Behind the Royal Mask

I take Poison for You

The grand meeting chamber hummed with restless murmurs. Alaric sat at the head of the long, polished table, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his ornate chair. His jaw was taut, and his eyes narrowed, scanning the room filled with nobles, most of whom were deep in whispered conversations. The low hum of their chatter grated on his nerves, a constant reminder of how easily many of them were swayed by his cousin Caelon's charisma.

At Alaric's side, Duke Rowan leaned closer. "He's late," the Duke murmured, his tone low enough for only Alaric to hear. "This is deliberate. He's trying to rattle you."

Alaric's fingers stilled, his hand clenching into a fist. "He's already succeeded," he admitted through gritted teeth.

Caelon's audacity knew no bounds. Calling an emergency meeting in his kingdom without consulting him was not only disrespectful but a clear overstep of his authority. 

The hum of voices grew louder, laughter punctuating some conversations. Alaric's patience snapped. He rose abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "Enough!" he thundered, his voice echoing across the chamber.

The room fell silent instantly, all eyes turning to him. The tension was palpable as the nobles exchanged uneasy glances.

Before Alaric could speak again, the heavy double doors creaked open. Every head turned as Caelon strode in, flanked by two neat lines of knights on either side. Their boots clacked against the marble floor in perfect unison, their presence imposing and deliberate.

Alaric's expression darkened as he straightened to his full height. "What is the meaning of this, Caelon?" he demanded, his voice sharp with fury.

Caelon smiled, a casual, almost mocking grin that made Alaric's blood boil. He spread his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture. "Ah, dear cousin," he drawled, his voice laced with false charm. "This, my dear Alaric, is the revelation of your true nature."

Alaric's eyes blazed. "How dare you march into my court with soldiers, act as if you rule this kingdom, and throw baseless accusations?"

Unbothered by Alaric's outrage, Caelon stepped forward, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his coat. He waved it slightly before the room, his movements calculated to draw attention. "Baseless accusations? Oh, no, cousin. This is far from baseless."

He reached the head of the table and placed the parchment on it, his smile vanishing as his tone grew colder. "This," he announced, his voice carrying authority, "is a letter from the late Lord Percival, written shortly before his tragic demise."

The room fell into a stunned silence. The mention of Lord Percival, a respected figure in the court, hung heavily in the air.

Alaric's voice was icy as he replied, "And what, exactly, does this letter claim?"

Caelon met his gaze with a triumphant glint in his eyes. "It states that you, Alaric, pressured him to reveal my plans, accusing him of colluding with me. And when he had nothing to tell—because he and I were, of course, innocent—you threatened to strip him of his title and lands. Driven to despair by your cruelty, he took his own life."

Gasps echoed across the room. Whispers broke out among the nobles, their shock and confusion palpable.

Alaric's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "That is a lie," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Caelon raised a brow, feigning surprise. "A lie? Are you mocking a dead man's final words?" His gaze swept over the gathered nobles. "Is this how our beloved Crown Prince rules? Intimidation, threats, and now, even disrespect for the dead?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through some of the nobles, and Alaric's fury flared.

"Enough of this farce, Caelon!" Alaric snapped, his voice cutting through the noise. "You think you can manipulate these people with fabricated letters and baseless accusations? I see through your game."