“Okay. Here’s how we burn him to the ground.”
The words hung in the garden air, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the blare of distant alarms. Four pairs of eyes fixed on me, no longer with suspicion or pity, but with a fierce, shared resolve. The prime minister might have cornered us, but he had also, inadvertently, forged a weapon.
“We hit him where it hurts most: his image, his finances, and his carefully constructed narrative,” I began, pacing the flagstones, my mind racing through the show’s schedule. “The final episode airs in less than twenty-four hours. He plans to arrest me on live television, framing me as the traitor, the commoner who dared to corrupt the monarchy. We turn that against him.”
Ferenc stepped forward, rubbing his knuckles. “How? His media control is absolute. He’s been preparing for this moment for years.”
“The Queen’s diary,” I reminded him. “It’s the evidence. The coded records, the names, the dates. We disseminate all of it. Not just within our borders, but globally. We make it impossible for him to spin this as a local incident.”
Istvan pushed his spectacles up his nose, his gaze already distant, calculating. “The encryption. It’s a variant of the old Royal Exchequer cipher. Designed for extreme secrecy, but I believe I can crack it. Give me a secure room, a terminal, and absolute quiet. I’ll have the full financial breakdown before sunrise.”
“Excellent,” I affirmed, turning to Casian. “Once Istvan has the data, you use those 'artistic retreat' channels. Foreign press. Whistleblower sites. Anonymous drops. Make sure it gets everywhere, instantly. Flood the foreign feeds the moment the last show goes live. We need a coordinated attack.”
Casian’s smirk was devoid of its usual mockery, replaced by a glint of genuine mischief. “Consider it done. My ‘art dealer’ friends have a surprising reach into less…conventional media circles. This will be the greatest performance of my life.”
Matyas, still clutching his sword, looked from Ferenc to me, his stance solid. “My guard detail is loyal. They will secure this perimeter and any area Istvan needs. No one gets near our operation without going through me.” His eyes, once so dismissive, held a deep, protective fire.
Ferenc, the grim strategist, nodded. “I will oversee the timing, coordinate with Matyas’s men for our own internal security, and prepare for the immediate aftermath. The moment the traitor's crimes are aired, the kingdom will erupt. We need to be ready to stabilize it.”
“Good,” I said, crossing my arms over the grease-stained apron I still wore beneath my jacket. “This isn’t just about winning seed money for a bistro. This is about taking back a kingdom.”
We moved with a focused urgency, the impending dawn a silent timer. Istvan vanished into a fortified chamber deep within the estate archives, a network of monitors and ancient ledgers his battleground. Casian holed up in his studio, whispering into encrypted handsets. Matyas’s guards patrolled the limestone corridors, rifles slung low. Ferenc monitored every production roster and sentry rotation.
Hours bled into one another, marked by the frantic tapping of keyboards and the hushed urgency of whispered commands.
Just as the first hint of pale light touched the eastern sky, Casian burst into our makeshift command center, his face stark. “There’s a problem. A big one.”
“What is it?” Ferenc demanded, rising from his chair.
“The live transmission system for ‘Sovereign’s Choice’,” Casian explained, pulling at his collar, “it’s a closed loop. Completely isolated from external cables during live feeds. Any leaks we push abroad will post *after* the credits roll here, *after* Kata is in handcuffs. The prime minister controls every relay tower in the realm, and he can stall external news feeds long enough to control the story.”
My gut twisted. He hadn’t just orchestrated a show; he’d built a digital fortress. Our scheme, meant to expose him overseas, would reach our own populace hours too late.
“So, we can’t hijack the live feed from the outside?” I asked, my voice flat.
Casian shook his head. “Not without being inside, at the source. It’s like a custom-built, royal-grade firewall.”
All that work, all that risk, blunted by a server wall. The cameras would roll, the cuffs would snap onto my wrists, and the public would swallow the lie.
Then a thought, sharp and desperate, sliced through the despair. Szilard. He knew the palace’s underbelly, its secret veins. His underground cell kept tabs on the court's covert movements. If anyone knew how to bypass the broadcast system, it would be them.
