Red woke again to light, warmth, and silence. Not the choking weight of resurrection. Not the bone-deep fire that had gripped him yesterday. Just a slow, steady ache that whispered instead of screamed.
He could move now. Sit up without shaking. Better, he thought. Not whole—but better.
He swung his legs off the bed, bare feet brushing cool marble. The stone sent a chill up his spine, but he didn't flinch. Leaning forward, he gripped the bedpost, fingers trembling—not from fear, but from the awkwardness of unfamiliar muscle memory. He pushed off for one step and collapsed.
A sharp gasp cut the silence. He turned—slowly—and found the same maid from before standing in the doorway, a folded towel in her arms and panic rising in her eyes. She was young. Sixteen at most. Orange hair tied into a low, uneven braid. Freckles across her cheeks. Wide eyes. Stiff posture.
"My prince—please, wait! You should not be walking yet!"
She rushed forward and caught him under the arm. Red tensed reflexively but allowed it. Her grip was firm, steady. She was breathing hard, but her hands never wavered.
Then a voice cut across the room like a blade. "Unhand him, girl."
The maid froze.
An older woman swept in, tall and severe. Her hair was pinned into a no-nonsense bun. A ring of silver keys jangled at her hip. Her face was sharp, eyes like tempered steel. Without hesitation, she raised her hand and struck the younger maid across the cheek. It wasn't loud—but it landed like a final judgment.
"You do not lay hands on royalty unless commanded. You forget your place."
The girl staggered back. No sound. No protest. But Red caught the flick of her eyes—not toward the woman, but toward him. Not fear. Apology.
The older woman turned to him and offered a curtsy devoid of warmth. "Forgive the insolence, Prince Alzein. I am Egathe, Chief Attendant of the East Wing. I will ensure your needs are properly met."
She snapped her fingers. Three maids entered, dressed in embroidered silks, heads bowed, hands clasped neatly.
"Assist the prince," Egathe ordered. "Gently."
The new attendants helped him back into bed without a word. Red allowed it, mind already analyzing the structure of the room. Different faces. Polished routines. A public reshuffling. The younger maid wasn't deemed worthy of proximity to royalty.
Shortly after, breakfast arrived—on a silver tray stacked with meats, fruits, and warm breads. A clay bowl of thick stew sat in the center, surrounded by ornate utensils and a folded cloth napkin stamped with a hawk seal. Red blinked. None of it looked familiar.
He picked up a slice of dark meat with his fingers. Smelled like seasoned bird—lean, dense. Not chicken. Not duck.
One of the silk-clad maids stepped forward, hands prim. "Shall I assist, Your Highness?"
Red shook his head, then turned toward the girl still standing at the door. Her cheek was faintly red, her head lowered.
"You," he called. "Come here."
The other maids stiffened.
Egathe's eyes narrowed. "Your Highness—"
"I spoke clearly."
The young maid approached hesitantly, head low.
"Name," he said, beckoning her to come closer.
Her eyes went wide, stunned by his word. She hesitated.
"I insist."
"…It's Ayris, your Highness," she whispered.
Red repeated it under his breath. "Ayris." She looked up, startled.
Around them, the atmosphere shifted. Tension spread like ink in water. Stares passed between attendants. Even Egathe didn't speak.
Red gestured to the tray. "Explain each dish. Where it comes from. What it is."
Ayris blinked, then nodded. She stepped closer.
"The stew is roc meat—sky beast, hunted in the Valryn mountains. Rare. The steak is Schlageran boar. Smoked. The fruit is Mirion fig. Imported. The red pieces are sunberry slices soaked in honey."
Red nodded slowly, memorizing each word like coordinates. Valryn. Schlageran. Mirion. Geography and hierarchy served on a tray.
"Thank you," he said simply. Ayris bowed sheepishly. He then started eating, realizing he was very hungry.
The other maids murmured behind their hands. The door opened.
Count Ardent entered without a word. His robes were still white. Still immaculate. Still the kind of clean that felt like a threat. He took one look at the tray, the maids, the positioning of the room—and his mouth curled.
