My breath grew shallow, a thin, painful thing. My world had been a shaky table, but Szilard was the sturdy leg. Now it had collapsed, leaving me sprawled in the dust. The room, once a gilded cage, felt like a tomb. I pushed past Ferenc, not seeing him, not hearing his low, derisive chuckle. I needed air. I needed to move. I needed to find a place where the surveillance lenses didn't follow, a place where I could breathe without thirty million viewers watching, judging, plotting. I walked, then ran, through ornate corridors adorned with ancestral portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow me. My mind raced, trying to reconcile the Szilard I knew—the one who’d shared stale pastries and wild dreams of my own restaurant, the one who’d given me a desperate warning in the kitchens—with the man on that screen. It was impossible. It had to be a trick. Another manipulation. But the footage felt too real, too damning. Where would a prince go to hide something vital? Not his study, not his bedroom. Somewhere less obvious, perhaps somewhere considered solely masculine domain, where an outsider like me wouldn't be expected to tread. The Royal Armory. I remembered hearing the estate tour guide drone on about its historical significance, its limited access. A perfect place to speak without eavesdroppers. I navigated the labyrinthine passages, relying on a vague memory of the palace map. The armory was tucked away, beyond the royal stables and the forgotten training grounds. The heavy iron door, banded with bronze, was unlatched. I pushed it open, stepping into a cavernous chamber. Suits of gleaming plate armor stood sentinel, their empty visors reflecting the dim light from a few high windows. Swords, lances, and crossbows hung on velvet-lined walls, silent witnesses to centuries of Almassian history. And there, in the center, polishing a ceremonial sabre with slow, deliberate strokes, was Prince Ferenc. He didn't startle, didn't even look up. He simply continued his task, the metallic rasp of the cloth against steel the only sound. “You knew,” I said, my voice hoarse, raw. “You knew about Szilard.” He finally raised his head, his dark eyes meeting mine. They held no triumph now, only a weariness I hadn't seen before. “I knew the Chancellor would find a way to isolate you. To make you distrust everyone. Szilard was a simple target, easily corrupted, or easily framed.” “Framed?” A flicker of hope, brittle and fragile, ignited within me. “Then it wasn’t him?” Ferenc scoffed, a humorless sound. “What difference does it make? He’s either a traitor, or a puppet. Either way, the outcome is the same: you are alone. Just as I was.” He set the sabre down, the clang echoing in the vast room. “You think I enjoy this charade? This ‘Sovereign’s Choice’? You think I relish the thought of marrying some vapid noblewoman, or worse, another diner girl thrown into the viper’s nest?” His words, sharp and bitter, struck a chord. I had always assumed his cruelty was pure malice, an aristocrat's disdain for greasy spoons. But his gaze now held something deeper, a profound resignation. “You believe I’m a pawn, don’t you? Like Szilard. Another disposable prop.” “Aren’t you?” he challenged, rising slowly, his posture commanding even in the dim light. “The Chancellor brought her here, too. A village girl from the Rakovian foothills. Young, naive, beautiful. He presented her as a gift to my father, the King. The ‘Sun-Kissed Maiden’ of her time.” His voice dropped, heavy with a grief that surprised me. “She opposed him, you know. She saw through his avarice, his hunger for power. She tried to warn my father. And then… she died. An unfortunate riding accident. Very tragic. Very public.” The air stuck in my throat. The pieces clicked into place. The tragic ‘accidents’ Istvan and I had uncovered in the palace archives. The dead songbird. The sabotaged saddle. My own near-fatal fall. This wasn't just a reality show. It was a pattern, a death sentence. “He’s using me,” I breathed, the realization chilling me to the bone. “He’s using me to finish what he started with the late queen. To put a puppet on the throne.” Ferenc nodded, his eyes like polished obsidian. “Precisely. He needs a commoner queen, someone he believes he can control, someone without the entrenched loyalties of the old nobility. He thought you were perfect. Short-tempered, easily provoked. He hoped you’d burn yourself out, make a spectacle, and then he could dispose of you and pick the next ‘maiden’ from his stable of candidates. But you’re smarter than he anticipated. More resilient.” He walked over to a suit of ancient, unadorned armor, a dull bronze relic standing apart from the gleaming steel. His fingers traced a decorative carving on the breastplate. With a faint click, a small, hidden compartment sprang open. Inside, nestled on crimson velvet, was a slender, leather-bound book. Its cover was worn, the pages thin and brittle. He extracted it carefully, holding it like a sacred relic. “Her private thoughts,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “Her observations. Her fears. Her evidence.” He opened it to a marked page. “She knew of his plans. His network of collaborators among the military. His ambition to dismantle the constitutional monarchy and seize absolute power, with a ‘pliant’ royal consort as his pawn.” My gaze fell upon the elegant script, seeing names, dates, coded references to military units and illicit financial transfers. It was all there. Proof. Treason. The truth of the realm's crumbling facade. “He’s playing a deadly game,” I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. “And we’re both on his board. You, as the inconvenient eldest son. Me, as the expendable commoner. We have a common enemy.” Ferenc closed the diary, his gaze meeting mine, shrewd and assessing. “An alliance of vipers, then, Barza? You, the street rat who outsmarted his traps. Me, the prince who watched his mother die. What do you propose?” “We expose him,” I declared, the adrenaline coursing through me, clearing the fog of despair. “We use this show, his own weapon, against him. We find a way to reveal this to the entire kingdom.” A ghost of a smile touched Ferenc’s lips. “A dangerous proposition. He will not hesitate to silence us both.” “I’m already marked for death,” I retorted, holding his gaze. “What more do I have to lose?” The heavy door to the armory suddenly burst open, slamming against the stone wall with a thunderous crash that made us both start. Silhouetted in the doorway, his face rigid with fury, stood Prince Matyas. His eyes, usually filled with a distant pity, now blazed with righteous indignation. He had followed me. He must have seen me enter, then slipped in silently, a phantom of duty and suspicion. His gaze fell on the leather-bound diary in Ferenc’s hand, then flicked to my face. His features contorted with betrayal and something darker, a fierce, unyielding loyalty to the established order. The golden boy, the kingdom’s captain of the guard, saw only one thing: treason. Without a word, his hand went to the ornate hilt of his ceremonial sword, a blade usually reserved for parades and formal occasions. It scraped against its scabbard with a chilling ring, a sound of finality. The blade gleamed, catching the faint light, pointing directly at us. His voice, usually calm and composed, was now steel-edged, cold with authority. “By order of the Chancellor, you are both under arrest for treason.”

An Alliance of Vipers