“I need Szilard,” I announced, the name tasting like a gamble. Ferenc immediately produced a burner phone – a relic from his own covert operations – and I tapped out the pre-arranged, encrypted message.
His response came within minutes, a single coded line: *“Sub-stage conduit. Hardline override. Channel 7. Requires continuous contact for duration of transmission.”*
I stared at the words, then looked up at the princes. “Sub-stage conduit. Beneath the main stage where the finale will be held. A hardline override. Channel 7.” “He’s saying there’s a manual toggle,” I said. “Someone has to reach it.”
Ferenc’s eyes narrowed. “And ‘continuous connection for duration of transmission’… meaning someone has to stay there. Exposed.”
Matyas gripped his sword. “I’ll go. I’m the captain of the guard. I know the manor's service tunnels. I can access it.”
“No, you can’t,” I countered, my voice firm. “You’re needed to command your men, to keep the peace when this hits. And they’ll expect you in the audience, or guarding the exits. Same for Ferenc, Casian, Istvan. You’re all princes. Your absence would be noticed, suspicious. Our dear statesman would arrest you before you even hit the undercroft.”
“Then who?” Istvan asked, his usual composure now fraying at the edges.
My gaze drifted to the projected image of the grand finale stage, empty now, but soon to be flooded with lights and cameras. The 'Sun-Kissed Maiden' was expected to be there. Arrested there. But what if she wasn’t?
“Me,” I stated, the word echoing with a terrifying certainty. “It has to be me. I’m the star of the show, remember? The one he wants front and center. I’ll be on that stage. While I’m up there, I can find a way to activate it. I’m the only one who can get close enough without raising immediate alarm.”
Ferenc’s face was a mask of concern. “Kata, that’s insane. You’ll be directly in his crosshairs. The moment that evidence goes live, you’ll be the first person he targets.”
“Exactly,” I said, a bitter smile touching my lips. “It’s what he expects. But he won’t expect me to be the one pulling the trigger.” I looked at each of them, my voice steady, resolute. “This is the only way to ensure our people see the raw truth. I walk onto that stage, trip the override, and hold it until the full reel plays out. The puppet bride exposing the puppet master on live television.”
Casian looked like he wanted to argue, to charm me out of it, but saw the unshakeable resolve in my eyes. Istvan simply nodded, his intellectual understanding of the tactical necessity outweighing his fear. Matyas’s hand tightened on his sword, his loyalty warring with his captain’s sense of duty to protect.
Ferenc finally sighed, a profound weariness in his posture, but also a deep respect. “Very well. We will ensure your path to the stage is clear, and we will be ready to move the moment the truth breaks. Wear this.” He handed me a small, discreet earpiece and a tiny pin, disguised as a decorative broach, with an almost invisible microphone.
“For communication,” he explained. “We’ll be listening, and guiding you if necessary. And Matyas’s men will be positioned to extract you the moment the situation explodes.”
I fastened the pin to the raw silk dress they’d tailored for the climactic episode—stark white, tailored to look angelic. It felt like a shroud. I could hear the faint, crackling static of the earpiece, connecting me to them, to the entire desperate operation.
The final hour arrived with a sickening lurch. I stood backstage, the roar of the live audience a distant, bloodthirsty hum. The stage manager, a woman whose smile never quite reached her eyes, gave me the final cue. “And now, our beloved Sun-Kissed Maiden, Kata Barza!”
I stepped into the blinding lights, a lone figure on the massive, opulent stage. The Chancellor stood to one side, his face a picture of smug triumph, ready to deliver his verdict. I walked to the designated mark, the hidden access point for the sub-stage conduit a faint seam in the polished floor beneath my feet. My fingers brushed the subtle indentation, feeling the cold, hard reality of the switch.
My gaze locked with the Chancellor’s. A tight, almost imperceptible smile played on my lips.
Into my hidden microphone, I whispered, “I’m in position. Do it.”