❝
THE STEADY clatter of hooves echoed against the cobbled road, cutting through the quiet calm of the late morning sun. The royal carriage, gilded and pristine, gleamed under the daylight as it rolled through the outer gates of the capital. The sun's rays filtered gently through the lace-curtained windows, bathing the interior in a soft golden hue—but within the confines of the carriage, the atmosphere remained heavy and cold.
Desmond sat still, dressed immaculately in princely attire. His blonde wig, styled with regal precision, concealed his true identity from the world outside, casting the illusion of Prince Dominique so flawlessly that even the sharpest eye might hesitate to question it. His posture was composed, but his gaze—hidden beneath the shadow of his lowered lids—held a storm of calculation and quiet fury.
Across from him sat his most trusted confidant, Zephyrl, the ever-watchful companion with sharp eyes and a mind as meticulous as his tailored coat. His silver-rimmed spectacles caught the sun now and then, reflecting flickers of light as he peered steadily at Desmond.
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic sway of the carriage and the occasional chirp of birds in the trees overhead.
Eventually, Zephyrl shifted. "Master," he began coolly, his voice tempered with both concern and curiosity, "how long do you expect the illusion to hold? There are those in the court who served your brother since his youth. A misplaced gesture, a misremembered habit—these things are not easily overlooked."
Desmond exhaled sharply through his nose, a bitter smile creeping across his face. "They may notice, in time," he admitted, keeping his tone even. "But hesitation breeds doubt. And while they doubt, I act. That is the game."
Zephyrl arched his brow. "And when that doubt becomes certainty?"
"Then we'll have already laid our foundation," Desmond replied, his voice gaining an edge. "The throne is not won with honesty—it is taken with foresight and fire." He turned his gaze to the window, squinting slightly as the sunlight streamed over the city rooftops. "Dominique had his time. Now it is mine."
Zephyrl leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "And the others within the palace? Those who might begin to ask questions?"
Desmond's eyes narrowed. "Let them. As long as I wear this face, I will command their attention—and their fear. What I need now is time, and a clean path forward."
A moment passed. Then, Zephyrl asked, "Do you regret it, Master? Wearing the face of your brother… deceiving all who trusted him?"
Desmond's jaw tightened, a flicker of something—anger, pain, perhaps both—passed through his expression. "Regret? No. Dominique was the golden boy. The chosen heir. I was the spare… the shadow behind the light. If I must wear his skin to rise above the life they forced upon me, then so be it." His tone dropped to a low, dark whisper. "I will not fade into history."
Outside, the city began to stir more loudly—the clamor of merchants, the laughter of children, the distant chime of the palace bell signaling midday.
Zephyrl nodded slowly. "Then I shall follow you through fire and ruin, Master Desmond. Until your truth becomes the world's truth."
The carriage rounded a final corner, and the golden spires of the royal palace came into full view, majestic beneath the daylight sky. Desmond's eyes locked onto them like a predator eyeing his prey.
"I will not stop until every lie becomes my truth… and every throne bears my name."
An act— Just like a play, carefully rehearsed and performed for the eyes of the world.
A spectacle the common folk might stumble upon along the cobbled streets, performed by masked actors with threadbare cloaks, or paid in full coin by the nobles who lined the velvet seats of golden theatres—regardless of the venue, the story remained the same.
There was always a main character, one who stood proudly beneath the spotlight. The one whose face the audience adored, whose words echoed through the rafters, whose pain stirred tears and whose triumphs earned thunderous applause.
The people needed someone to love.
To idolize.
To follow blindly.
Because if the villain were ever to take center stage— If the tale dared to stray from the noble hero's journey into something far darker, far more honest— Then the play would be deemed a failure. A disgrace. A disappointment. Not because it lacked brilliance, but because the truth is rarely beautiful.
In the theater of royalty, Desmond was no fool. He knew the world would never cheer for a man like him. A shadow cast in the shape of a prince. A soul stitched together by resentment and exile.
So he stepped into the light not as himself…
…but as Dominique.
The perfect heir.
The golden son.
The lie everyone wanted to believe.
And thus, the curtain rose on a new act.
One soaked not in glory, but in ambition.
Not in applause, but in silence. And in that silence, Desmond would carve his own story—one where the villain was not scorned, but crowned.
As the carriage came to a halt, the solemn clang of the church bells echoed through the air, signaling the arrival of the mourners and marking the end of a life well lived—and now, a life mourned. Desmond stepped out onto the gravel with a fluid motion, his black coat billowing in the faint wind that swept across the grounds. His boots clicked against the cobblestones with each measured step, the crisp air carrying the weight of the morning's grief.
