Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

Chapter 94: The Grand Duke Corrects the Program

The first rule of any public trap was simple. Never let the audience know when the performance had become dangerous. Unfortunately, the audience had already noticed.

Nobles were excellent at ignoring suffering when it belonged to servants, children, distant provinces, or inconvenient rumors. They were less excellent at ignoring danger when it stood in the same room, stepped on their silk shoes, and began vibrating beneath their polished marble floor.

Several ladies screamed. Two advisors attempted to flee. One military lord laughed in a way that made me reconsider his invitation for future events.

The Emperor stood. The Empress didn’t move from her position in front of the false Crown Prince. Abi, still wearing Adrien’s face, looked down at the darkening ring beneath his feet with an expression that would have been wildly inappropriate on the real Crown Prince. Too curious. Too sharp. Too entertained by danger.

I stepped forward before anyone could study him too closely. "Remain where you are," I said.

The hall didn’t immediately obey. How disappointing. I lifted my voice. "If anyone breaks formation, I’ll assume they’re either involved or incompetent. I dislike both, but I punish one with more enthusiasm."

That worked better. Fear was crude but efficient.

The soundless bell continued to ring without sound, pressing against the inside of the skull, making every breath feel fractionally delayed. The empty ring carved into the dais had turned the color of old ink, thin black lines spreading outward through the marble, not randomly, but toward the places where the old collective response would have gathered voices.

The bishop’s deputy had gone pale. Duke Rouvier stood too still. Lady Evelina looked from her father to the floor, then slowly stepped away from him.

Excellent girl.

Arthur still had the central advisor restrained, one hand clamped over the man’s mouth, the advisor’s eyes rolling wildly, tears streaming down his face. He didn’t look like someone chanting willingly.

Useful distinction.

"Abi," I said.

The false Crown Prince’s gaze flickered toward me. For one dangerous moment, I thought he might answer as himself. He didn’t. "Grand Duke," he said, in Adrien’s voice. Not perfect. Close enough.

"Can you contain the ring?"

"Not if I remain here."

The Empress looked at him. Her expression didn’t change. Remarkable woman. The Emperor, however, looked at him sharply.

Ah. So he noticed. Of course he did. A father might be late to many things, but not always blind.

I moved before the Emperor could speak. "Your Majesty," I said, "I require your authority."

The hall quieted. Even the soundless bell seemed to pause. The Emperor stared down at me from the dais. "For what?"

"To interrupt your rehearsal in a manner even more offensive than I already have."

His eyes narrowed. In the gallery, the Verdant observer’s shoulders shifted. Amusement, perhaps. I ignored it.

The Emperor looked at the Empress. She nodded once. Not as ruler. As mother. That convinced him more than my brilliance. I took no offense.

Mostly.

"Granted," the Emperor said.

The word fell into the hall. Authority. Real. Imperial. Immediate. The soundless bell pulsed. It liked that.

How greedy.

"Bernard," I called.

From among the scribes, Bernard stood with a ledger in one hand and a stack of prepared documents in the other, his face pale, his spine straight. Good boy.

"Read the revised witness protocol."

He swallowed, then began. "By emergency authority of the Crown Prince, sealed and witnessed by Her Imperial Majesty and acknowledged by His Imperial Majesty, all present witnesses shall answer individually under their own names, offices, and wills. No collective response shall bind those who do not consent. No sacred phrase shall be accepted without record. No borrowed voice shall be recognized."

The ring hissed. Not audibly. But every lamp in the hall flickered. The bishop’s deputy staggered. Duke Rouvier’s hand twitched. The restrained advisor sobbed against Arthur’s grip.

"Continue," I said.

Bernard’s voice steadied. "Any person invoking unapproved ceremonial language, hidden oaths, resonance phrases, or non-imperial rites within the Coronation Hall will be treated as hostile to the succession."

The military lords perked up. They understood hostile. Good. Some languages were universal.

"Captain Arthur," I said. He dragged the central advisor forward, the man’s mouth still covered.

"Name?" I asked.

