Behind the Royal Mask

A Meeting of Nobles

The nobles crowded the hall of Duke Rowan's secluded manor, their voices a constant hum of irritation and curiosity. Ornately dressed men and women whispered among themselves, their faces lined with suspicion. Chandeliers bathed the room in soft light, but the warmth was nowhere to be found in their expressions.

"Why have we been summoned here in such haste?" one lord grumbled, swirling his wine with irritation.

A lady seated nearby shot him a sharp look. "Duke Rowan claims it's urgent. Perhaps if you stopped whining, we might get some answers."

Duke Rowan, standing by the fireplace, kept his face impassive. His hawkish eyes scanned the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Every question flung at him was met with the same response: "Patience, my lords and ladies. All will be explained shortly."

But patience was not a virtue this crowd possessed.

"Rowan, enough of this coy act," Lord Haverton demanded, his booming voice silencing the room. "If this is another one of your ploys, I warn you—"

Before Haverton could finish, the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall creaked open. The nobles turned as one, their chatter dying instantly.

A lone figure entered, cloaked in deep black, the hood obscuring their face. The manor fell into an eerie silence, save for the soft footfalls of the figure approaching the long oak table at the center of the room.

"Who dares interrupt—" began a lord, but his voice faltered as the figure stopped at the head of the table. With deliberate slowness, the hood was lowered, revealing the sharp, resolute face of Prince Alaric.

Gasps rippled through the room like a wave.

"You!" Lord Haverton leaped to his feet, pointing an accusatory finger. "It is you who gathered us here?!"

Alaric's eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto Haverton's. He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer than comfortable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but carried an unmistakable edge of authority.

"Sit down, Haverton," Alaric said, his tone cutting through the tension like a blade. "Before you embarrass yourself further."

Haverton's face turned a mottled red, but he sat down, his lips pressed into a thin line. The room remained hushed as Alaric stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles.

"I see doubt in your eyes," he began, his voice steady. "Perhaps even fear. You've spent weeks whispering in the shadows, aligning yourselves with my cousin on promises of power and wealth."

Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but no one spoke.

"Let me make it clear," Alaric continued, "you have made a mistake. Caelon is not a man of vision or leadership—he is a man of greed and treachery. Since the day he set foot in this kingdom, he has schemed and manipulated, twisting your ambitions to serve his own ends."

Murmurs broke out among the nobles, but Alaric raised a hand, and the room quieted.

"Some of you might doubt my words, so let me give you an example. Lord Percival once stood where you do now, tempted by Caelon's empty promises. But when he tried to back away—Caelon had him killed."

A collective gasp erupted.

"You're lying," someone whispered, though the unease in their tone betrayed their lack of conviction.

"Am I?" Alaric countered, his eyes narrowing. "You all heard the rumors about Percival's sudden disappearance. I was framed for killing him when you all know that it's not true. I would have no reason to kill people of my own kingdom.