The crowd gathered in the churchyard was a sea of sorrow, faces streaked with tears, eyes red and pained. Despite the obvious sadness that clung to the air, Desmond's expression remained as impassive as stone. His gaze swept across the mourners, his eyes cold as ice, betraying no emotion—only a distant, almost pitying look as if this spectacle of human suffering held little meaning to him. His heart did not break, his soul did not ache, but he felt something deeper, a well of cold calculation.
In front of the church, the family of Chief Servalez stood, broken, shattered in their grief. His wife clung to her children, all of them sobbing as they knelt before the coffin of the man who had led them through countless battles. The corpse of the chief lay pale and still, his once powerful frame now reduced to a lifeless shell.
Desmond approached them slowly, his footsteps deliberate and imposing. The eldest son, Antoine, rose from the group, his face a mask of sorrow. His eyes were swollen from crying, but his posture was rigid as he greeted Desmond with a respectful bow. "Thank you for arriving to pay respect to my late father, Your Highness," Antoine said, his voice thick with grief. He cast another glance at his father's body, the loss too much to bear.
Desmond regarded the boy, his face softening, though only just. His voice, when it came, was measured and calm, a stark contrast to the overwhelming emotion that filled the air. "I have come to honor the Chief for his service to the realm," Desmond said, his words both sincere and distant. "His bravery and sacrifices will not be forgotten. I can only imagine the weight of grief that burdens you." He placed a gloved hand on Antoine's shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze.
He then turned and bowed in front of the coffin, lowering his head for a brief moment of respect. "His courage has left a mark not just on that eerie night, but in the hearts of all who serve alongside him," Desmond continued, his voice deepening with solemnity. "His legacy will endure through those he loved, and his name will be spoken with respect for generations to come. May his spirit guide you in these trying times."
Desmond's words were heavy in the air, meant to honor, yet carried an underlying coolness, as if he were performing an obligatory task rather than offering comfort.
After taking a moment to compose himself, Desmond stood and turned his gaze from the grieving family, letting his eyes wander across the church. The flickering candles, the low murmur of prayers—it was all so... predictable. Yet, there was something here that felt off, something unsettling. His mind drifted back to that night, the eerie whispers of danger that seemed to hang in the air even now. What had truly happened to Chief Servalez?
His thoughts were interrupted when Zephyrl approached from the shadows, his footsteps barely a sound on the stone floor. He leaned in, whispering in Desmond's ear with urgency. "Your Highness, someone wants to have a word with you. He seemed to be the survivor of the group."
Desmond nodded without a word, his sharp gaze scanning the room for the figure who might hold the answers to the mystery that still lingered in the back of his mind. He took one last look at the grieving family and the coffin, then made his way through the crowd.
As they set foot outside the building and had a private talk somewhere where there were no crowds. There they saw a man trembling in fear as he was waiting for them.
"There he is, Master, George Franklyn, one of the survivors from the same night," Zephyrl said, his voice low and pointed, indicating the man standing before them.
Desmond's eyes moved to the man, a middle-aged figure, his face drawn and haunted. But before Zephyrl could introduce him further, George shook his head vigorously, his face contorting with shame and regret.
"No, please don't call me that," George muttered, his voice strained with grief. "I'm no survivor. I'm a coward… a man who ran away, leaving my comrades behind to die," he choked, tears slipping down his cheeks like a slow-moving stream. His eyes, filled with anguish, never left the ground.
Desmond, unfazed by the emotional display, stepped forward and placed a steadying hand on George's shoulder. His grip was firm, but not unkind. "There's no one to blame here. Your actions, in the heat of that moment, were those of a man who sought to survive. Now tell me... what is it you wanted to speak about?"
George's eyes, once locked on the floor, now found Desmond's. His voice was a whisper, barely audible. "I can't remember everything exactly, but all that's inside my head is... that cloak maiden. She... she was swinging her scythe, so... gracefully." He stuttered, as if the memory itself threatened to overpower him. "That scythe... it came from nowhere... like it was made of blood... gleaming in the red moonlight. It was hunting us, hunting my soul."
Desmond's interest piqued at the mention of the scythe, his brow furrowing with curiosity. He leaned in closer, his voice soft but commanding. "A scythe? Can you give us more details about that person, and the weapon?"