Arthur released only enough pressure for the man to speak. "Lord Pellas," the advisor gasped. "I didn’t mean to. I heard it. I only heard it."

"Who placed you near the response line?"

His eyes jerked toward the bishop’s deputy. The bishop moved. My father was faster, his sword stopping a finger’s breadth from the man’s throat.

"Careful," Father said pleasantly. "Running during rehearsal is impolite."

The bishop froze. I looked at Lord Pellas. "Answer."

"The deputy," he whispered. "He gave us the wording. Said it was older protocol. Said the Grand Duke would try to insult the sacred continuity."

"Did he?"

Pellas shook. "He said the true witnesses must preserve the line."

The bishop’s face hardened. "It is ancient rite," he said. "Older than your empire, older than your petty borders. You stand on a seal and call it a throne."

The hall went still. How generous of him. Some insects required gentle tapping before they revealed themselves. Others leapt willingly into candle flames.

"Record that," I told Bernard.

"Already recording, Your Excellency."

The bishop laughed, not loudly, enough. "You record ink while the lower voice wakes."

Abi’s expression sharpened. The Empress’s hand tightened. Duke Rouvier closed his eyes for a moment. Regret? Fear? Resignation? We would see.

"The lower voice," I repeated. "How dramatic."

The bishop looked at me. "You should have let the prince answer. He was chosen."

"He was seven."

"He survived."

"That isn’t consent."

"It’s destiny."

I smiled. Destiny. Another elegant word people used when they wanted to stop asking permission. "How boring," I said.

The bishop’s expression faltered. Good.

"Destiny is often only a plan written by someone arrogant enough to assume no one will edit it."

The empty ring darkened further, and the bishop began chanting. Arthur moved toward him, but the ring flared, and every person who’d answered with the old script gasped again. Several voices began to emerge through them, not their own, but layered beneath the throat.

The first receives. The second answers. The third opens.

No.

Abi’s glamour dropped. Not fully. Just enough that the false Crown Prince’s outline blurred, violet light splitting through imperial gold. The hall recoiled. The Emperor stared. The Empress stepped aside at exactly the right moment.

Abi placed one hand over the Crown Prince’s ring and the other toward the empty ring. "This will be unpleasant," he said.

"For whom?" I asked.

"Yes."

Then he pulled.

The soundless bell screamed. No one heard it. Everyone felt it. Nobles collapsed to their knees. Windows cracked. The banners overhead snapped as though struck by wind. The dark lines spreading through the marble recoiled toward the empty ring, fighting to remain anchored in the authority gathered around it.

The bishop screamed aloud this time. Duke Rouvier fell to one knee, clutching his chest. Lady Evelina reached for him, stopped, then forced herself to remain back.

Good. Love did not require stupidity.

I stepped onto the dais. The pressure intensified. A memory brushed against me, a hall not unlike this one, though older. Voices raised in unity. A righteous council deciding what was necessary. A sacrifice named peace because no one wished to call it abandonment.

I stopped. Only for a breath. Then moved again. No need to look at that.

The empty ring pulsed under my boot. It did not want me there. Excellent. I had many qualities. Being unwanted in rooms full of powerful people was one of my finest.

"By imperial authority," the bishop cried, "the gate accepts witness."

"No," I said.

The ring shuddered. A small golden warmth moved beneath my foot. I ignored it. My aura pressed downward, not a strike, not destruction, something steadier.

A correction. Again. How irritating.

"The witnesses do not agree," I said. "The prince does not answer. The children are not yours. The hall is closed."

The black lines cracked. The bishop lunged forward, and my father struck him with the flat of his blade before he took three steps. Arthur seized him.

The soundless bell pulsed one final time, desperate now, reaching for the audience, for fear, for obedience, for the old habit of people answering when authority told them to speak.

Then Bernard, wonderful boy that he was, shouted the revised line again. "No borrowed voice shall be recognized."

The military lords repeated it first, not because they understood the ritual, but because soldiers liked clear commands and disliked being used. "No borrowed voice shall be recognized."

The Empress spoke next, clear, cold. "No borrowed voice shall be recognized."