"Good," he said dryly. "The prince has returned to his merry little life."
He stepped forward, boots clicking on stone. "But if you're well enough to eat, you're well enough to stand. The council convenes within the hour. Lords from across Schlager will attend."
Red offered no reply.
Ardent turned to Egathe. "Prepare him."
She bowed. "Of course, my lord."
"To the letter," he said, then vanished through the door.
Egathe faced Red with a practiced curtsy. "Clean robes. Hair groomed. You will look the part. I'll have the attendants draw your bath at once."
Red blinked. "…My what now?"
She tilted her head. "Your bath, my prince."
Red stared. Egathe raised her hand. "Draw the royal bath. Use blend two—sage and pearlroot."
Two maids vanished behind a curtain. Moments later, water splashed and glass bottles clinked. Red looked at Ayris. Then at Egathe again.
"They're actually going to… bathe me?"
Egathe seemed puzzled. "Of course. Such has always been your routine. The attendants are trained for discretion and precision. Is there a concern?"
Red's spine twitched. His instincts recoiled at the idea of being scrubbed down by strangers, exposed and defenseless.
"No concern," he said. "Just… refreshing my memory."
Egathe did not look convinced, but inclined her head. "As you wish."
Red ran a hand through his now white hair and sighed. "I've done worse," he muttered. "Just not this publicly." He squared his shoulders. "Let's get this royal exfoliation over with."
By the time Glade arrived, Red was dressed in deep navy trimmed with silver. The fabric was lighter than expected, but the embroidered collar pressed against his neck like a leash.
He had to admit—silently—that the bath had been... decent. It wasn't like the cold rinses of field work or the grime-scrubbing after sewer infiltrations. It had been warm. Quiet. Methodical. No sudden movements. No blades. Just hands that did their job and left.
Still, the indulgence felt foreign. It unsettled something old in him. He'd risen from the bath to find a mirror waiting.
The boy in the reflection wasn't one he recognized. White-haired. Red-eyed. A single mole below his left eye. Younger than expected—eighteen, maybe. His features were too clean. Too precise. A face untouched by violence or regret.
He turned—and spotted the tattoo. A black hawk in mid-flight, inked into the muscle of his upper arm. Royal sigil. Prince Alzein.
The attendants dressed him with the coordination of a well-trained squad. Robes, cuffs, sash, rings. Everything precise. Composed.
And then the door opened.
Glade stood there—clad in black and deep blue velvet, the hawk crest over his heart. Sword at his side. Brooch at his collar. Every inch a knight.
"You look well enough to stand before the council, Your Highness."
They walked side by side down long stone halls. Red kept his posture straight, eyes scanning as he moved. Arched ceilings. Iron sconces. Dustless floors. Tapestries with gold thread. This wasn't some theatrical set.
This was a real castle. Lived in. Breathed in. The kind of place he'd once infiltrated in London, back when intel retrieval involved crossbow traps and poison-laced manuscripts.
"Is it true?" Red asked. "Lords from all across Schlager?"
Glade nodded. "House Kleitz. House Auram. The Vasticar twins. The full council has gathered to decide Schlager's direction, especially in our current crisis."
Red's brow lowered. "Why?"
"It is a matter of succession," Glade said. "Your father the king is dead. With your age nearing majority, they will be discussing whether you will be the rightful heir."
Red slowed his pace. "So my father is gone."
Glade's voice dropped. "Yes. He fell at Sylph's Valley. We'll speak more later. For now, the council awaits."
Red nodded. "I'll manage."
Glade glanced over. "You never cared about council matters before."
Red gave a faint smile. "Then maybe memory loss isn't so bad."
They stopped in front of a towering oaken door etched with ancient heraldry. Red exhaled slowly. He didn't know the names. He didn't know the faces. But he knew how to read a room. And he would.
Prince Alzein had died once. Whoever Red was now—he didn't plan to die again.
The guards opened the doors. Red stepped forward and entered the council chamber.