Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

Chapter 93: The Grand Duke Attends Rehearsal

The Coronation Hall was designed to make people feel small. Naturally. Empires loved doing that.

The ceiling rose high enough to make voices climb before falling back as echoes. Long banners hung from the upper galleries, embroidered with the imperial sun, the founding oath, and enough gold thread to fund several villages if anyone in the Capital had developed taste alongside conscience. Marble pillars lined the hall in solemn intervals, the central aisle leading toward the imperial dais, where three rings were carved into the polished floor. One beneath the Emperor’s chair. One beneath the Crown Prince’s place. One in front of them both, empty and waiting.

I disliked the third ring immediately. It sat too quietly. Some objects were silent because they were harmless. Others were silent because they knew patience. The soundless bell waited in the marble like an eye pretending to be closed.

The rehearsal hadn’t yet begun, but the hall already swarmed with useful people pretending they’d gathered for protocol. Duke Rouvier stood near the second pillar with his daughter Lady Evelina at his side, wearing a dark formal coat and the expression of a man who’d spent the morning deciding whether worry would wrinkle him. Lady Evelina looked composed, her pale blue dress arranged beautifully, hands folded, eyes alert, watching the hall with more intelligence than most of the men trying to pretend they understood it.

Good. Perhaps she’d inherited less from her father than feared.

The bishop’s deputy spoke quietly to the rehearsal master near the dais. Three military lords argued over seating proximity with all the dignity of roosters in medals. The central advisors whispered behind fans they absolutely did not need indoors. Palace guards stood in formal positions, though several now wore small Sonomian thread knots beneath their cuffs.

Adrien’s letter had been useful. Royal command was a lovely thing when aimed properly.

Abi stood where the Crown Prince should have been. At least, that was what the room saw. He wore Adrien’s formal rehearsal coat, his hair hidden beneath a glamour, his posture adjusted into something princely enough to pass among people who saw what they expected. The disguise wasn’t perfect. To anyone who knew Adrien well, the figure beside the imperial seat would look slightly wrong. Too still. Too amused beneath the surface. Too likely to say something unfortunate if left unattended.

For that reason, the Empress stood close enough to speak before he did. A mother’s protection came in many forms. Today, it included preventing a Jinn from improvising as a Crown Prince.

My father was positioned near the military section. Mother remained at the estate with the real Adrien, Spiro, the rescued children, and the prisoners. She hadn’t liked staying behind. I hadn’t liked leaving her behind. Both facts were irrelevant. The estate held the most vulnerable pieces. That meant she was where she needed to be.

Arthur had entered through the guard rotation and now stood near the western arch with six Sonomi knights distributed through the hall. Bernard sat among the scribes with three official ledgers and five unofficial ones. William wasn’t present, which was a pity, he’d have enjoyed watching nobles walk into a trap while believing they’d attended a rehearsal.

A court herald struck his staff against the floor. Once. Twice. The sound traveled cleanly through the hall. Not bell-like. Good.

The rehearsal master, a thin man with a beautiful voice and a dreadful face for hiding opinions, stepped forward. "Honored witnesses," he said, "by order of Her Imperial Majesty, today’s rehearsal will include revised protocols to ensure precision during the coronation ceremony."

Murmurs began at once. Excellent. Nothing frightened traditionalists like revised protocols.

Duke Rouvier’s eyes narrowed. The bishop’s deputy stopped smiling. The Empress lifted one hand, and the hall quieted.

"I approved the revision," she said. That was all. No explanation. No apology. Powerful people forgot that a simple sentence could be more effective than a speech if one possessed enough authority behind it.

The rehearsal master swallowed. "The first sequence will begin with procession placement."

The hall moved. Servants marked positions. Nobles arranged themselves according to rank. Clergy lifted ceremonial texts. The Emperor entered from the side door rather than the public entrance, looking dignified, confused, and mildly irritated that his rehearsal had become crowded.

He knew less than he should. But not nothing. His gaze found the Empress, then the false Adrien, then me. For a second, his eyes sharpened.

Good. He’d noticed something wrong. Too late, but still.

The Empress stepped beside him and murmured something too low to hear. His face changed. Not much. Enough. The Emperor was either wiser than I’d assumed or very good at deciding not to react in rooms full of enemies. I revised his ranking slightly upward.

The procession began. The first movements were ordinary, officials crossing the hall, pages carrying symbolic cushions, a chamberlain announcing the sequence of oaths, priests lifting their texts, nobles bowing at the right moments.

I watched the floor. The first ring under the Emperor’s chair remained quiet. The second ring beneath the Crown Prince’s place trembled when Abi stepped into position. He didn’t look at me. Good. The third ring did nothing.

That bothered me.

The rehearsal master reached the collective response portion. "And by the voice of empire," he declared, "the witnesses shall answer as one."

"No," I said.

The word cut through the hall. People turned. The rehearsal master froze. Duke Rouvier’s expression sharpened. The bishop’s deputy stiffened.

I smiled politely. "Forgive the interruption. Actually, do not. I intended it."

The military lords looked delighted despite themselves. The Empress closed her eyes for half a breath. The Emperor stared at me in a manner that suggested he was deciding whether I was saving his family or ruining his afternoon.

