I dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting groom. My father stood in the royal box, goblet raised in salute. Beside him, Theron looked bored, and beyond him, Gaspard watched me with calculating eyes, his expression a careful mask of admiration that didn’t reach those cold depths. Then I watched all three stand to leave.
A servant appeared at my elbow and blocked my view of them, offering water and a towel. I accepted both, using the moment to scan the crowd once more for any sign of Isabeau. Nothing. If it had indeed been her I saw, she was long gone from the tournament grounds by now.
“Your Highness,” the herald approached, bowing low. “The announcer requests your presence for the medallion ceremony.”
“Inform him I will attend shortly,” I replied, making a show of checking my saddle girth. “My mount requires attention.”
The herald hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with delivering anything less than my immediate compliance. “But you’ve won this event.“
“And I am most concerned about my horse,” I cut him off, letting a hint of steel enter my voice. “I will attend when I am satisfied he has been properly tended.”
The man bowed again, backing away to deliver my message. The moment he was out of sight, I turned to my squire. “How long until the joust?”
“An hour, Your Highness. They need to prepare the lists.”
Perfect. Long enough to get to the castle and back without arousing suspicion.
“See to my horse,” I instructed the boy. “Tell anyone who asks that I’m changing armor for the joust. I’ll return before the next event begins.”
I didn’t wait for his response, already striding toward the castle, keeping to the edges of the crowd where I’d attract less attention. The weight of the crown—metaphorical ratherthan literal today—had never felt heavier. Second sons weren’t supposed to feel its burden. We were the spares, the insurance policies against primogeniture’s fragility. Yet I’d always carried responsibility like a sacred trust while Theron treated it as an inconvenience.
The guards at the castle entrance straightened as I approached, offering salutes I barely acknowledged as I passed. My boots echoed on stone floors as I took the fastest route to Isabeau’s chambers, taking stairs two at a time, heart pounding with exertion and dread.
I rounded the final corner and froze.
The guards I’d posted at her door were gone. In their place stood royal guardsmen I didn’t recognize, men who answered to my father rather than me. The door stood open, and from within came the sound of multiple voices. My father’s deep baritone rising above the others in anger.
I approached slowly, the soldier in me assessing the situation before charging in. Four guardsmen flanked the doorway, their expressions hardening when they saw me. Not my men. Not men who would follow my orders over the king’s.
“Prince Alain,” one began, stepping forward to block my path. “The king has ordered—”
“The king is my father,” I cut him off, injecting every ounce of royal authority into my voice. “And I will speak with him.”
The guard hesitated, then stepped aside. Smart man. Defying a direct order from a crowned prince was more trouble than it was worth.
I entered the room to find exactly what I’d feared. Father stood by the window, his back rigid with fury. Theron lounged against the wall, seemingly bored but with eyes that missed nothing. And there, examining the remains of Isabeau’s makeshift rope from two nights ago, stood Gaspard Coventry.
“How convenient you’ve joined us, brother,” Theron drawled, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Your little pet has flown the coop.”
I maintained a neutral expression through years of practice hiding my true feelings at court. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play the fool,” Father snapped, turning from the window. “The witch is gone. Escaped. And I want to know how.” His eyes burned with accusation. The wordwitchfroze my blood like nothing else could.
I glanced around the room with what I hoped appeared to be genuine confusion rather than the profound relief flooding through me. The bed was still made, Isabeau’s borrowed gowns still hung in the open wardrobe, the book I’d read to her during her fever still lay on the windowsill. But the Isabeau-shaped absence in the room was palpable.
“When did this happen?” I asked, buying time to compose my thoughts. “I’ve been at the tournament since dawn.”
“The guards were found drugged not an hour ago,” Theron supplied, clearly enjoying the drama. “Sleeping like babes in the hallway.”
Gaspard limped a step forward, and I fought the urge to put my hand on my sword. Up close, his perfect features seemed more mask than man, a carefully constructed facade hiding something rotten beneath.
“A pity, Your Highness,” he said, his voice a practiced blend of concern and deference. “I had hoped to greet this maiden from my village. To explain the... misunderstanding between us.”
Misunderstanding. Was that what he called rape and torture? The urge to drive my fist into his face, to feel bones crack beneath my knuckles, was nearly overwhelming. I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them from betraying me.
“What misunderstanding?” I kept my tone carefully neutral, even as bile rose in my throat.
“She is a witch,” Gaspard stated, as if discussing the weather. “Found practicing dark arts in Thorndale. She was sentenced to death according to our customs, but somehow survived. Magic, obviously.” He smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Such abominations cannot be allowed to live among decent folk.”
