Chapter 184: His Principles
"Winter approaches, and much of the kingdom depends upon cotton for warmth," the King said, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "A fact I should not have to remind the Crown Prince of."
A ripple moved through the balconies and the square below. The King’s smile did not change, but his gaze sharpened, sliding toward Theron with a cool precision that made the air feel tighter.
"You are not attempting to provoke a rebellion, I trust," he continued, his tone almost mild. "Though I confess, if one were trying to do so, this would be an admirably efficient method."
Theron’s jaw stiffened.
He had no idea what his father wanted from him anymore. If he were being generous, he might have assumed this was merely a public warning, a paternal correction delivered in front of the court for appearance’s sake.
But generosity was difficult to summon when every instinct in him had begun to whisper that his father wanted him to fail. Not quietly, not neatly, but spectacularly, so that the court itself would grow tired of him and begin to look elsewhere for an heir.
Perhaps then the throne would pass to Alaric.
His bastard son.
The thought came to him with a bitter edge he did not bother to hide.
Because what else was he meant to think? His father had a way of pressing on every fracture in him, of obstructing him at precisely the moments he needed clarity most. He investigated, and his father created complications. He reached, and his father pushed.
He tried to think, and somehow the woman he could not stop thinking about had vanished from his memory as if she had never existed at all.
That wound still sat in him, invisible and festering.
He looked toward his mother.
The Queen was standing with perfect poise, her smile polished and flawless in the way only a woman in her position could manage. Yet he knew that smile. It was the kind that asked for obedience while pretending to offer encouragement. Her eyes moved subtly toward him, a silent prompt, a warning wrapped in elegance.
Say something clever.
Show them you are capable.
Prove yourself.
He had spent so long doing exactly that.
He had once thought he wanted the throne with the kind of certainty young men confuse with purpose. It had driven him for years, enough to make him endure lessons, humiliation, scrutiny, and duty with a clenched jaw.
He had not loved the crown. He had not even liked the shape of the life it demanded. But he had carried himself toward it because it was expected, because it soothed his mother, because everyone around him had treated ambition like a law of nature.
Now even that had begun to feel hollow.
His mother’s expectations no longer stirred that old need in him. Something inside him had gone strangely empty, as though the emotional tether that once made him responsive to duty and desire alike had been severed without warning.
Perhaps that was what his father had done. Perhaps that was what the missing pieces in his memory had cost him.
Or perhaps... he was simply growing too tired to care.
Theron lifted his chin.
His voice, when it came, was even and controlled.
"Winter does approach," he said, "which is precisely why measures are being taken now. Cotton reserves are being assessed, and those who have been hoarding supplies are being investigated."
The King’s expression did not change.
Theron continued, his tone as polished as the one directed at him. "It seems prudent to address the matter before prices rise beyond reason and civilians are made to suffer for the greed of a few."
A faint stir moved through the balcony, the nobles below listening with sharpened interest now that the exchange had become something more than ceremonial rebuke.
The King tilted his head slightly. "And yet you speak as though this were a problem created by others rather than a failure of your own foresight."
Theron’s gaze cooled.
"If the nobility are hoarding cotton in anticipation of profit, then their greed is not a failure of foresight on my part," he said. "It is a failure of conscience on theirs."
The King’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
"Ah," he said. "Then your strategy is to rely on conscience. How noble. How dangerously naïve."
Theron did not look away. "It would have been easier to resolve this if the Lord Chancellor’s house had not allowed the trade routes to be manipulated in the first place."
A murmur went through the court at once.
Ingrid’s smile tightened, though only for a breath.
The King’s mouth curved faintly. "You accuse the Chancellor’s family publicly, and on the Day of First Light no less. That is a brave thing to do when you have so little to offer in the way of a solution."
"I have offered solutions," Theron said. "The stores held by the southern merchants can be redirected. The transport tariffs can be adjusted. And if certain households had not been sitting on their reserves, waiting for the princes to panic, then the kingdom would not be forced to endure this spectacle."
The King gave a low, almost amused hum. "You speak as though the matter were so simple."
"It is simple," Theron said. "You either feed the people, or you allow them to freeze while the nobility argues over profit."
That sharpened something in the King’s expression, though he hid it well. "And how noble of you," he said, "to frame competence as compassion. Yet if you are so concerned with the kingdom’s welfare, perhaps you should have been more resourceful before the crisis reached this point. One cannot merely blame others for problems one has failed to anticipate."
Theron’s hand tightened at his side.
He could feel the court listening. Watching. Measuring every word. This was not just about cotton anymore. It was about power. It was about whether the Crown Prince could stand beneath his father’s scrutiny without flinching. It was about whether he could be made to look weak in front of the kingdom’s most important figures.
And perhaps, deep down, it was also about whether his father wanted him embarrassed enough to lose standing entirely.
Theron’s eyes flicked toward the Queen once more.
She remained composed, but her smile had gone brittle around the edges. She wanted this handled cleanly. She wanted him to speak well, to cut with intelligence and not anger, to defend himself without appearing insolent.
He had done this dance his entire life. He knew the steps.
What he did not know anymore was why he still bothered. He could sense the disappointment in his mother’s eyes, but that didn’t affect him one bit.
The King spoke again, his tone lightly cutting. "You are very quick to identify the failings of others. It would be more impressive if that habit were matched by an equal interest in your own."
Theron’s mouth flattened.
"And it would be more impressive," he replied, "if the Crown were not forced to spend so much of its time correcting the deliberate obstruction of influential houses."
A sharper silence fell.
That was enough to make the nobles stir, because now it was no longer merely father and son exchanging formal blows. It was a public accusation dressed in etiquette.
The King’s gaze hardened.
"You speak boldly for someone whose success depends on those same houses," he said.
Theron met his eyes without hesitation. "I speak because people will suffer if I do not."
"And yet suffering seems to have become your favorite shield," the King replied. "You invoke the people whenever you are pressed, as though noble motives were too difficult for you to bear openly."
The words were polished. Cruel in the way only a king’s words could be. Theron felt the insult, but he did not let it show. Instead, he smiled, just enough to make the court think he was still in control.
"Then perhaps," he said, "it is fortunate that someone in this family still remembers them."
The Queen inhaled sharply.
The King’s eyes narrowed further, and for one dangerous second the air between father and son felt ready to snap.
