My fingers tightened around the frayed saddle strap, the raw edge cutting into my palm. No accidental tear caused this. No warning either. It was a termination order, delivered by horse. I met Casian’s gaze, then Matyas’s, scanning for the tell-tale flicker of malice, the subtle shift in their eyes that would betray a killer. Casian’s concern seemed genuine, his usually flippant mouth set in a grim line. Matyas, however, still held that air of superior irritation, as if my near-death experience was merely an inconvenience to his pristine uniform. Neither gave anything away, just two handsome statues carved from royal indifference. “I’m fine,” I snapped, yanking my arm free from Casian’s hesitant grasp. The last thing I needed was their practiced pity. My leg throbbed where I’d slammed against Lira’s side, and my head spun with the sheer audacity of it. Someone wanted me dead. On live television. This was no back-alley brawl; it was a court-sanctioned execution attempt. Matyas waved a hand dismissively. “You ought to be more careful, commoner. These horses are spirited.” “Spirited?” I shot back, holding up the incriminating strap. “Or sabotaged? This isn’t a clean break, Prince. This was cut.” He squinted, his perfectly coiffed eyebrow rising. “Nonsense. The gear here is meticulously maintained.” His gaze drifted to the hovering drones, then back to me with a sharp edge. The lens adored him, but it completely missed the cold disgust in his posture. Casian’s expression hardened. “Matyas, she has a point. That’s a clean slice.” He looked at me, a question replacing his concern. “Who would do this, Kata?” I ignored him. Who *wouldn’t*? Ferenc, for his blatant hostility; Matyas, for his dismissive attitude masking something darker; even Casian, for his endless mockery that felt less like flirtation and more like a distraction. My mind raced, trying to find a corner of this opulent prison that wasn’t under constant scrutiny, a place where a cook from the industrial outskirts could uncover a royal conspiracy without being caught. The only place I could think of was the one least interested in the show’s drama: Istvan’s private domain. I limped away from the princely duo, ignoring their calls, ignoring the medics who finally jogged over, their faces a mask of forced cheer. My leg ached, my head pounded, but the adrenaline propelled me forward. I navigated the gilded corridors, the silent, watchful cameras feeling like predatory eyes. Every painting, carved bust, and polished marble tile reminded me how easy it would be to vanish here. I needed answers, and the trail ran through dusty ledgers, through the one prince who despised this broadcast circus more than I did. The Royal Archives, or as it was more commonly known, Prince Istvan’s library, was a sanctuary of hushed whispers and aged paper. Unlike the brightly lit corridors outside, this wing was a sprawling maze of dark walnut shelves climbing toward ribbed vaults. The air carried the dry reek of parchment and aged wax, an earthy relief against the synthetic polish of the broadcast rooms. No sleek screens hummed here, no obvious camera lenses hovered, just silent stacks of knowledge. A temporary refuge from the broadcast directors and the chief minister's inner circle. I found Istvan exactly where I expected him: perched on a rolling ladder, a thick, leather-bound tome balanced precariously on his knee. Round spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, and a goose feather rested behind his ear, sitting as naturally as a clean dish towel over my forearm. He wore a simple, unadorned tunic, a stark contrast to the tailored finery of his brothers. He didn’t look up as I entered, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed in his world of forgotten kings and ancient treaties. “Excuse me, Prince Istvan?” I said, my voice feeling jarringly loud in the quiet. He flinched, nearly dropping his book, and glared down at me over the rim of his glasses. His eyes, usually distant, held a momentary flash of annoyance. “Can’t you see I’m working, Barza? Must the entire estate sink into cheap vulgarity?” “Someone tried to kill me,” I stated flatly, holding up the mangled saddle strap. The silk of my riding habit felt sticky against my skin, still damp with nervous sweat. “And I think it has something to do with this show.” He paused, his gaze dropping from my face to the strap, then back up. His intellectual scorn momentarily faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity. “A cut? Not a tear?” he murmured, his voice losing some of its sharp edge. He meticulously examined the strap as I held it out. “A precise incision. The work of an amateur with access to professional tools, or a professional trying to appear amateurish. Fascinating.” He