The council chamber of the imperial palace was thick with tension. Torches burned against the stone walls, their flames flickering with each gust of cold air that crept through the cracks in the old hall. King Stephen sat on his throne at the head of the table, his expression thunderous. He had summoned his council and ministers at dawn, expecting Prince Reinhardt to appear. Yet the hours dragged on, and still his son was nowhere to be seen.
A guard finally knelt before the dais, his armor clattering softly against the marble floor.
"Your Majesty… we searched every wing of the palace. There is no trace of Prince Reinhardt."
The words echoed through the chamber like a death knell.
Murmurs broke out immediately among the ministers seated around the long table. Some exchanged knowing glances, others smirked as though they had long been waiting for this moment.
One minister, a thin man with sharp eyes, leaned forward and bowed mockingly.
"Your Majesty, it seems Prince Reinhardt grows bold. He thinks that because he stood beside the Hero and defeated the Demon King, he now has the right to disobey you."
Another minister slammed his palm against the polished wood.
"Indeed! He refused to show interest in the plans for the next war yesterday. He openly defied your will, Your Majesty!" His voice grew louder, his face flushed. "This can only mean one thing—Prince Reinhardt has betrayed the crown!"
Whispers of agreement rippled through the chamber. "Betrayal." "Treason." "Hero's influence."
King Stephen's knuckles tightened on the armrest of his throne. His jaw clenched as he looked at the squabbling men. Their words fanned the flames of doubt, but he would not allow them to see his hesitation.
"Silence," he commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. The hall immediately quieted.
He leaned forward, his gaze hard.
"Reinhardt is no fool. He has waged wars since he was a boy. He knows strategy, discipline, sacrifice. He is too valuable to this kingdom. I will not hear baseless claims of treason without proof."
But the ministers were restless, the scent of blood in the air.
"Your Majesty," another spoke carefully, "do you not see? He has been corrupted by the Hero. They believe themselves saviors of the realm, untouchable. And now? They mock the throne by abandoning their duty."
King Stephen's brow furrowed. A shadow of unease crossed his mind, but before he could speak, a figure rose from his seat at the far end of the chamber.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair streaked with silver—Theodore Valdran, the King's brother-in-law, stepped forward. His presence silenced the others, for he was no ordinary councilman. His family had ties of blood to the crown.
Theodore bowed low, but when he lifted his head, his eyes gleamed coldly.
"Your Majesty… let us not forget who Prince Reinhardt truly is."
The chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Theodore's voice grew louder, sharper.
"He was born from a traitor's blood. Do you not remember? His mother, the former Queen, belonged to a family that dared to plot treason against your throne. Their conspiracy cost countless lives."
The king's eyes widened. The memory struck him like a blade. He had buried it long ago, locked it away beneath layers of necessity and survival. Reinhardt's mother—his once-beloved wife—had indeed been from a powerful house, a house that tried to unseat him. He had destroyed them all—every son, every daughter, every relative—but he had spared Reinhardt, for reasons he could never quite explain to himself.
Now, Theodore's words dragged the memory into the light of the council chamber.
Theodore continued, his voice steady, unwavering.
"Have you considered, Your Majesty, that treachery runs deep in his bloodline? Perhaps all this loyalty he displayed during the war was a mere mask, a way to earn trust, waiting for the right moment to strike. What if he is gathering allies even now?"
A murmur of assent ran through the hall, the ministers nodding, whispering. "Blood will tell." "The Queen's kin were snakes." "Perhaps the son is no different."
For a fleeting moment, doubt cracked King Stephen's composure. He remembered her—the beauty of his queen, the softness of her smile. And then the sting of betrayal when he uncovered her family's treason. He remembered the executions, the fire, the blood. And Reinhardt, left standing alone amidst the ashes of his mother's house.
His hand tightened around the golden ring on his finger.
But even through the haze of memory, calculation returned to him.
Reinhardt was valuable. Reinhardt had the loyalty of soldiers, the respect of the people, and the experience of countless campaigns. The boy was not expendable, not yet.
Stephen leaned back against his throne, hiding the flicker of doubt behind a mask of cold resolve.
"Your accusations are convenient," he said slowly, his tone icy. "But I will not condemn my son without evidence. He is a prince of this empire. Until proof of treason is shown, I will hear no more on this matter."
Theodore's eyes narrowed, but he bowed once more.
"As you command, Your Majesty. But remember my words—traitor's blood cannot change its nature."
The king dismissed the council with a wave of his hand, though the storm in his chest did not fade. As the ministers filed out, whispering among themselves, King Stephen remained seated, his mind racing.
'Too valuable to kill… too dangerous to trust.'
The thought lingered like poison as the chamber doors shut behind him.
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The dim light of afternoon spilled through the tall windows of Prince Stanford's private chambers. Velvet curtains dulled the winter sun, casting the room in heavy shadows. Stanford lounged back in his chair, a glass of red wine swirling lazily in his hand. His polished boots tapped against the marble floor as a messenger finished his report.
"…and so, Your Highness, the council is in uproar. The King himself is furious. Prince Reinhardt did not appear for the war council, and the guards can find no trace of him anywhere in the palace."
The words hung in the air. Stanford's lips slowly curled into a smile. His fingers drummed against the armrest, eyes glittering with a cruel delight.
"So… the dutiful little brother has vanished." He leaned forward, voice low and mocking. "How convenient. For months the court has whispered his name, praising his victories, daring to compare him to me." His smile widened. "And now the ministers—the very ministers who serve me—accuse him of betrayal."
A soft laugh escaped his throat, sharp and brittle. He set down the wine and stood, pacing before the fireplace.
