The royal summons arrived on parchment no thicker than a bird's wing.
No seal. No escort. Just a folded note slipped beneath his chamber door, its edges still damp with morning dew.
"You will attend the courtyard mass on the First of Bloom. Attire appropriate. Retainers optional. Appear as the Prince should, whether you feel it or not."
No name. No title. But the script—elegant and precise—belonged to no one but Queen Aldira.
Thalric burned the note over a lamp and dressed slowly, choosing not regalia, but shadow—charcoal waistcoat, high-collared linen beneath, a longcoat stitched at the cuff where Percival's weight had once split it. The cane he kept. Not for show. For balance.
Outside, the estate hummed with polite anticipation.
Servants passed too swiftly through halls. Floorboards groaned louder, as if warning him. The gardener nodded more deeply. The footmen looked twice and pretended not to.
He descended the front staircase just before noon. And the world caught its breath.
The courtyard had been cleared of ivy and grime, banners redyed and rehung. A dozen nobles loitered near the outer gate—minor vassals, house affiliates, some secondborns sent in place of their betters. They formed two lines when they saw him approach.
Not out of respect.
Out of tradition.
Thalric walked through them like a man threading a knife through meat.
Every bow held a glance. Every whisper wore civility like perfume. He kept his head straight, eyes fixed on the far end of the courtyard where a makeshift dais had been raised beside the blackthorn altar.
It wasn't a true mass—there'd be no sermon, no priest, not even a hymn. Just appearance. The illusion of unity. A photo for the crier pages. A courtesy to House Worthing's forgotten limb.
A man played a lute softly in the corner, though his fingers trembled whenever Thalric neared. A steward read from the lineage codex with such theatrical boredom it made the air feel thinner.
At the center of it all stood a chair.
Not a throne. Not a symbol. Just a chair draped in blue and silver brocade—Percival's colors, faded to dusk.
He walked to it.
Did not sit.
Simply placed his cane beside it and stood before the assembled eyes.
Some bowed again.
Most didn't.
Rowan stood off to one side, hands behind his back, eyes flicking from Thalric's face to the nobles who refused to meet his gaze.
Cedric and Albrecht were absent. Of course they were.
A small boy sneezed.
Someone laughed too loudly in the back row.
Thalric's fingers flexed at his side. Not in anger. In restraint.
He wasn't here to inspire. Or reclaim.
He was here to watch.
To measure the weight of their apathy.
To feel the shape of power slipping through disuse.
And when the wind shifted faintly—just enough to flutter the brocade beside him—he turned his head slightly and caught, at the edge of the crowd, a girl.
Sixteen, maybe. Pale shawl. Eyes like ashwater. She clutched a notebook and didn't blink when he looked at her.
She didn't curtsy.
Didn't avert.
Just… wrote something down.
Thalric held her gaze for a moment too long.
Then the bell rang.
Thirty chimes. The signal for dispersal.
The nobles bowed again, lighter this time, with the relief of performance ending.
Thalric turned back toward the manor, his steps slower now.
He didn't feel triumph.
Only cold.
As if even the sun had grown tired of pretending.