peered at me, a calculating glint in his eye. “And why come to me? Surely your ‘Golden Boy’ rescuer, Prince Matyas, would be more… suitable for such a dramatic pronouncement.” “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to care about the cameras,” I shot back, my patience wearing thin. “And you’re surrounded by history. I need to know if this has happened before.” His lips twitched, a shadow of a smile. “A fair point. A history of premeditated murder would make an inconvenient footnote for a crown-funded broadcast. Very well, Barza. Intrigue is, after all, a form of scholarship.” He gestured to a dusty table piled high with scrolls. “What precisely are you looking for?” “The Sovereign’s Choice,” I began, then paused. “Or any royal bride selection show from the past. Specifically, candidates who were born outside nobility. Outcasts. What happened to them once they were sent packing?” Istvan, for all his initial disdain, proved to be an unexpectedly efficient research partner. He moved with a quiet intensity, pulling down ancient ledgers and leather-bound reports, his long fingers deftly turning brittle pages. He had a photographic memory for historical minutiae, rattling off dates and names with ease. We worked in a strained silence, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the soft thud of heavy books. As we delved deeper into the royal records, a grim pattern took shape. Not from ‘The Sovereign’s Choice’ directly, which was relatively new, but from its predecessors – the ‘Queen’s Concord,’ the ‘Royal Matrimony Trials,’ stretching back centuries. *Eleonora Kaszas, milkmaid, eliminated from Royal Matrimony Trials, 1782. Drowned in a ‘tragic fishing accident’ a week later.* Istvan read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion, simply stating facts. *Gisela Kovacs, weaver, dismissed from Queen’s Concord, 1835. Fell from a horse during a ‘leisurely ride,’ never recovered.* I pointed to the entry, my finger tracing the faded script. My stomach churned. A horse. Just like Lira. *Sarolta Fazekas, baker, sent home from Royal Matrimony Trials, 1899. Found dead in her kitchen, ‘gas leak’ cited as cause.* The list grew, a horrifying litany of ‘accidents’ and ‘unfortunate circumstances.’ Every working-class entrant, without exception, died within weeks of leaving Orszag. None had simply returned to their lives. They had vanished, replaced by carefully worded obituaries in the royal gazette. The fatalities formed a calculated purge of anyone without bloodlines who reached for royal influence. “This isn’t bad luck,” I whispered, knuckles white against the desk. “They will never tolerate a diner cook wearing a tiara, and they won't permit a loose tongue outside the gate.” Istvan pushed his spectacles up, a rare, thoughtful expression on his face. “Indeed. A rather efficient method of maintaining the aristocratic façade. Erase the outsider, manage the headlines. The public mourns their passing, the court moves on.” He looked at me, a flicker of something new in his eyes – not disdain, but perhaps a nascent respect for my deduction. “You have a knack for cutting to the heart of the matter, Barza. Most would be caught up in the emotional theatrics.” I grunted, pushing a heavy volume aside. “Emotions don’t pay bills or keep you alive. Hard facts do.” Just then, a small book, a worn copy of Almassian folk tales, appeared on the corner of our table. It hadn't been there a moment ago. I looked up, but Istvan was still hunched over a ledger, oblivious. A library aide, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard, was straightening a shelf nearby. He caught my eye, a quick, almost imperceptible nod, then moved on. Szilard. My pulse skipped. Szilard had slipped inside. My hand trembled as I picked up the book. Tucked between the pages, a thin slip of paper. Szilard’s familiar scrawl. My eyes scanned the words: *Chancellor meeting with Gen. Zarko and Admiral Perge. Tonight. Old Council Chambers. Something big. Stay safe, Kata.* The prime minister, parleying with the army and navy brass. This reached beyond my survival; the whole regime was rotting from the core, just as Szilard had warned. “Barza, focus,” Istvan chastised, pulling me back. “This next entry… very curious.” Before he could elaborate, a sudden sound echoed through the hushed archives – the distinct clinking of ceremonial guard armor, growing louder. Istvan’s head snapped up, his scholarly calm instantly replaced by a hunted alertness. His stare fixed on the archway. “He’s here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. He hauled me behind a heavy velvet wall hanging depicting an ancient cavalry charge, ducking beside me as polished boots struck the marble runner outside.

Whispers in the Archives