The Emperor followed, louder. "No borrowed voice shall be recognized."

The hall changed. One by one, witnesses repeated the line under their own names, their own fear, their own shaky little wills, and the ring lost its audience. The soundless bell cracked. Not visibly. I felt it beneath my boot, a fracture through a thing that had waited too long and found itself refused.

The dark lines snapped back into the empty ring. Abi caught the recoil with both hands and dragged it into a small violet knot of light. It fought him. For once, his face tightened with actual effort.

"Brother," he said.

I reached down. My hand touched the knot. Gold warmth moved again. Soft. Annoyingly familiar. The knot went quiet.

Abi stared at my hand. I looked away before he could look at my face.

"Administrative correction," I said.

His mouth opened.

"Do not."

He closed it. Wise.

The ring beneath my boot faded from black to pale grey. The hall remained in chaos, but the ritual pressure had broken. Not ended. Broken here. That would have to do.

Arthur dragged the bishop forward. My father took Duke Rouvier’s arm before the man could rise. Palace guards, now emboldened by imperial permission and the fact that no one had exploded, began restraining the central faction advisors who’d repeated the old phrasing.

Lady Evelina stood very still. Her father looked at her. She didn’t look away.

"I did not know," she said.

Duke Rouvier’s face twisted. "I wanted to protect this family."

"No," she replied, voice shaking. "You wanted to survive whatever you helped."

The duke had no answer. Good. Some judgments were sharper when spoken by daughters.

The Emperor descended from the dais and stopped before me. For a moment he looked at the fading ring, then at Abi, then at me. His expression contained too many questions.

I disliked questions. Especially accurate ones.

"My son," he said.

"Alive," I replied.

His face changed. Not relief alone. Shame joined it. He hadn’t known enough, or hadn’t looked enough, or had trusted too easily because kings had the luxury of believing someone else had verified what hurt to examine.

He would have to live with that. Good.

"Where is he?" the Emperor asked.

"Safe."

"That isn’t an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting in this hall."

A few people inhaled sharply. The Emperor looked at me, then, unexpectedly, smiled faintly. Tired. Bitter. Almost human.

"I begin to understand my son’s opinion of you."

"How unfortunate for him."

The Empress approached. She didn’t ask where Adrien was. She already knew. Her eyes moved to the bishop, Duke Rouvier, Lord Pellas, and the cracked ring.

"Seal the hall," she ordered. "No one leaves without being recorded. No one speaks to the press. No one touches the dais."

The Verdant observer in the gallery clapped once. Not loudly. Once. Every head turned upward. The figure lowered their hood just enough for green-gold eyes to catch the light.

A woman. Or something wearing the idea of one with great confidence. Her smile was calm, amused, the sort that made a person mentally review every word they had just said aloud.

"An instructive rehearsal," she said. Her voice carried through the hall like rain touching leaves. Then she looked directly at me. "The Grand Duke of Sonomi has unusual methods."

I smiled politely. "And the Verdant Court has unusual manners."

Her smile widened. "Sometimes."

There was no reason the word should have landed like a challenge aimed specifically at me. It did anyway. I disliked that.

Before I could respond, Arthur’s shout cut across the hall. "Your Excellency."

He stood near the empty ring, where one of the cracked marble pieces had shifted aside. Beneath it was a narrow cavity. Inside lay a strip of red glass. Not a bell. A shard. Wrapped around it was a piece of old cloth bearing a name written in faded ink.

Ansel.

The hall noise dulled. Only that name remained sharp.

Bell had survived. Toma had survived. Mil had been moved. Spiro had remembered names. The Crown Prince had remembered a boy holding his hand. And now Ansel had been hidden beneath the imperial dais, under the soundless bell, as part of a ritual waiting for authority to call it sacred.

I took the cloth carefully. The red glass shard remained silent. Not harmless. Silent.

My smile became very pleasant. Far too pleasant.

"The rehearsal is over," I said.

The Empress looked at my expression. So did my father. So did Abi. The bishop went pale.

Good.

"Now," I continued, folding the cloth with more care than any of these people deserved, "we begin the arrests properly."