C13 What Fredrick Remembers

“What about Prince Fredric? Where was he when this happened?”

“Fredric was still locked up. Eventually, they let him out, but nobody stopped investigating him. He could never explain how the dagger ended up in his hand.”

After the council meeting ended, Adrian slipped into the corridor. The argument still burned in his ears. He hadn’t made it far before something made him turn.

Athalia was waiting for him.

She stood at the top of the marble stairs, still as stone, her gown catching the pale, cold light.

“You look troubled,” she said, drifting down toward him.

“Father’s hanging by a thread, and the court is drowning in suspicion.” Adrian exhaled hard. “Of course I’m troubled.”

“I've heard. There are whispers everywhere.”

He watched her. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’ve lived in courts too long,” she said, voice soft. “Secrets and pain always come in pairs.” She held his gaze. “I worry about you, that’s all.”

He looked away, jaw working. “Lena said something before she died. She told me someone wanted Fredric dead—for my sake.” His voice caught. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Athalia tilted her head, like she was weighing the obvious. “You’re finally asking the right question.” She hesitated, then said, “Think about it. It makes sense, doesn't it?”

“What does?”

“That you’re the heir if both your father and Fredric are gone.”

Adrian froze. “Athalia. Are you hiding something from me?”

She didn’t blink. “If I knew anything, I’d tell you.”

He stared into her eyes, searching for something beneath. If she hid anything, it stayed hidden.

He left, unsure if he believed her.

Later, he stood over his father’s bed. The king was pale, unmoving—nothing left of who he’d been. Only his chest rising, slow, assured Adrian he was alive at all.

“He’s stable,” the healer said, head bowed, “but he hasn’t woken.”

Adrian stepped closer, the pain hitting deeper than he expected.

“I need you to wake up,” he whispered. “Everything outside’s falling apart.”

“The wound was deep,” the healer told him, gentle. “He’ll need time.”

Adrian nodded, though it didn’t help. He turned, and caught Queen Elizabeth standing in the doorway.

“You didn’t tell me Lena came to you,” she said, voice quiet, grief thick in it.

“She was family. She grew up by my side.” The queen’s control slipped, just enough to age her face. “Now she’s gone.”

Adrian couldn’t answer.

“If someone wanted Fredric dead,” she murmured, trembling, “then this isn't about the throne. It’s about us. Our family.”

He couldn’t shake her words.

“Who did this?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

That afternoon, the Chief Advisor sent for Adrian.

“We examined the arrow that killed the maid,” the advisor said, handing it to him.

It was too finely made—smooth-finished, balanced, white hawk feathers—nothing like the palace guards’ rough arrows.

“This isn’t from the armory,” Adrian said.

“No. It belongs to the Silver Guard.”

“The elite ones? The king’s guard?”

“Yes. Only six archers in the kingdom use these arrows.”

“All six were on duty last night?”

“They were.”

Silence pressed in.

“Then who shot her?”

“That’s what terrifies me, Prince. I don’t know.”

Before Adrian could say more, a guard rushed in. “My lord! The west tower was breached last night—a rope’s dangling from the wall.”

The advisor’s fist slammed the desk. “We’re not just fighting outsiders anymore.”

Adrian’s heart thudded hard.

“We’re being hunted,” the advisor whispered. “From inside.” He met Adrian’s eyes. “Are you sure about what Lena said?”

“I am.”

The advisor looked grim. “Then anyone could be behind this. Even someone with a title.”

The words just sat there, heavy.

Adrian’s mind spiraled—he remembered the cloaked figure on the balcony, Lena’s bloody lips, Athalia’s cool voice, his mother’s warning about knives behind smiles.

“Find everyone with access to the west tower last night. And anyone in charge of the Silver Guard.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As Adrian left, his thoughts pulled tight.

“Prince Adrian.”

He turned to see Athalia, half-hidden in the shadows.

“Still troubled?” she asked.

“Too much has happened. I think I’m starting to piece it together.”

She gave a small, knowing smile. “You’re learning.”

He said nothing. She stepped closer.

“Be careful, Adrian. People are watching you.”

“Who?”

Her grin turned sly. “The ones lurking on balconies.”

A cold prickle ran down his neck. She drifted away before he could press her, her dress whispering away like the echo of a secret.

He stood there, haunted by Lena’s dying words: It’s... Prin—

Now Athalia’s voice echoed too: The kind that watches from balconies.

His breath caught. Was it her?

Elsewhere, Princess Arianna hadn’t slept. Her eyes burned red, her hands shook where they clutched her cloak. The palace felt colder, packed tight with Athalia’s rumors.

Prince Fredric killed the king. He tried to steal the throne. He stabbed his own father.

Each whisper stung more than the last.

She shoved open Fredric’s door. The guards straightened but wouldn't meet her eyes—the pity cut deeper than blame.

“Your Highness. Only a few moments.”

“Let me in,” she said.

The bolts scraped open.

Inside, the room was bare. Just a narrow bed, and Fredric on it. He wasn’t chained, but prison clung to him anyway. He sat hunched, hair covering his face.

“Fredric.”

He looked up, slow. His eyes were hollow. Not angry. Not proud. Empty.

“Arianna.”

She moved closer, her chest tight. “You don’t know what they’re saying. They think you stabbed Father. Lena is dead, and everything points at you.”

He sucked in a shaky breath, confusion flickering behind his dull stare. “What?”

Softer, lost: “Why?”

“Lena is dead?” he whispered again, as if he couldn't believe it.

She nodded.

“You have to speak up,” she said. “Tell them what happened. Anything.”

“I can’t remember, Arianna. That’s the problem.”

“Try. Please.”

He stood, shuffled to the door, hands wrapping the bars almost touching hers.

“I remember going into Father’s chambers,” he said, voice low. “Heard a noise behind me. I turned. Then—dizzy. Blacked out. When I woke, Father was covered in blood, and the dagger dropped from my hand. That’s all.”

“But you wouldn’t hurt him. Never.”

She searched his eyes for something certain, but found nothing but fear—of the shadows in his own mind, of betrayal, of what he might’ve done without knowing.

“Fredric,” she whispered, “you’re not a killer.”

He closed his eyes. “Tell that to the council.”

“I will. I’ll stand with you. They can’t silence me.”

“Let it go.” He sounded far away, exhausted. “The knife was in my hands. What if I really did it?”

She reached between the bars, brushing his hand. He clung to her, desperate.

“You loved him. And you don’t remember doing it. I believe you didn’t.”

“I wish I could explain any of it.” He hesitated. “Whoever did this to me—and the one who shot the maid? Same person. They don’t care who falls next. They just want to win.”

Her throat closed.

“Get some rest,” he pressed gently. “Before they accuse you too.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

They stood quietly, neither willing to let go, even though the silence between them was heavy as iron. The palace walls felt warped, the shadows thick with watching eyes.

A guard cleared his throat. “Your Highness, that’s time.”

Tears threatened. “I’ll come again.”

“I know.”

She backed out, watching the door close. Fredric didn’t move. He watched her until the last sliver of her cloak disappeared.

Eight days. That’s how long he’d been trapped inside. Long enough for everyone to hear the rumors, not nearly long enough to find the truth.