Antechamber of Aldwyn's Hall - The King's Brother's Private Residence,
In the shadowed halls of Harrowgate Manor, the ancestral home of the late queen's line, a fire blazed with unnatural vigor. It reflected off the black glass of a goblet, casting blood-hued ripples over the hand that held it.
Prince Benedict of Ashmere, the king's younger brother, stood before the hearth, dressed in dark crimson and silver. He was in his early forties but wore his years like medals, tall and slender with prematurely white temples streaking his otherwise dark hair, an affectation he encouraged.
Handsome in a way that could charm crowds or slit throats with the same smile. His eyes were not the warm gold of his brother's bloodline but a steely blue, sharp and emotionless. His reputation was polished, his sins buried deep in velvet.
One hand clutching a goblet of deep red wine, the other resting on the hilt of the ceremonial dagger at his hip.
"Do you smell that, Percival?" Prince Benedict asked, voice smooth. "The smoke of decay. The old lion is finally collapsing."
Lord Percival Breyne, his most trusted aide and the architect of many whispered plots, stood nearby, tall and angular with a fox's eyes and a vulture's patience.
"The King's illness is spreading faster than expected," Percival confirmed, glancing through a sealed document bearing the royal physician's seal. "He may not last the fortnight."
Prince Benedict sipped his wine. "And the boy remains missing. How convenient."
"We've ensured it stays that way. The Queen's spies are relentless, but none will find the prince before we do."
Prince Benedict turned toward the tall windows, where the dark gardens of Harrowgate stretched beyond. "Let her weep. She may be Regent now, but without an heir in hand, the court will turn on her."
"Not all," Percival murmured. "You still lack full support in Council. The Archbishop, the military, several key nobles..."
"Then convince them." Prince Benedict's voice snapped like frost.
Percival bowed his head. "I have. Most are amenable. Some are neutral. Others… hesitate."
There was a silence.
"Because of him," Alaric guessed. "Duke of Wycliffe."
"Lord Wycliffe is already in the city," said Lord Perrin Halstone, his closest advisor and longtime confidant. A quiet man, always leaning close, always glancing over his shoulder before speaking.
Prince Benedict didn't look at him. He swirled his wine, watching it catch firelight.
"He's three days too early," the prince murmured.
"Three days too late," Perrin countered quietly, "depending on your view of fate."
Percival's jaw clenched. "He arrived in London two nights past. It was alleged by our sources that he has already met with the Lord Chancellor, and reportedly offered naval support in exchange for influence."
Prince Benedict laughed quietly. "That cold bastard. The one man I could never read."
"He's never aligned with any faction. But if he sides with the Queen..."Percival worries.
Benedict's expression barely shifted. "We have the ear of three Council members. And the Queen's grasp over the Privy Purse is cracking. I'll be Regent before Michaelmas."
"Not...," Perrin said carefully, "if Nathaniel Wycliffe decides to choose a side."
Prince Benedict turned then, eyes glittering. "He never has. Not even when my brother slighted him in front of the court. He's loyal to no one."
"But he is feared," Perrin said, voice dropping. "And if he pledges himself to the Queen… or the lost prince returns and claims him as protector…"
Silence.
Another man seated in the corner, Sir Lionel Dorne, a lesser nobleman turned co-conspirator, finally spoke up. "Duke Wycliffe commands half the Royal Fleet by proxy. His wealth could feed the eastern counties alone. If he wanted to be king..."
"He doesn't," Prince Benedict snapped. "Lord Wycliffe is no king. He is... a sword. Heavy. Cold. But predictable."
"And what does a sword do...," Perrin asked, folding his hands, "when it is finally pointed in your direction?"
Prince Benedict's jaw tightened.
"I want him approached," he said at last. "Subtly. Carefully. If he could be turned..."
"There is the girl," Lionel interrupted.
Both men looked at him.
"The duchess," Lionel said. "Evelyn Wycliffe. Young. Unseasoned. Perhaps... lonely. Vulnerable."
Prince Benedict raised an eyebrow.
"You want to use the wife to seduce the husband?"
Lionel grinned. "I want to use the wife to test the husband. Find his temperature."
Perrin leaned in. "Or his weakness."
Prince Benedict moved back to the hearth. He stared into the flames as if he might divine Wycliffe's mind from the embers.
"He's not a man of passion," he said quietly. "He's a man of control. Which makes him either dangerous... or the most powerful pawn of all."
"Shall I send someone?" asked Perrin. "To observe the duchess?"
"Do more than observe," Benedict replied. "Charm her. Confuse her. Seduce her, if you must. I want to know if Nathaniel's loyalty lies with his wife... or his silence."
He drained his goblet in one long swallow and hurled it into the fire. It shattered.
"And if Wycliffe cannot be moved…" he said softly, "we must make certain he never has the chance."