“Still not a body.”
The Regent leaned closer.
“Do you know what uncertainty does to nations?”
“Yes.”
The Prince looked directly at him.
“It makes ambitious men comfortable.”
The Regent’s smile vanished.
Behind the Prince stood the Captain of the Guard.
He was broad, scarred, and wrapped in silver armor. He had served three rulers and survived six campaigns.
The Prince trusted him.
Mostly.
The Captain’s gaze kept drifting upward toward the arena galleries.
The Prince noticed.
“What?”
The Captain whispered, “Nothing.”
“That is rarely true.”
“Face forward.”
The Prince frowned.
The Regent heard.
“Captain.”
The older soldier straightened.
“Yes, Regent.”
“Remove the Prince’s weapon.”
The Prince glanced down.
He carried only a ceremonial sword.
The Captain hesitated.
The Regent repeated, “Now.”
The Queen rose.
“Enough.”
Every voice died.
She descended one step.
“The Prince stands before me, not you.”
The Regent bowed slightly.
“My Queen, I am preserving order.”
“You have mistaken order for obedience again.”
Several nobles looked away to hide their reactions.
The Prince almost smiled.
The Regent did not.
The Queen continued.
“This mask was requested because the Prince demanded the old coronation relics be inspected before any declaration.”
The Regent turned toward him.
“You demanded this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The Prince shrugged.
“Curiosity.”
The Regent studied him.
The Prince knew better than to reveal the real reason.
Three nights earlier, an anonymous message had appeared beneath his chamber door.
No signature.
No seal.
Only seven words.
THE DEAD KING STILL HAS A FACE.
Beneath the sentence was a drawing.
The golden mask.
The Prince had shown nobody except the Queen.
She believed it might be a trap.
The Prince agreed.
That was why he insisted on springing it publicly.
The Royal Keeper lowered the mask toward the pedestal.
The Prince stepped closer.
The ancient metal caught sunlight.
For one strange moment, he saw his reflection warped across the golden forehead.
The Royal Keeper whispered, “Your Highness.”
The Prince looked up.
Fear.
Not ceremonial nerves.
Fear.
“What?”
The Keeper glanced at the Regent.
Then back.
“Nothing.”
The Prince narrowed his eyes.
The Regent said, “Let us finish this.”
He raised his voice.
“Crown Prince, son of the absent King, kneel before the Queen and surrender your claim to contest the declaration of death.”
The Prince looked toward his mother.
Her expression said one thing.
Do not.
The Regent stepped closer.
“Kneel.”
The Prince said nothing.
The Captain suddenly moved.
His armored hand struck the Prince’s shoulder.
Hard.
The Prince stumbled sideways into the pedestal.
The golden mask nearly slipped from the Keeper’s hands.
Gasps erupted around the arena.