George's pupils were wide, his eyes darting as if searching for the memory in the shadows of his mind. "She was... laughing. Laughing while she danced. Killing us all like it was nothing. She moved so fast... I couldn't even see her. The scythe... the gleam in its edge was like a reflection of death. I was—AHHHH! NO! PLEASE! SPARE MY LIFE!" His voice suddenly broke, and he was on the ground, clutching at his head in panic.
Desmond stepped back, his face hardening. "This is bad, Your Highness. I think we should stop asking him for now." Zephyrl's voice was filled with concern, but Desmond's determination was unwavering.
"No!" Desmond snapped, his eyes fierce with the intensity of his resolve. "We're about to know who abducted her... the one with the scythe! Don't you see? This is the key to everything!"
But Zephyrl remain unshaken, stepping between Desmond and George, his tone calm but insistent. "Your Highness, his situation is not an easy one. Look at him. We can't continue like this. He's on the brink of losing himself completely."
Zephyrl turned sharply to one of the knights standing nearby, his voice taking on an authority that brooked no argument. "You—! Call for help, now. And you—! Take him to a quiet place. Get him calm."
The knight immediately nodded and moved to carry out the order, while Zephyrl continued to speak in hushed tones, his hand gently clutching Desmond's shoulders. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but this is better for now. If we don't let him calm down, you'll get no answers. He's lost in his own mind. We need to wait, and let him recover."
Desmond clenched his jaw, but his anger slowly subsided, replaced by a grim understanding. His gaze flickered to George, who was now being led away, trembling in the hands of the knights.
"For now," Zephyrl continued, his voice low, "Let Earl Deloney handle this. We can make our move later, once George is able to speak clearly. There's no sense in pushing him now."
Desmond, though unwilling to give up the opportunity to uncover the truth, nodded in reluctant agreement. "Fine. But I want him ready to speak soon, Zephyrl. I need to know more. We're getting closer."
After what had transpired with George Franklyn, Desmond and Zephyrl returned to the church and rejoined the quiet mourning crowd. The air inside was thick with incense and whispered prayers, the choir's solemn hymn weaving through the arches like a ghostly echo of reverence.
The coffins, each draped in the banner of their rank and honor, were slowly carried out one by one and loaded into wagons, bound for the cemetery where the final rites would take place. Families wept, soldiers stood still as statues, and the priest recited the blessings of safe passage into the afterlife with a voice that trembled only slightly.
Outside, the sun bore down gently, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The field of graves awaited them, rows of earth newly turned in preparation for the burial. The priest raised his hands as the final prayers were said, before the first coffin descended into the grave, swallowed by the earth with all its secrets.
From inside the black-paneled carriage, Desmond observed the scene in cold silence. His golden-blonde wig shimmered under a shaft of sunlight leaking through the curtains, but his eyes—his true eyes—held only ice. His gloved fingers tapped quietly against the edge of the window frame, the faces of the grieving reflected dimly in the polished wood.
Zephyrl, seated across from him, didn't speak at first. He kept his gaze outward, watching the mourners clutch at one another for comfort. Then, softly, he broke the silence.
"Is this what you truly desire, Master?" His voice was calm, but the weight behind the words was evident. "Your plan has only just begun... and already, so many lives have been sacrificed."
Desmond's gaze didn't shift from the window. His lips curled into the slightest, bitter semblance of a smile. "I have no sympathy for these people. They cling to symbols… to figureheads they deem as their joy, their hope, their strength. But their vision is clouded by blind reverence."
His fingers moved to the ring on his thumb—a modest band of silver carved with an intricate insignia. He twisted it once, a small habit that betrayed his inner focus.
"After all," he continued, his voice cold and resolute, "everything has just begun. I am far from a checkmate. Until I see his corpse—until I see that face buried beneath stone—I cannot call this a victory."
Zephyrl said nothing at first. His eyes lingered on his master for a long moment, before slowly closing, offering a silent breath to the departed. Whether it was in pity for the dead or concern for the living, he did not say.
Desmond turned his head slightly, as if sensing Zephyrl's quiet judgment.
"We cannot hesitate, Zephyrl," he said in a low tone. "Not now. Every piece must fall in place, even if it means blood on the board."
Zephyrl looked back out the window again, his expression unreadable.
"And if the board breaks beneath the weight of that blood?"
Desmond's eyes narrowed. The carriage door shut with a heavy thud, sealing the silence once more as they watched the graves swallow the honored dead—chess pieces sacrificed in a much greater game.
"Then I'll play a new game."