[CHARLES]
Charles stood beside his father's throne and watched Duke Farrow lie.
The Imperial Council Chamber was cold. Four braziers burned uselessly in the corners—decorative rather than functional. Afternoon light filtered through windows placed too high for warmth. Everything grey. Precise. Controlled.
Father's aesthetic.
A handful of advisors lined the walls. Ministers of trade and war. The palace chamberlain. Two senior military advisors. Enough to witness. Not enough to crowd.
Farrow stood in the center of the marble floor. Sixty years old, silver-haired, impeccably dressed. His posture was perfect—shoulders back, hands at his sides, head tilted at exactly the right angle of respectful deference.
Charles cataloged the performance. The measured breathing. The controlled micro-expressions. The way Farrow's grief and outrage mixed in perfect proportion.
Almost too perfect.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Farrow began. His voice carried weight without volume. "I come before you with a heavy heart and a troubled conscience."
Werner sat motionless on his throne. Emerald eyes flat. Expression unreadable.
Farrow continued. "Two nights past, my estate—my home—was violated. Vandalized. A priceless sculpture destroyed by forces unknown." His jaw tightened. Controlled anger. "At the time, I believed it to be simple vandalism. Rogue elements. Drunken hooligans, perhaps."
"And now?" Werner's voice was quiet. Dangerous.
"Now I learn that my estate was used as a staging ground." Farrow's hands remained perfectly still. "That while my household scrambled to respond to the destruction, assassins moved through the capital. Infiltrated these very halls." His voice dropped. "Murdered Lady Nadia and Lady Anika in their chambers."
Charles watched his father's face. Nothing. Not even a flicker.
"Your Majesty," Farrow said, "I am devastated. That my property, my household, could be used as a tool in such a heinous act—" He paused. Let the silence breathe. "I offer not only my deepest condolences, but my complete cooperation. My guards. My servants. My records. Everything is at your disposal."
Werner's fingers drummed once against the throne's armrest. A tiny gesture that made Farrow's shoulders tense fractionally.
"Your cooperation is appreciated, Duke." Werner's voice remained flat. "Tell me. The destruction of your sculpture. You said forces unknown?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The guards reported seeing a figure in the garden, but the chaos—"
"Did they apprehend this figure?"
A pause. Barely perceptible. "No, Your Majesty. In the confusion—"
"Confusion." Werner repeated the word slowly. "At your estate. With your guards. Your security."
Farrow's jaw tightened again. "It was a sophisticated attack, Your Majesty. Coordinated. Whoever orchestrated this knew precisely when and how to strike."
Charles recognized the deflection. Farrow was admitting the attack was planned while implying he was as much a victim as anyone. Mixing truth with lies so seamlessly you couldn't see the seams.
It was masterful.
Werner leaned forward slightly. "These assassins who breached palace security. They would have needed detailed knowledge of the layout. Guard rotations. Schedules." His eyes never left Farrow's face. "They would have needed inside information."
"Indeed, Your Majesty." Farrow's expression was grave. "Which is why I've already begun investigating my own household. If one of my servants was compromised, coerced, or worse—if they aided these murderers—I will personally deliver them to your justice."
"How generous."
The two words landed like stones.
Farrow's composure held. Barely. "Your Majesty, I understand that suspicion must fall on everyone who had proximity to this tragedy. I welcome scrutiny. My house has served the empire faithfully for three generations. My grandfather fought at the Battle of Thornridge. My father administered the southern provinces for twenty years. I would never—could never—betray the crown that my family has bled for."
Charles almost smiled. The appeal to legacy. To service. To blood spilled in the empire's name. Farrow was good.
Werner sat back. "Your family's service is noted. Your grandfather was indeed a loyal man." A pause. Deliberate. "It would be unfortunate if that legacy were tarnished by... unfortunate associations."
The threat was clear. Barely veiled. Farrow's entire lineage was on the table.
"Your Majesty speaks wisdom." Farrow bowed his head slightly. "I can only pray that the investigation reveals the true culprits. That justice is served swiftly and completely." He looked up. Met Werner's eyes with what looked like genuine conviction. "I want these murderers found as much as you do. They used my home. Destroyed my property. Killed members of your household. They have wronged us both."
Us both.
Charles noted the phrasing. Farrow positioning himself as fellow victim. Creating shared grievance. Binding his fate to Werner's by implication.
Sophisticated.
Werner's smile appeared. Cold. Precise. Absolutely terrifying.
"Yes," Werner said softly. "They have wronged us both, haven't they?"
The temperature in the room dropped.
"The Imperial Court will handle the investigation," Werner continued. His voice was too quiet. "We will examine every servant. Every guard. Every guest who attended your gala." He paused. "We will find out exactly how this happened. How security was breached. How assassins reached the concubine quarters without detection."
