Charles leaned back into the plush velvet of his armchair, the firelight dancing in his eyes. He swirled the wine in his glass, looking at Colden with the kind of amusement a cat reserves for a mouse that has wandered too far from its hole.
"You want Clamptous gone," Charles said, his voice silky. "An assassination, politically or physically, requires... leverage. And leverage, my dear King, is expensive."
Colden straightened in his chair, his expression hardening. He was a King now, not a frightened boy. "I am prepared to pay. What kind of price do we have to pay? Gold? Grain? Trade routes?"
Charles laughed, a sharp, barking sound that echoed off the dark wood paneling. "Don't be so straightforward, Sire. Gold is boring. Grain is pedestrian. I have enough of both to drown this city."
He leaned forward, his gaze sliding past Colden and locking onto Francis with an intensity that made the air in the room grow thick. A slow, predatory smile spread across Charles's face.
"I just need his time," Charles said, pointing a single finger at Francis.
Colden blinked, shocked. He looked between the two men. "His... time?"
Francis, who had just raised a delicate porcelain teacup to his lips, choked. He spat the tea back into the cup, spraying droplets onto the saucer. He coughed, his face flushing a deep red as he slammed the cup down.
"Oh, hell no," Francis rasped, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. He pushed his chair back as if to stand. "Absolutely not."
"My apologies," Francis added quickly, clearing his throat and trying to regain his shattered composure. He adjusted his collar, refusing to look at Charles.
Colden turned his wide, desperate eyes to Francis. He didn't look like a King now; he looked like a boy begging his guardian for help. He tilted his head slightly, his lower lip jutting out just a fraction.
"Francis," Colden murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "Please."
Francis looked at Colden, then at the smirk on Charles's face. He knew he was trapped. He groaned, a long, suffering exhale that seemed to deflate his entire body.
"Fine," Francis sighed, slumping in his chair. "Fine."
Colden visibly relaxed, picking up his own tea and taking a long sip to hide his relief. Charles's grin grew tighter, victorious.
"Well then," Charles said, clapping his hands together. "The King and I have concluded our business for the moment. I trust you can find your way out, Sire? Francis will... remain."
Colden set his cup down. He stood up, nodding curtly to Charles. He paused beside Francis, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you," he whispered.
Francis didn't look up. He just stared into his tea.
Colden left the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
For Francis, the silence that followed was agonizing. He sat stiffly, listening to the fire crackle. It was supposed to be a day of strategy, but now it felt like a trap.
"So," Francis said, his voice tight. "What do you want my time for?"
Charles stood up. He walked slowly around the table, his fingers trailing over the back of Francis's chair. "Oh, you know..."
"Charlie," Francis snapped, turning his head to follow him. "I am seeing someone. And... I know that we were something in the past. But I am just too happy with someone else now. I am not that man anymore."
Charles stopped. He leaned against the mantle, looking down at Francis with a raised eyebrow. "Seeing someone? Well, well. Who is this lucky 'someone'?"
Francis scoffed, turning away. "Like hell I will tell you his name. I mean—"
"So it is a man," Charles interrupted, a note of triumph in his voice.
Francis cursed under his breath. He had walked right into that one.
Charles chuckled and walked toward a side door, gesturing for Francis to follow. "Relax, Francis. I didn't want to do whatever your dirty mind was thinking. I have no intention of breaking up your... domestic bliss."
Francis blinked, standing up. "You didn't?"
"No," Charles said, opening the door to reveal a cluttered study filled with ledgers, maps, and ink-stained desks. "I wanted you to do a minimal task for me. A bit of organization. A bit of... cleaning up loose ends."
He looked back at Francis, his eyes sharp.
"Because I know you are one hell of a butler," Charles said smoothly. "And right now, I have a mess that requires your particular brand of precision. Not your heart. Just your hands."
To be continued.