The Royal Palace – King's Chambers
The corridors of the inner palace were quieter than usual, though no less watchful. Servants bowed swiftly and turned their eyes away as Prince Benedict passed by, flanked only by Lord Percival. A faint tension rode in his wake, subtle but undeniable.
"I'll go in alone," Benedict muttered as they reached the thick mahogany doors.
Lord Percival inclined his head. "Be careful what you say. He's still the King."
Benedict's smirk was humorless. "For now."
The guards opened the door to the King's private chamber. The scent of medicine hung heavy in the chamber, mingling with the oppressive silence as Prince Benedict strolled in, his boots echoing faintly across the polished marble floor.
King Eldric IV lay propped up on a mound of silken pillows. His once robust frame had withered, and though his beard was neatly trimmed, his pallor betrayed the toll of illness. The crown rested not on his head, but displayed on a velvet cushion nearby as though waiting for its next bearer.
His gaze tracked his son with something between fatigue and loathing.
"You've come," the King rasped.
"Your Majesty", Prince Benedict greeted with a bow too deep to sincere. "You're looking... stronger."
"Save the pretense," Edric snapped. "Say what you came to say."
"I couldn't stay away, not when you're so… unwell."
The King's voice was gravelly. "Spare me the nonsense, Benedict. I'm dying, not blind."
Benedict tilted his head. "Straight to the point, then. Very well." He took slow, measured steps toward the bed. "Let's talk about succession."
The King stiffened. "There's nothing to discuss. My heir is Crown Prince Stefan."
A pause. The King's tone had steel in it despite his condition.
"Is he?" Prince Benedict's voice was light, almost amused. "Because rumor has it that dear Prince Stefan has not been seen in over four months."
The King's eyes narrowed.
"You've been ill, Your Majesty," Benedict continued smoothly, "and your devoted council so afraid of burdening you has kept quiet. But let me be the bearer of uncomfortable truths: your son, the Crown Prince, has been missing for months. Gone. Without a trace."
The King's breathing turned uneven. A faint tremble began in his hands.
Prince Benedict stopped at the edge of the King's bed and leaned down, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Who knows?" Benedict murmured. "He could already be dead. And then, who will wear the crown?"
The King's eyes bulged. His lips trembled as he tried to speak—but no sound came. Instead, his body began to jerk violently, his breathing turning erratic.
Benedict took a theatrical step back, raising his voice."Help! Guards! Physicians—now!" He called out with mock panic as the doors flew open.
The doors burst open and the royal physicians rushed in, led by the head doctor and followed by several stewards. They fanned out in practiced chaos, one barking orders for tinctures, another pressing cloths to the King's brow as the seizure worsened.
Benedict stepped back, wiping invisible dust from his sleeve, his eyes unreadable.
The King writhed under their care and after several frantic minutes, the King finally went still.
The room froze.
Queen Isolde's Private Chambers.
Queen Isolde knelt before the altar, her hands clasped, rosary trembling between her fingers as she prayed to the higher power.
A sudden knock at the door broke her prayer.
"Your Majesty," said the attending lady, eyes wide, "you must come quickly. The King..."
Outside the King's Chambers
A quiet storm brewed in the hallway. Lords, viscounts, and members of the Privy Council stood in tense clusters, murmuring, their faces etched with worry and curiosity.
Prince Benedict leaned against a column, the very picture of restrained impatience.
Queen Isolde swept in, her presence regal despite the urgency in her step. Her eyes immediately found Prince Benedict, and they hardened.
"What did you do?" she whispered sharply. "What did you say to him?"
Prince Benedict didn't flinch. "Only the truth. That his son is missing. That the crown cannot wait."
Her hand twitched as though she longed to slap him but she controlled herself. "He's still the King."
"But for how long?" Benedict countered. "Time isn't his ally anymore."
"You look far too calm," she said coldly.
"And you look far too hopeful," he retorted.
"If you had a shred of shame, you'd pray instead of circling like a vulture," she hissed.
"Careful, Your Majesty. You forget yourself." Prince Benedict warned coldly.
"No," she said, stepping closer. "I remember exactly who I am. I'm the Queen. The only thing keeping your ambition in check."
Before he could respond, the doors opened and the head physician stepped out. His face was grim, his hands stained with ink and herbs.
The air went still.
"Well?" Isolde asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The physician bowed low. "The King has fallen into a coma, Your Majesty. His condition is... critical. We do not know when or if he will awaken."
A soft gasp rippled through the court.
Queen Isolde's knees nearly buckled. She held the wall for support, swallowing her scream. Prince Benedict didn't look away from her.
"I warned you," he said softly. "The realm cannot wait on a man who may never wake."
Queen Isolde drew herself up slowly, her voice quiet but steady. "You won't sit on that throne."
Benedict smiled.
He said nothing. He only looked at the King's chamber door, and then turned to the council present.
"Who rules in a king's silence?" he asked softly.
No one dared to answer.
But the Queen did.
"I do," Queen Isolde said. "Until my son returns."
Prince Benedict's eyes glinted. "Let us hope your prayers aren't wasted."
Prince Benedict left the palace in high spirits. His dreams seemed closer to fruition now.
On the other in the Queen's palace,
Queen Isolde returned to her room as her hands trembled in fury and fear. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the handkerchief tightly in her hand. For a moment, she said nothing. Then came the whisper: "He cannot die. Not yet."
Avice, her trusted aide waited in silence.
The Queen turned slowly, her eyes burning beneath the sheen of tears she refused to shed.
"If he dies before we find my son, everything will fall to ash. The Council will rise like vultures. My enemies will circle. Prince Benedict..." Her voice caught. "His influence has already grown stronger. If they name a regent before the prince is restored, I'll be powerless."
Avice stepped forward, her tone cautious. "We are still searching. He will be found. You must trust—"
"No." Isolde's voice cut like steel. "There is no time to trust. Only time to act."
She strode toward the desk by the window, throwing open a locked drawer. Inside, correspondence sealed and stamped and beneath them, a smaller, velvet-covered ledger. She opened it with a snap, eyes scanning the names listed inside.
"I want the search expanded beyond England. Scotland. The isles. Even into France if need be. Quietly. And anyone who leaks word of the prince's absence… must be silenced."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And summon Lord Chancellor Elric. He must push back the next Council meeting. Lie if he must but I need time."
Avice hesitated. "And… if His Majesty does not recover?"
Queen Isolde's face hardened. "Then I'll crown a corpse before I let this throne fall into the hands of vipers."
She crossed the room in swift strides, pausing before the small altar on the eastern wall. Dropping to her knees, she bowed her head before the flickering candles.
"Let him live," she whispered, gripping the rosary tightly. "Just long enough to find my son. Just long enough…"
Behind her, Avice quietly slipped out of the room, leaving the Queen kneeling in shadows, the weight of a crumbling kingdom pressing down on her spine.