"They're finally doing their job. Accuse him, stain his name, plant the seed of treason in Father's mind…" He tilted his head, eyes narrowing at the flames. "Let Reinhardt become the traitor. Let them forget his 'glory' and remember only his disgrace. And then," his smile turned wolfish, "the throne will have no rival."
He snapped his fingers. "Lucy!"
Silence.
Stanford frowned, glancing over his shoulder. He raised his voice. "Lucy! Where is that useless girl?"
A maid stepped hesitantly into the room, clutching the edges of her apron. She was young, pale, her hands trembling as she spoke.
"I–I don't know where she has gone, Your Highness. She hasn't returned since morning."
Stanford's eyes darkened, the pleasant mask falling from his face like a shattering mirror. He moved toward the girl slowly, his boots clicking against the floor.
"What did you say?" His tone was dangerously calm.
The maid swallowed hard. "I… I don't know, Your Highness. She may be in the kitchens or—"
The crack of his hand across her cheek stopped her words. The force sent her stumbling to the ground, her hands flying to her face as tears welled in her eyes.
"You dare stand here and waste my time with 'I don't know'?!" Stanford's voice rose to a snarl. "You think I will tolerate incompetence?!"
He loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her small form on the floor. His fingers twitched, as though restraining himself from striking again.
"I want Lucy found," he hissed. "Drag her here if you must. If she's run off…" A thin smile returned to his lips, cold and serpentine. "…then she'll learn what happens to those who forget their place."
The maid scrambled up, bowing again and again. "Y-yes, Your Highness!" She fled the chamber as quickly as she could, her sobs echoing faintly down the corridor.
Stanford stood alone once more. He exhaled slowly, smoothing the front of his coat, the fury fading from his face like smoke from a snuffed flame. He turned back to the window, watching the snow drift lazily over the palace courtyard.
"Enjoy your freedom while you can, dear brother," he murmured to himself. "When you crawl back, Father will have no choice but to call you traitor—and then the crown will be mine."
He raised the glass of wine again, staring into the crimson liquid as though it were blood.
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Moonlight filtered in through the tall windows of the eastern wing of the palace as guards moved through Prince Reinhardt's chambers like shadows. They opened every drawer, lifted rugs, inspected bedframes and trunks, but their search yielded nothing. The room was spartan, almost untouched—bare walls, a single desk, no personal trinkets. It was the room of a soldier, not a prince.
Lord Theodore Valdran, the King's brother-in-law, stood at the center of the room, arms folded behind his back, his expression carved from stone. His sister, the Queen, had commanded him to oversee the search personally. She wanted proof—anything at all—that would brand Reinhardt a traitor to the crown.
Yet, as each guard returned empty-handed, Theodore's jaw tightened. "Nothing," one muttered. "No letters, no coins, no documents."
Theodore's gaze swept the chamber once more. He never even lived here, he thought darkly. He has been at the front for years. Only yesterday he returned from war and slept here once. And today—he is gone.
The door opened and the sound of boots echoed. Crown Prince Stanford entered with leisurely steps, his smile polite but his eyes sharp.
"Good evening, Crown Prince Stanford," Theodore said, bowing slightly.
Stanford raised a hand in greeting. "Uncle. It seems you've been thorough." He glanced around the stripped room and chuckled softly. "And yet you've found nothing."
Theodore's brow furrowed. "Indeed. Nothing to prove he has betrayed the Kingdom."
Stanford's smile lingered, but there was an edge beneath it. "Curious, isn't it? Reinhardt, the hero of the demon war, vanishes from the palace without a trace. And, by the strangest coincidence, one of my personal maids vanishes at the same time." He tilted his head, his tone calm but laced with annoyance. "No one can find her anywhere."
Theodore studied him, eyes narrowing. "Are you suggesting…?"
Stanford's smile widened, the look of a predator testing the air.
"If Reinhardt is innocent, the court will see it soon enough," he said lightly. "But if he is not… sometimes the smallest piece of evidence is enough to open the King's eyes."
A flicker of understanding crossed Theodore's face. His voice lowered, conspiratorial. "You want me to… construct something?"
Stanford spread his hands as if helpless. "I simply want justice for my maid, Uncle. She served me, yet Reinhardt dared to take what is mine. Surely you see how disrespectful that is."
Theodore's lips curled faintly. "Tell me about this maid."
Stanford's eyes glinted with triumph. He turned toward the door, gesturing for an attendant to bring a small leather-bound book. "Her name is Lucy. Sweet, obedient, and until recently, loyal." He handed the book to Theodore with a flourish. "Her diary."
Theodore opened it, flipping through the neat handwriting until his gaze stopped on a page smeared slightly with ink. His brows rose.
"I want to work for Prince Reinhardt. I hate this country."
He glanced up, his voice cold. "You're certain she wrote this?"
Stanford's laugh was soft and amused. "Does it matter, Uncle? The council will believe it if it's shown to them. It will explain her disappearance—and Reinhardt's."
Theodore closed the diary slowly, feeling the weight of it in his hand. "This is enough to plant doubt in His Majesty's mind."
Stanford stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Then plant it. Make him see what he wants to see. Once Reinhardt is branded a traitor, his hero's crown will turn to ashes. And my path to the throne will be clear."
Theodore looked at the young prince, then down at the diary again. He gave a small, deliberate nod. "Very well. Leave this to me."
Stanford's lips curled in a satisfied smile. "Excellent. Then let us end this farce once and for all."
He turned to leave, his cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow, and Theodore watched him go, the forged diary heavy in his palm—the first stone in the trap they were about to spring.