Chapter 5: The Masquerade
Arthur locked eyes with Pugh, dead serious, no room for bullshit. "I'm not yanking chains," he said, voice edged like a fresh-honed blade. "I've war-gamed every angle. It's not the cluster you think. Outside this podunk county, zilch in the shire knows my mug."
Pugh's stare bugged out, pure what-the-hell. "Post county-wide meat-grinder? How's that even play?"
"Stealth mode," Arthur broke it down. "Zero spotlight, zero drama. Dodged every bro-down with the other hopefuls. Trials wrap? Spotted my tag on the board, bounced home. Skipped the Lord's victory bash cold."
He let it marinate.
"Low-key extra: sandbagged the tests on purpose. Mid-pack ranking. Vanilla as toast. Shire hopefuls huddle? I'm background noise.
Glancers got a blur—faceless rando. Brains skip what ain't sticky. Shire hub? Name-knowers blind to my dial, face-spotters clueless on the tag."
Pugh's forehead creased like old leather, gears grinding. "If that's gospel... we could game it out."
Elias gawked, jaw unhinged. These two? Plotting a kingdom-level con like picking takeout.
Arthur hammered on, tone drill-sergeant crisp. "Pugh, checklist time. One: county's other two hopefuls? No ride-along with Elias. Can't let 'em swap war stories. They bomb this round, circle back next? Boom—exposed. Beast-scare 'em, grease palms, whatever. Ground 'em this year."
"Two: feast-mags who clocked my face? Send-off itch when 'I'—Elias—rolls out? Shut it down. Beast-buzz excuse. 'Safety first—no fat-target bash.' Own the heat, full tab."
"Three: escort muscle? Cherry-pick no-sees. Your vouch seals it—no side-eye. Nail those, local landmines defused."
"You've mapped this cold, m'lord," Pugh said, shock thawing to salty respect. He was in now, logistics whirring like a well-oiled trap. "But county exam scrolls? Pen-push don't match. Royals cross-check passes? Busted."
Arthur's lip twitched, dry-ice grin. "Overthink much? They only dust off scrolls for winners. You betting he aces it?"
Pugh's grim chuckle landed. Spot-on. Why sweat a loser's homework?
"Clock's cruel," Arthur tacked. "Core hits first. Fluff waits."
"Aye, m'lord," Pugh synced, brain-buzz humming.
Elias? Fuse blown. "You two lost it?" he exploded, ping-ponging stares. "Nuts! Ground two hopefuls? Curb mags? One geezer clerk pulls that? You're wagering my neck!"
Arthur eased back, chill as deep freeze. "County council's six ink-slingers? Dad's crew. Family ride-or-dies."
Elias scoff-snarl. "And the head mag? Your sock puppet too?"
"Mag's a seat-filler—whim-swap," Arthur waved off. "Clerks? Real juice. Lifers through regime roulette. They ghost two hopefuls, bog the boss? Kid stuff. Zero sweat for you."
Hit like a gut-shot. Elias finally clocked: no hail-Mary. Chess endgame, board set before he even spotted the pieces. Alden Blackwood? Didn't just drop a heirloom; ghosted a shadow squad. Whole county? Blackwood turf.
Arthur's subtle nod to Pugh. "Bounce, Master. Wheels turning."
Pugh read the room—left Elias to Arthur's sell-job, door-click gone.
Hush dropped, lamp-hiss solo soundtrack.
"Need a peer-match," Arthur kicked soft, voice velvet-trap. "Lit-savvy, guts-plus-brains for curveballs. Top-shelf? Blind trust. Short-notice unicorn? Where else?"
Elias-catch, gaze soft-shard affection. "You, Elias. Reckless mule-skin, sure. But sharp. Road-rat? Balls of steel for curveballs. You got this."
"Reckless mule? High praise?" Elias snort-faded, heat cooling to bone-tired give-up. "Still no dice, Arthur. Pugh flagged name-risk. Why not ghost-tag? Why all-in?"
Arthur knew the gut-punch fear. Capital? No podunk brawl-bailout. Viper VIP lounge.
"'Cause it's mine," Arthur rang, steel conviction. "Dad's tag, Alden Blackwood—on that reg-scroll. Son's shine on the pass-list? Signal flare."
"Flare? Sounds like 'kick the hornet nest'!"
"King's forever-chase? Realm's on life-support," Arthur unpacked patient. "Dad wasn't solo dissenter. Court ghosts—big guns, same vibe. Nameless blade? Crowd-fodder. Alden spawn? Rally rag. Pass, court-slot? They armor up. No daylight hits."
Elias reeled, plan's galaxy-brain sprawl jaw-drop. "Daylight, sure," he mumbled. "Night-knives?"
"Polly's knife-fight shadows," Arthur lip-quirk. "Scared of that? Stay off the board."
Elias mute. Fool move thinking Arthur skimped risks. Fifteen-year grudge-blueprint.
One glitch glared. "Arthur," sigh-drag. "Trials prep? Zip. Philo, histo, form-freak answers... Blank slate. Can't bluff a arena. Spot-check? Toast. Road-crack cram?"
Arthur zipped. Flip: "Basket where?"
Corner-stash. Elias haul-bedside plop.
"Right grip," Arthur cue. "Hemp-unwind."
Basket? Attack-plea flash. Gripe-shelve, quick-twist. Cord-peel: bamboo slice clean.
"Tug-split," Arthur nod.
Elias yank—handle-pop, gut-tube hollow. Slim steel roll inside. Fancy-etch. No wait—cap-twist.
Parch-uncurl: swirl-cloud peak-scene, script-elegant line. Stunner, but gibber.
Flip-light squint. "Busted canvas half?" Confused. "Art flop in splits?"
"Juice ain't canvas," Arthur said. "Full scroll once. Dad halved it. Hoarded one. Shipped other to cap-merch whale, Zoltan. Betrothal ink. Kid-locked to his girl since sandbox."
Elias-lock, stare-pin.
"Cap-hit? Zoltan pad. Flash half-scroll. He IDs you-me. Hooks the kit—tutors, tomes, threads. Drills Trials crash-course."