't something you should see, Beatrice. It's unpleasant and dangerous."

"I understand," she replied, her tone firm. "But I need to. You've trusted me with much already, and I... I can handle this. Besides, I might notice something that could help."

Alaric hesitated for a moment, the tension in his shoulders evident. Finally, he nodded, a reluctant sigh escaping him. "Stay close."

Beatrice followed him, the weight of her own thoughts pressing down on her. Please don't let it be Derin. Please. The plea repeated in her mind like a desperate mantra.

The air grew colder as they descended deeper into the castle, the once-grand stone corridors narrowing and darkening. The prison was a stark contrast to the rest of the palace. Dim torches lined the walls, their flickering light casting eerie shadows. The heavy scent of damp stone and unwashed bodies made her nose wrinkle.

Finally, they reached a thick iron door. Two guards stood at attention, saluting as Alaric approached. The door creaked open, revealing the interrogation room.

Inside, two men sat on the floor, their hands bound in chains. Both looked disheveled and bruised, their clothes torn. Beatrice's breath hitched. Neither man was Derin. A wave of relief washed over her, but it was short-lived. These are Vigil members. Though she didn't recognize them, she guessed they might be new recruits.

The interrogator, a stern-looking man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward and bowed to Alaric. "Your Highness, they refuse to say anything. They claim they'll only speak to you."

Alaric's gaze hardened as he stepped closer, his voice steady but cold. "Speak, then."

One of the men, his face half-hidden by a curtain of matted hair, lifted his head and smirked. "Your Highness," he drawled mockingly, "how noble of you to imprison us when you're the one who gave the order."

Alaric's eyes narrowed. "What order?"

"To kill Prince Caelon," the man replied with a sneer.

A shocked silence filled the room. Beatrice's heart dropped. Alaric's expression darkened, and in two swift strides, he grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, pulling him to his feet.

"What in the hell are you talking about?," Alaric demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The man chuckled, the sound grating. "You paid us to assassinate him. Didn't think we'd get caught eventually. But here we are."

"That's a lie," Alaric said sharply, his grip tightening. His voice was filled with righteous indignation.

The man said nothing more, his smirk unwavering. With a growl of frustration, Alaric shoved him back onto the floor.

"Make them talk," he said to the interrogator, his tone icy. "Use any means necessary."

The interrogator nodded, and Alaric turned sharply, storming out of the room. Beatrice hesitated before following, her mind spinning. Cedric trailed behind, his face a mask of worry.

Once they were back in the corridor, Alaric spoke in clipped tones. "I'm going to my office. Excuse me." He didn't wait for a response, disappearing down another hallway.

Beatrice stared after him, her chest tightening. Someone was framing Alaric, and whoever it was had chosen their moment well.