The hour before the first envoy's arrival dragged like a lifetime, yet it felt like Michael had barely blinked before it was upon him. Pacing the solar, his boots scuffing softly against the polished stone floor, he tried to anchor himself in Alexius's skin. This wasn't his body, this wasn't his world, but the weight of it all pressed against his chest like a physical thing. The room, with its sturdy oak table and shelves of rare books, felt like a sanctuary and a cage all at once. He glanced at a volume on crop rotation, supposedly his late mother's, and wondered briefly what kind of woman she'd been. The thought stung—an ache for a connection he'd never know, not really.
He'd ditched the gaudy princely robes for a simpler black tunic, the golden Leo rampant stitched subtly at the collar and cuffs. It felt right—dignified but not screaming for attention like the peacock-feather capes in Alexius's wardrobe. Those memories, fragmented and sharp like broken glass, told him the original Alexius had loved that sort of flair. Michael wasn't so sure he could pull it off. He wasn't sure he could pull any of this off. Every step felt like balancing on a knife's edge, with the whole Principality watching, waiting for him to slip.
The System's interface hovered faintly at the edge of his vision, a cold azure glow that offered no comfort. Its latest update on Duke Valerius was stark: [Threat Level - Severe. Ambition - High. Loyalty to Crown - Negligible. Recommended Approach faciles: Extreme Caution, Information Denial, Exploit Overconfidence.] Exploit Overconfidence. The words stuck with him. The old Alexius had been a swaggering fool, drunk on his own title. Valerius, from the memories, was worse—a man who saw everyone else as pawns, especially a supposedly useless Prince Regent. Michael's stomach churned. He wasn't a politician or a prince. He was just… him. And yet, he had to play this game, or he'd lose everything.
Elias slipped into the room, his lined face unreadable. "Your Highness, Lord Titus Cornelius, envoy for Duke Gregor Valerius, awaits in the antechamber."
Michael swallowed, his throat dry. "Any word on… the other matter, Elias?" His voice came out quieter than he'd meant, betraying the nerves he was trying to bury.
Elias's eyes softened, just a fraction. "Inquiries have begun, Your Highness. The trails are faint, but not gone. It will take time to… stir the right shadows."
"Good." Michael exhaled, trying to steady the tremor in his hands. "Send him in. And Elias—pour the Castellan's Red. The 78th vintage. Valerius likes his wine strong, doesn't he?"
Elias's lips twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile. "Indeed, Your Highness. A fine choice." The 78th vintage was infamous—delicious, but it hit like a warhammer if you weren't careful. A small weapon, maybe, if Titus was as indulgent as his master.
Lord Titus Cornelius swept in, all purple silk and gaudy rings, his bow so deep it felt like mockery. His smile was wide but cold, like a merchant sizing up a mark. "Your Royal Highness," he boomed, "on behalf of Duke Gregor Valerius, Warden of the Westmarch and Shield of the Realm, I offer his deepest condolences on your father's… indisposition. His Grace prays for his recovery and pledges his unwavering support to you as Prince Regent."
The words were so slick they practically dripped. Michael's jaw tightened, a flicker of anger cutting through his nerves. Unwavering support? He'd bet his borrowed crown Valerius was already plotting to replace him. Still, he forced a smile, gesturing to a chair. "Lord Titus, thank you for your Duke's kind words. Please, sit. Elias, the wine."
The goblets were filled, the air thick with the scent of dark berries and spice. Titus's eyes lit up as he took a deep sip, clearly delighted. Michael swirled his own goblet, barely touching it to his lips. His heart was pounding too hard to trust himself with more than a sip. He wasn't Alexius, not really, but he had to be convincing. One wrong word, one slip, and Titus would smell blood.
"His Grace understands the burden you bear, Your Highness," Titus said, his tone syrupy. "A young prince, thrust into such weighty matters! Duke Valerius wishes only to ease that load. For instance, the grain tariffs in the western territories—a minor adjustment could do wonders for trade and the treasury."
