The East Wing of the palace was a stark contrast to the Prince's crumbling chambers. Here, the floors were polished marble that shone like glass, and the walls were lined with portraits of kings who looked like they had never known a day of hunger.
The man in the grey suit led me to a heavy mahogany door. He didn't knock; he simply opened it and gestured for me to enter.
"The girl is here, My Lord," he said, his voice as flat as a ledger.
Sitting behind a desk piled high with scrolls was a man who looked like he was made of old parchment. This was Lord Varick, the King's Chief Secretary. He didn't look up when I entered. He simply continued writing, the scratch of his quill the only sound in the room.
I didn't fidget. I didn't curtsy until I was directly in front of the desk. I stood with my feet shoulder-width apart, my hands clasped loosely at my waist—the "Power Stance" I used to use when waiting for a Board Chairman to finish his coffee.
Five minutes passed. A tactic to make me nervous. I used the time to "audit" the room. Three safes. Two exits. A half-burnt letter in the hearth. Varick wasn't just a secretary; he was the King's memory.
"You have been at the Prince's side for less than a fortnight," Varick finally said, his voice raspy. He looked up, his eyes sharp and gray like flint. "In that time, the Prince has stopped drinking, he has dressed in silk that costs more than a year of your wages, and two of the Empress's guards have been hospitalized with... respiratory distress."
He leaned back, crossing his spindly fingers. "Tell me, Elara. Who are you working for?"
"I work for the Crown, My Lord," I replied, my voice steady. "Specifically, the branch of the Crown that currently resides in the Western Wing."
"Don't play word games with me, girl," Varick snapped. "A maid from the slums doesn't know how to balance a royal ledger, and she certainly doesn't know how to use a rolling pin like a mace. I've checked your records. You don't exist before last month."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced a small, knowing smile. "In my line of work, Lord Varick, 'not existing' is the highest form of professional certification."
I stepped closer to the desk, lowering my voice. "You serve a King who is surrounded by people trying to blind him. The Empress wants her son on the throne. The Crown Prince wants his brothers dead. And you? You want the Empire to stay solvent. But the Crown Prince is bleeding the Southern provinces dry to fund his private guard. You've seen the discrepancies in the grain shipments, haven't you?"
Varick's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. It was the only "tell" I needed.
"The King is an old man," I continued, pressing my advantage. "He doesn't want a civil war between his sons. But if he finds out his 'Golden Son' is a thief, he will have no choice but to call for the Trial of the Three Sons. You want that trial, Varick. Because a thief on the throne is bad for business."
"You speak of treason," Varick whispered, but he didn't call the guards.
"I speak of risk management," I countered. "I am the Prince's 'Fixer.' I am cleaning up his image so the King has a viable alternative to a traitor. If you help me, I will ensure the transition is smooth. If you try to stop me... well, I imagine the King would be very interested to know why his Chief Secretary ignored twenty thousand missing gold dragons from the Southern Relief fund."
It was a bluff. I didn't know if Varick was involved, but in the corporate world, "implied knowledge" is often more powerful than the truth.
Varick stared at me for a long time. The silence stretched until I could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantle. Then, slowly, he reached into his drawer and pulled out a small, wax-sealed envelope.
"The King has been... curious about Bastian's sudden change," Varick said, pushing the envelope toward me. "This is an invitation to the Royal Hunt in two days. It is a traditional event. Only the King and his sons attend. Or, in this case... their personal aides."
I took the envelope. This was it. The Hunt was the perfect place for an "accident."
"Why give me this?" I asked.
"Because," Varick said, his eyes turning cold. "I want to see if you are as good as you think you are. If Bastian survives the Hunt, I will consider your 'partnership.' If he doesn't... then you were just another girl who flew too close to the sun."
"I don't fly, My Lord," I said, tucking the envelope into my bodice. "I climb. And I never lose my grip."
I curtsied—this time with a hint of mockery—and walked out.
The moment the door closed, I leaned against the wall and let out a breath I'd been holding for ten minutes. My hands were shaking. I had just blackmailed the most powerful man in the palace.
I didn't go back to the Prince's room. I went straight to the laundry. I needed to see Sarah. If the Royal Hunt was happening in two days, I needed to know exactly what the Crown Prince was planning.
The "Trial" hadn't even started yet, and the blades were already out.