“FUCK!”
The word tears out of me before I can stop it.
The papers scatter across the desk as my arm sweeps everything in front of me to the floor. Ink bottles, letters, council reports, all of it crashes against the marble tiles with a sharp clatter.
Across the room, Lyal doesn’t flinch.
He just stands there.
Messenger of the throne, calm as ever, hands folded behind his back like this is any other morning.
Like the entire city isn’t about to come apart at the seams.
I grab the article again, crumpling the page in my hand as my eyes drag across the words for the third time.
Venom.
Control.
Coercion.
The bastard didn’t just question the system.
They explained it.
Too clearly.
Too accurately.
Which means whoever wrote this knows more about us than they should.
My jaw tightens.
“Who wrote this article?” I demand.
Lyal doesn’t move.
“I don’t know.”
My eyes snap up.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“It wasn’t published in the newspapers, my lord.”
That stops me.
For half a second.
“It appeared this morning across multiple human networks. Flyers. Print copies. Hand distributed in several districts.”
Not the press.
Not the papers.
Which means someone bypassed every system I put in place.
I look down at the page again.
Anonymous.
Of course it is.
“I…” I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once behind the desk. “Fuck.”
This isn’t a rumor anymore.
Rumors die.
Rumors fade.
But explanations…
Explanations spread.
Especially among humans desperate for something to believe in.
I stop pacing and turn back to him.
“Send a message to Marlis.”
Lyal straightens slightly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Tell him that as of right now,” I say slowly, every word edged in steel, “this entire fucking city is on lockdown.”
Lyal nods once.
“Not just the city,” I continue. “The entire state.”
His brow lifts slightly at that.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Good.
He understands the weight of the command.
“Have him inform the Lords,” I say. “Every district.”
“Movement is restricted immediately. Home to work. Work to home.”
My fingers tighten against the edge of the desk.
“Citizens are permitted one hour per day to shop for necessities.”
I pause.
“From twelve to one.”
The message settles heavily into the room.
“And anything else?” Lyal asks quietly.
I meet his eyes.
“Punishable by death.”
No hesitation.
No negotiation.
Lyal nods again.
“As you wish, my lord.”
He turns and moves quickly toward the door.
The moment it closes behind him, the office falls into silence again.
I look down at the crumpled paper still clenched in my hand.
Venom makes humans easier to control.
The words glare back at me.
The article doesn’t accuse.
It questions.
Which is worse.
Because questions make people curious.
And curiosity spreads faster than rebellion.
I smooth the paper slowly across the desk.
Anonymous.
Someone in this city thinks they’re clever.
Someone thinks they can expose the throne piece by piece without consequences.
My gaze drifts toward the tall window overlooking the city.
Lights flicker across the streets below.
Humans moving through the evening like they still believe the world belongs to them.
They have no idea how quickly that illusion can disappear.
I fold the article once.
Then again.
“Fine,” I mutter quietly.
If someone wants to test the strength of my rule…
They’re about to find out exactly how strong it is.
-----
The city looks different from the courtyard.
From the tower windows it is a machine. Streets like veins. People like numbers moving through ordered channels. Easy to control. Easy to command.
But down here…
Down here the air smells like spring.
I pause in the shadow of the archway and watch her.
She stands in the center of the garden path, completely still, her face tilted slightly toward the sky. The sunlight catches in her hair, turning the pale strands into something almost golden. For a moment she closes her eyes, letting the warmth settle over her skin like she’s been starved of it.
Which, in a way, she has.
The dress they gave her today is yellow.
Soft.
Simple.
And entirely wasted on a prisoner.
I study her for another second before stepping forward.
Gravel crunches under my shoes.
She turns when she hears it.
Suspicion appears immediately.
Always suspicious now.
Good.
It means she’s still thinking.
“I was wondering,” I say casually, “if you’d join me at the store today.”
Her brow furrows slightly.
The answer clearly isn’t what she expected.
“To the store?” she repeats slowly.
I nod.
The pause stretches.
She’s searching for the trap.
There probably is one.
Eventually she exhales.
“Uh… sure.”
I hold out my hand.
“Now?”
She stares at it for a second.
Then at me.
Then back at the hand.
Carefully, slowly, she takes it.
Her fingers are cold.
We start walking.
The palace gates open easily for us. Guards step aside without question. Outside the walls the streets move with cautious life, humans passing between buildings with baskets and bags, all of them careful to keep their heads slightly lowered when they notice me.
But their eyes still move.
They always do.
The air is warm for this early in the year. A soft breeze drifts through the street, carrying the faint smell of rain that passed through earlier that morning.
“Nice air today,” she says after a moment.
“Yes.”
She looks up toward the sky.
“Spring.”
The word sounds almost surprised.
“When I was a child,” I say, “my mother loved spring.”
She glances at me.
“Why?”
“She always looked forward to the rain.”
She actually laughs.
The sound is unexpected enough that I glance at her.
“Why?” she asks.
“I’m not entirely sure.”
I shrug slightly.
“I suspect it gave her an excuse to leave the house. To walk through the puddles.”
She tilts her head.
“That’s… oddly specific.”
“Perhaps.”
We turn down the next street, moving toward the small row of shops along the district square.
“Probably because it meant she could get away from my father.”
The laughter disappears.
She doesn’t comment.
We walk in silence for several minutes.
People notice us now.
Not just me.
Her.
Heads turn as we pass. Conversations quiet slightly. A few curious glances linger a second too long before quickly looking away.
Inside the store the air smells like fruit and flour.
Shelves stacked with jars, baskets filled with fresh produce brought in from the outer districts.
“My mother hated spring,” she says suddenly.
I glance at her.
“Why?”
“She hated rain.”
She moves toward a basket of apples, inspecting them without really seeing them.
“She said rain was sad.”
Her fingers brush lightly across the fruit.
“She always said spring was too rainy.”
“And fall?”
She smiles faintly.
“She loved fall.”
“Why?”
“She said it felt like magic.”
I almost say something.
Something about witches.
But I stop myself.
Instead I gesture toward the fruit stand near the back of the store.
“We need cherries.”
She looks confused.
“Cherries?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“It’s Xavian’s birthday soon.”
She blinks.
“And he loves cherry cake.”
I glance over the display.
“I have everything else.”
“But not cherries.”
“Exactly.”
She crosses her arms.
“His birthday?” she asks suspiciously. “How old is he?”
I laugh.
“Nice try.”
She scowls.
For a moment she looks exactly like the woman who argued across the dinner table earlier.
Then her eyes drift toward the shelves behind me.
“Can I get some chocolate?”
I hesitate.
Not because of the chocolate.
Because the store is full of people watching us.
But finally I nod.
“Meet me back here in five minutes.”
She nods once.
Then disappears down one of the aisles almost immediately.
I watch her go.
Fast.
Too fast.
And for a brief moment, I wonder if giving her that freedom was a mistake.
Then I turn back to the cherries.
Because surely she’s not foolish enough to run