Another pause. Longer. More deliberate.
"You may go, Duke Farrow. We will find the wretches who did this... to both our houses."
The subtext was clear: I know what you did. You are not forgiven. This is not over.
Farrow bowed deeply. "Your Majesty's wisdom in this matter is, as always, beyond question. I remain at your service. Always."
He straightened and turned toward the doors. His posture was perfect. His steps measured. But Charles saw the tension in his shoulders. The slight stiffness in his gait.
A man who'd just survived something dangerous.
The doors closed behind him.
Silence filled the chamber.
Werner's smile vanished. "Clear the chamber."
The advisors moved immediately. No hesitation. No questions. Within moments, only Charles and the guards remained.
Werner looked at the nearest guard. "Bring them."
The doors opened.
Viktor entered first. Ten years old and hollow. His face was pale except for the purple-black bruise spreading across his cheek and jaw. His eyes were distant. He walked when guided but didn't seem to register where he was.
Charles kept his expression perfectly blank. He'd sent Viktor to Farrow's estate. Given him the map, the route, the invitation. Watched him stumble back covered in blood and triumph.
This was the result.
Charles felt nothing about it.
Leopold followed. Eighteen. Broader. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. His jaw clenched tight enough to make the muscle jump. His hands curled into fists repeatedly—an unconscious rhythm of barely contained rage.
Charles watched them.
His hammer. His blade.
One numb with guilt. One burning with fury.
Tools being prepared for use.
Werner descended from his throne. Approached the boys with measured steps.
"Duke Farrow is a liar." Werner's voice was calm. Factual. "The assassins were his men. Hired. Paid. Sent to murder." He looked at both boys. "The Imperial Court will handle Farrow. Political consequences. Public disgrace."
He paused.
"But the men who held the blades—that is family justice."
Leopold's breathing quickened.
Werner turned to Viktor. "This is your chance to make things right. To correct your mistake. To prove you are not just a liability."
Viktor's eyes flickered. Some small spark of recognition. Or maybe just desperation. The chance to undo what he'd done. To earn back what he'd lost.
Charles recognized the look. Viktor would do anything now. Anything.
Then Werner turned to Leopold. His voice dropped. Became colder. "Your mother wasn't their target. She woke as they moved through the palace. They killed her on reflex." He paused. "Her death was insignificant to them. An afterthought."
Leopold's face twisted. Raw grief and rage mixing into something dangerous.
Charles watched the manipulation. His father was weaponizing guilt and fury. Splitting the justice deliberately—political consequences for Farrow, personal vengeance for the hired killers. Using the boys as tools.
It was crude. Ancient thinking.
Charles disapproved. But he said nothing. What was there to say? His father was right—brutal, but effective.
Werner rang a small silver bell.
The doors opened. Three men entered.
Not palace guards. These were different. Field leathers instead of ceremonial armor. Weapons hung from their belts—short swords, daggers, garrotes. Tools, not decorations. Their faces were weathered and scarred. Eyes sharp and cold. All three were older than Leopold, younger than Werner.
Veterans.
"Your handlers," Werner said. "They have your provisions. Your information. Your targets." He looked at Viktor and Leopold. "Go. Do not return until it is done."
Leopold moved first. His hand closed around Viktor's arm. Rough. Possessive. They were in this together now, whether either wanted it or not.
Viktor let himself be pulled forward.
The handlers fell in around them. The doors closed.
Charles turned back to his father.
Werner returned to his throne. Sat. Resumed that perfect stillness.
"You disapprove," he said without looking at Charles.
"It's crude."
"It's effective."
Charles said nothing.
"Farrow will fall through proper channels," Werner continued. "The boys will harden through necessity. Leopold's rage finds purpose. Viktor's guilt finds redemption. Everyone serves the empire."
Charles kept his face perfectly blank. His father saw people as pieces on a board. Useful or not useful. Tools or obstacles.
It was ancient thinking. Brutal. Unsophisticated.
Charles believed he was better than this. More sophisticated. More precise. That when his time came, he would rule differently. The righteous future of the Grishan Empire.
He didn't see the irony.
"Prepare the next phase," Werner said. "Farrow will need a replacement. Someone more... cooperative."
Charles nodded once. "As you command."
He turned and walked toward the side exit. His expression perfectly blank. His mind already working through the logistics, the political maneuvering, the careful steps required to maintain the empire his father kept brutalizing with crude force.
The cleanup had begun.
And Charles, as always, would make sure it was done correctly.
Behind him, Werner sat alone on his throne.
Silent. Still. Satisfied.
The pieces were moving exactly as planned.