CHAPTER 248: THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE

The letter bore the royal seal of Kaltharion, the mark of the Bear, pressed deep into crimson wax. The emperor broke it open, half expecting another hollow plea for leniency or grain. Instead, the neat, deliberate script bled arrogance between every stroke.

It began innocently enough: a request for a physician. Gaston, the prince of Kaltharion, is gravely ill, it said. We beg the Emperor’s grace to send a healer of Vaeloria’s renown. The emperor might have granted it, had it ended there. But it didn’t.

The next paragraph made his eyes narrow. Gaston, they claimed, was the rightful heir, not Leroy. They wrote, without shame or restraint, that years ago, when assassins hunted the royal nursery, the infants were switched. Leroy, the decoy child, was presented to the Vaelorian envoys as the "Crown Prince of Kaltharion," while the true heir, Gaston, was hidden away.

The emperor’s breath hitched. They spoke of this deception as though it were a noble act; a sacrifice. They lied to him! Did they not see it?

And if they didn’t lie to them, Leroy wouldn’t have been raised in the royal family and he would have perished on his own like the bastard he was!

The letter continued, explaining how Gaston’s long concealment was forced by unfortunate circumstances, for the "hostage prince" demanded in the truce had already been chosen: Leroy.

And how was this his problem? How arrogant were they to reveal such a news to him through a letter? No one from the family managed to meet him the last time they were here. No one. And they even showed their defiance by not attending the tribute ceremony.

Were they sending letters now? As if they were childhood friends? His eyes landed on the letter and his lips curled.

Now, decades later, with Gaston on his deathbed, the Kaltharion royal family wanted to "make amends." A mistress, heavy with Gaston’s child, was proof enough of the true bloodline, they wrote.

The emperor’s lips curled in disgust. They even dared to propose a trade: the bastard heir for the imposter prince.

They lied for decades. They used him. And now, they had the audacity to negotiate with him — like beggars bargaining over spoiled fruit.

The veins on his temple pulsed. The letter crackled again, caught between his fingers and the heat of his fury.

The parchment trembled between his fingers, the ink smudging slightly under his thumb. His jaw clenched, and a dangerous light filled his golden eyes.

"So," he whispered, voice thick with venom, "they would exchange my enemy’s head like coin... and think I would bless their lie."

The silence in the throne room thickened, pressing against the walls like smoke. Lord Morrathen’s narrow eyes darted toward the letter, and when he caught a glimpse of its contents, his pupils shrank. This... this secret could shake kingdoms. If the truth ever spread, that Leroy was not even the true heir of Kaltharion, the fragile legitimacy of his line would shatter. His true parentage would be forced to be investigated, and people wouldn’t be kind to that lie.

Yet, strangely, the emperor didn’t look afraid. He looked thrilled.

The emperor’s fury had long since twisted into something sharper; something that glittered. He saw now not disgrace, but opportunity. The very insult the Kaltharion court had hurled at him had handed him a gift.

He could end Leroy... utterly, beautifully.

A cruel smile cut across his face, curling his lips like the edge of a blade. He would destroy Leroy’s name, his love, and his very existence in one sweep. He would make him watch his wife dragged through shame, her name spat upon by nobles and peasants alike. He would break her first, the woman they whispered about in fear, Lazira, and then he would end Leroy.

He would die not as a prince, not even as a man, but as a hollow echo of one.

A bastard in birth, a failure in life, and a nameless corpse in death.

And the timing? Perfect. Heaven-sent.

"Bring Prince Leroy here," the emperor said, his voice steady but alive with poisonous delight. "We must investigate this matter thoroughly."

He pictured the triumph like a ceremony already complete, and a small, vicious pride swelled in him. With Leroy hauled back to the palace on his summons, the pieces would fall into place: the prince confined, his resolve softened by dishonor, his generals cowed into obedience. Once Leroy was here, the emperor could reach for the other prize, the wife, with little risk of open resistance.

He almost laughed at his luck. A messenger from Kaltharion had arrived as if sent by fate itself, handing him the rope he needed to bind his rival. It was too neat to be mere chance; even the gods, it seemed, had made a tidy arrangement. He tasted the sweetness of destiny: where he’d sought only humiliation before, now he had the means to finish the work.

In his mind the act was sanctified. Leroy may once have been the man the last emperor favored, the rumor whispered in certain rooms, but providence had spoken anew, or so he told himself. If the heavens had delivered this letter, then surely it confirmed what he had long believed: that the crown, and all the judgment that came with it, belonged to him. The rest: mercy, justice, truth... were tools to be used or discarded as needed.

Lord Morrathen’s eyes flicked up sharply. There was madness in the emperor’s calm. "Your Majesty—" he began, but the emperor had already raised a hand.

"Bring today’s agendas!" the emperor barked. His voice boomed through the hall as the guards rushed out.

A minister stepped forward, bowing low. "Your Majesty, there are credible rumors that Corvalith is preparing troops and sending for—"

"Next!" the emperor roared. His voice cracked the air like thunder.

Another general took a hesitant step forward. "Your Majesty, the soldiers returning from the war—many can’t find work, and their families—"

"I don’t care!"

The words slammed into the floor. The general flinched but stood stiff, his bloodied fists trembling at his sides. The scent of iron — sweat and blood — mingled with the faint aroma of incense burning near the emperor’s dais.

Lord Morrathen bowed, his shadow long and thin beneath the throne’s light. "Your Majesty," he said softly, oily smooth, "we have found the identity of Lazira. We have proof."

Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some looked uneasy — the war clouds were thickening beyond the borders, and yet their emperor cared only for this. But no one dared speak against him.

"Bring him in," the emperor commanded.

The great doors creaked open.

And through them stepped Sir Cedric Thaloryn — his blue eyes glinting cold as steel.

-----

Back at the mansion, the corridors buzzed with quiet excitement. The faint scent of polished wood and blooming lilies lingered in the air as Lorraine dressed for the evening.

Sylvia, radiant in a shimmering gown of soft rose, was already seated before the vanity. She had outdone herself tonight, as pearls glimmered at her throat, her curls pinned with deliberate care. Lorraine could tell she had taken extra effort, perhaps more than at any other ball. After all, tonight was special for her. Sylvia believed she would be dancing with Aldric in public for the first time.

Poor girl. She had no idea what awaited her... a betrothal, not a dance. And she looked dressed for it.

Lorraine turned toward the mirror. Her reflection stared back, poised yet distant. The gown clung to her like a whisper of fate, blood-red silk that Leroy had chosen for her, its sheen tempered by Damian’s subtle taste in fabric. The color brought out the pallor of her skin, the glacial hue of her eyes, the quiet ferocity she’d long learned to hide beneath a smile.

Emma fluttered around her, adjusting the last strand of hair in the elaborate updo she’d spent hours perfecting. The young maid looked exhausted, yet her own gown of soft gold and modest jewelry gave her a charming glow.

"Beautiful," Emma murmured, stepping back to admire her work.

Lorraine smiled faintly. "So are you."