The document was folded twice and placed at the bottom of a dispatch stack marked Routine Administrative Summary – Sept. Assembly Lineage Updates.
Thalric didn't find it himself.
The steward handed it to him before breakfast, muttering something about "inclusion errors" and "incorrect entries in the lineage record." He hadn't looked him in the eye.
Thalric skimmed the opening reports—estate servant turnover, standard birth announcements, two minor marriages from outlying cousin-branches—and then paused.
Third page.
Header: Royal Kinship Designation – Internal Categorization Draft, Not For Circulation.
A table.
Column one: Name.
Column two: Standing.
Column three: Succession Tier.
Column four: Notes (Internal Only).
Row seven.
Name: Prince Percival Worthing (formerly presumed deceased)
Standing: Reinstated ceremonial member
Succession Tier: Reserved kin, non-core line
Notes: Strategic retention. Not considered primary candidate for inheritance or regency planning. Likelihood of sustained influence: LOW.
He read it twice.
The wording was careful. Bureaucratic. Even generous—reinstated ceremonial member—as if he'd been gifted access instead of clawing his way back into relevance.
He knew the writing style. Not the steward's. Not the Queen's.
This was Albrecht.
He'd seen his brother's hand on dozens of court summaries: the same phrasing structure, the same tendency to pad harsh truths with plausible deniability.
Strategic retention.
As if Thalric was a placeholder for a throne they'd already promised to someone else.
He folded the page back into the packet and didn't speak of it for the rest of the morning.
At midday, he requested a private slot on the estate printer's schedule.
One page.
One phrase.
Large type, centered.
He sealed it in a plain envelope, unsigned, and delivered it through a minor courier to the estate noticeboard. It was pinned before dinner.
The message read:
"Paper forgets what the room remembers."
Nothing more.
By the next morning, everyone had seen it.
The Queen's advisors held a closed session after breakfast. Cedric attended, visibly irritated, and left early. Rowan said nothing publicly, but Thalric caught the flicker of recognition in his posture when they passed each other near the fountain steps.
By late afternoon, two more documents had circulated:
A new internal memo titled Succession Titling Protocol Clarification, issued from the Queen's desk, affirming that "all surviving sons of House Worthing shall be recognized as core members of the succession docket unless officially renounced by council vote."
A quiet retraction and replacement of the original Lineage Update stack, with Thalric's entry now reading:
"Prince Percival Worthing — Core Lineage Member (Restored)"
The change came with no apology.
No explanation.
Which was fine.
Thalric didn't want an apology.
He wanted movement.
And he had it.
When Solen heard, she asked if he planned to confront Albrecht directly.
"No," he said.
"You're letting it go?"
"No," he repeated. "I'm waiting for him to mistake silence for surrender."
"And when he does?"
"I'll let him put it in writing."
Later that evening, in the corridor outside the gallery, Thalric passed the steward who had delivered the original packet.
The man flinched, almost imperceptibly.
Thalric stopped.
"You read it, didn't you?"
The steward swallowed. "Yes, Your Highness."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
A pause.
"No," he said. "I thought you'd read it and act like it didn't matter. That's what nobles do when they want to stay safe."
Thalric studied him.
Then nodded once and walked on.
Not because he wasn't angry.
Because he wasn't finished.