Michael's gut twisted. He'd seen enough in the ledgers, pieced together from Alexius's memories, to know this "minor adjustment" would bleed the eastern provinces dry while lining Valerius's pockets. The audacity of it made his skin crawl, but he kept his face smooth, bored even. "Tariffs," he said, leaning back in his chair. "So dull. My father always said Valerius had a knack for such things. Tell me, Lord Titus, what does the Duke think of the new cochineal silks from the Imperial City? Quite the trend, I hear."
Titus faltered, his prepared spiel derailed. "Er… vibrant, Your Highness. But His Grace is more concerned with the realm's security. The goblins in the Amber Hills, for instance. He proposes sending his Valerian Steelblades to handle them—at his own expense, of course."
Of course. Michael's mind raced. A generous offer, until you realized Valerius would demand repayment—land, titles, power. Placing his troops in Crown lands was a move straight out of a conqueror's playbook. Michael forced a smile, his palms clammy. "The Steelblades. Impressive. Their livery is striking, isn't it? Though I wonder if the local Barons might get… touchy about foreign troops."
Titus, now on his second goblet, waved a dismissive hand. "A minor issue, Your Highness. The Barons will see it's for their own good." He produced a scroll, tied with a purple ribbon. "His Grace also feels the Royal Chancellery needs fresh blood. He's prepared a list of capable candidates to fill those vacant posts."
Michael's pulse spiked. The scroll was a trap—a list of Valerius's lackeys, ready to hand him the Principality's reins. He didn't touch it, just smiled faintly. "Such dedication. You and your Duke are true pillars of Leo. These matters are… overwhelming, I confess. Another goblet, perhaps?" He nodded to Elias, who poured generously for Titus but only a splash for him.
Titus, his face now flushed, grinned. "You're too kind, Your Highness. His Grace only wishes to see Leo thrive under your… guidance."
"Of course," Michael said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him. "Tell Duke Valerius I'll consider his proposals carefully. These things take time. I wouldn't want to rush and… regret anything."
Titus, swayed by wine or flattery, seemed satisfied. His exit was wobblier than his entrance, and as the door closed, Michael slumped slightly, his breath shaky. He felt like he'd just dodged a blade.
Elias stepped forward. "A contemptible toad, Your Highness."
"But a useful one," Michael said, his voice low. He picked up the scroll, scanning the predictable names. "Valerius thinks I'm a fool he can puppet. He's not just after influence—he wants the whole damn Principality."
The System pinged softly:
[Information Gained: Duke Valerius's Immediate Agenda Confirmed.] [Objective Updated: Counter Valerius's appointments. Secure key Chancellery positions with neutral or loyal personnel.] [New Minor Quest: The Poisoned Chalice - Identify a Valerius appointee who can be turned or discredited. Reward: Increased System Analysis Capacity.]
A small surge of pride flickered in Michael's chest. He'd played the fool and won, for now. But the weight of it—the lies, the stakes, the constant fear of being found out—pressed harder. He wasn't cut out for this. Not yet. But he had to be.
"Duke Marius Thorne's envoy is next, I presume?" he asked, glancing at Elias.
"Baroness Althea Varro," Elias confirmed. "Duke Thorne's niece. Sharp as a blade, Your Highness, and not easily swayed."
Michael nodded, straightening his tunic. "Then we'll need a clearer head for her. A different vintage, Elias—something less… numbing. This next dance will be trickier."
As Elias moved to prepare, Michael stared out the window at the grey dawn. Valerius was a wolf, all teeth and hunger. Thorne would be different—a badger, stubborn and territorial, guarding his version of Leo's honor. Michael's heart thudded. He was just a guy, thrown into a prince's life, playing a game where losing meant death. But he'd survived this round. He'd have to keep surviving, one step at a time, with the wolf's scent still sharp in the air.(Continue....)