Both, really.

"Your Excellency," the rehearsal master said carefully, "the collective answer is part of the coronation tradition."

"How precious."

A faint cough came from the military section. My father, probably.

"However," I continued, "collective responses are prone to acoustic distortion in older halls. His Highness’s recent illness has made ceremonial precision important. Each witness will answer individually according to office, beginning with the imperial household."

The bishop’s deputy stepped forward. "That is unnecessary."

Ah. First insect. How punctual.

The Empress looked at him. "Your name?"

He bowed. "Bishop Deputy Lorian, Your Majesty. I speak only out of concern for sacred continuity."

Sacred continuity. A lovely phrase. It meant nothing and asked no one to examine that lack.

"Sacred continuity survived people learning to write reports," I said. "It will survive individual answers."

His mouth tightened. Duke Rouvier stepped in smoothly. "Grand Duke Konstantin, while your concern for His Highness is admirable, altering coronation protocol without full clerical review may create political discomfort."

Political discomfort. The true religion of the Capital.

"I agree," I said.

The duke blinked. That had surprised him. Good.

"Political discomfort is exactly what I intend to create," I continued. "A comfortable court is a negligent court."

Several faces changed. Adrien would have enjoyed that. A pity he wasn’t here. Or perhaps fortunate. The physician would have expired.

The Emperor finally spoke, his voice carrying through the hall. "The revised protocol stands."

Duke Rouvier bowed. "As Your Majesty commands." His tone was smooth. His eyes were not.

The rehearsal continued. The first witness answered individually, the chamberlain placing his hand over his chest and reciting the acknowledgment. No reaction. The second. No reaction. The third ring remained still.

Then the bishop’s deputy answered. For one breath, the empty ring flickered. Barely. Like a sleeping eye disturbed by light.

Abi’s fingers moved at his side. I smiled. There you are.

The next witness was Duke Rouvier. He stepped forward with perfect composure, his daughter watching him, not proudly, carefully. He recited the line, and the ring flickered again. This time the marble beneath it darkened. Not enough for the hall to see. Enough for me. Enough for Abi. Enough for Father, who’d shifted one hand casually near his sword.

The rehearsal master’s voice wavered as he called the next position. Lady Evelina wasn’t supposed to answer. She stepped forward anyway.

Duke Rouvier’s head turned sharply. Interesting.

"Lady Evelina," the rehearsal master said, flustered, "your role is observational."

"I was invited as the Crown Prince’s initial ceremonial partner," she replied. "If my presence is part of the political symbolism, my acknowledgment should be recorded."

Not bad. Duke Rouvier’s expression remained controlled, but one vein near his temple betrayed him. The Empress looked toward me. I inclined my head slightly. Let her speak.

Lady Evelina placed her hand over her chest. "I acknowledge the Crown Prince’s right by law, witness, and living will."

Not the script. The ring didn’t flicker. It recoiled.

Delightful.

The bishop’s deputy went pale. Duke Rouvier’s face finally cracked. "Evelina," he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him. "I was told to speak with sincerity, Father."

Whoever told her that had my compliments. Possibly her own spine. A rare family treasure.

The hall shifted. Nobles whispered. The military lords looked entertained. The Emperor’s gaze had sharpened fully now. He was no longer mildly irritated. He was watching.

Good.

The rehearsal master tried to proceed, but his voice had begun to shake. Bernard’s quill moved steadily among the scribes, recording every deviation, every reaction, every person who paled when the ritual failed to behave.

Then the hall doors opened. Not the main doors. The upper gallery entrance. A figure stepped inside beneath a dark green cloak.

The Verdant observer. No introduction. No escort. No apology.

The air shifted. A scent of rain moved through the marble hall, and the empty third ring pulsed once. Abi went still. The figure paused at the gallery rail. I couldn’t see the face clearly beneath the hood, only the curve of a pale chin and a hand resting lightly on the stone, long fingers, a ring shaped like a thorned branch.

The observer looked directly toward the dais. Toward Abi wearing Adrien’s face. Then toward me.

I felt her attention settle against the edge of the room, deliberate, assessing, the way a merchant looks at a ledger she already suspects is wrong. Not hostile. Amused. That was somehow worse. I looked away. There were more immediate problems than a rude faerie observer with an excellent entrance.

The rehearsal master called the next acknowledgment. One of the central faction advisors stepped forward. His voice began steady, then changed.

"By the voice of empire," he said, "the first receives."

Arthur moved. Too late to stop the first phrase. Not too late for the second. The advisor’s mouth opened again, and Arthur’s hand closed around his jaw from behind, the rest of the sentence becoming a muffled sound of offended aristocracy.

The hall erupted. Swords flashed. Nobles shouted. The bishop’s deputy staggered back. Duke Rouvier reached under his sleeve. My father’s sword left its sheath with a clean whisper. The Empress stepped in front of the false Crown Prince.

And beneath the dais, the soundless bell began to ring without sound.

The air pressure changed. Everyone felt it. No one heard it. That was what made it worse. The empty ring in the marble darkened, and across the hall, every person who’d answered with the old script inhaled at once.

Like an audience preparing to sing.

I smiled. Finally. The rehearsal had begun properly.