The Queen stood in her private chamber, fingernails digging into the silk of her prayer robe. One of her maids knelt beside her, eyes lowered, whispering what she'd heard from the courtyard.
The king had bled again. In front of everyone.
"He's bleeding?" Her voice was low, venomous. "And what does that boy—Carlos—do? He lets him fall in front of the court, like a peasant child too weak to stand. And the healer, that forest-born wench, dares lay hands on my son like he belongs to her."
Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her—too composed, too perfect. That same face had charmed nobles, soothed priests, and fed lies into the mouths of the empire for years. She has made her boy into something that everyone would be pitiful towards him. Only then that she become the queen and got to the point of this.
She clenched her jaw.
She had planted the lilies. She had imported the wine. She had poured the poison into her son's cup with a smile. Because she knew… he was never supposed to be king.
The boy who should have died at birth had now bled publicly, and the people—those foolish, sentimental sheep—cried.
In the streets below, whispers turned to prayers. "He's so young," some said. "So brave," others murmured. "Still standing," they marveled, "even with blood on his lips."
She slammed her hand down on the mirror. "They pity him now. And they would only look at him. Tomorrow they'll love him again. I won't let that happen."
---
In the royal chamber, Lumira's fingers trembled as she pressed a damp cloth to Erevan's forehead. His skin was pale, damp with fever, but his body refused to rest.
"Lie down, your majesty," she snapped, no longer hiding her desperation. "You want to be a martyr? A symbol? You're barely standing on your own!"
Erevan didn't respond, only stared at the window where Carlos's voice still echoed.
Kave knelt beside him, trying to wrap an arm around his shoulder, trying to drag him back toward the bed. "I thought you were delicate," he muttered, sweating. "I thought you'd fall if I pushed you. Turns out, you've been holding back this whole time."
The king's mouth twitched. "Only because Carlos always stood before me after that day. I didn't need to be strong."
Kave's grip tightened. "And now?"
"Now… I'm tired of being weak, since I have always been the protector."
Lumira exhaled sharply. "You're all insane. I swear on every herb in my cabinet, this entire bloodline is cursed by pride."
---
Below, Carlos took a breath. The air was heavy with incense and uncertainty.
He looked at the crowd, at the people whose eyes still shimmered with doubt. The Queen had ruled their hearts too long—her smile, her stories, her "miracles." She had built an image too pure to touch.
So Carlos didn't try to shatter it.
He lit it on fire.
"Let's say the Queen is a saint," he said, voice calm, clear. "Then let her prove it. Let her open the gates. Let her explain why the lilies bloomed in winter and why the rosewine came from a cursed vineyard in the south."
A murmur. Someone gasped.
Carlos stepped down the steps, closer to the people. His cloak fluttered behind him like shadow.
"I don't ask you to hate her. I only ask you to watch. If she's pure, then she will shine. If not—then no veil will cover the rot."
He let the silence linger. And then he added, softer, "My brother would forgive her. Even now. Because that's the kind of king he is."
---
Above, the Queen's hands trembled with rage.
"They think I'm afraid?" she hissed to her gathered nobles. "They think I'll fall for a child's speech?"
She swept her gaze over them. "We'll show them who the villain is. We'll say Carlos has locked his brother away. That he's drunk with power, obsessed with control. That he has taken over the kingdom."
"And if they don't believe it?" one baron muttered.
She smiled coldly. "Then we'll give them a lie for them to truly believe. Tell me, who would you trust? A angelic queen that has always been their side or... a weak prince who becomes strong within a night."