Fate or maybe just pure carelessness—handed him the next piece.
On a dusty desk in the west wing, forgotten too long, lay a sealed parchment. The wax wasn't stamped with the crown's insignia, but a foreign crest—a rival noble house, one not exactly friendly to the throne.
Eustass brushed his thumb across the mark, his smile fading into a hard, cold line.
"Traitor," he muttered.
He slid the letter back where he found it, careful, like it had teeth. He didn't need to open it. The crest alone was poison.
Later that afternoon, a messenger passed him in the corridor, arms stacked high with scrolls. The boy tilted his head, the picture of innocent curiosity.
"Hey… what's in Ser Dwayne's letters? They look heavy."
The messenger nearly tripped over his own boots. His face drained of color. "N-Nothing, Your Highness…"
Eustass just smiled, soft and knowing, and skipped away like a child chasing butterflies. But the seed was planted. And in a palace where suspicion grew faster than weeds, even nothing could mean everything.
---
The whispers spread like spilled ink.
At first, it was just the servants, huddled near stairwells, murmuring over laundry and bread. Then the guards caught on, muttering during night watch. Soon, even the Order—knights sworn to silence and loyalty—were lowering their voices when Ser Dwayne's name passed their lips.
Every corridor carried doubt. Every glance felt loaded. Every quiet meal buzzed with things unsaid.
Eustass could feel it in the air: the tension, the unease. The story was no longer his secret—he had turned it into everyone's.
But he wasn't the only one listening.
---
Far above the servants' chatter, inside the royal study, King Alexander sat by a tall window, crown discarded on the desk beside him. He rubbed his temples, lines of age heavy on his face.
His butler, Edward, stood at his side, hesitant, silver tray untouched in his hands. He had served Alexander for decades—long enough to know when silence itself was dangerous.
"Your Majesty," Edward began carefully, "there is… talk. Loud enough now that even the walls cannot ignore it."
Alexander's eyes flicked up, sharp despite the fatigue. "Talk?"
"About Ser Dwayne," Edward replied, voice low. "Servants whisper. Soldiers trade glances. They say supplies vanish, crates meant for the army… and worse, that someone in this court profits from it."
The king's jaw tightened. "Dangerous lies."
"Perhaps," Edward allowed, bowing slightly. "But lies spread faster than truth. And… they began somewhere. Someone is planting these seeds."
Alexander leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk. The Royal Envoy was the backbone of the kingdom's reach. Any stain on Dwayne's name was a stain on the crown itself.
"Find the root," he ordered finally. His tone left no room for hesitation. "I don't care if it's servant, knight, or noble. Find out who began this."
Edward bowed. "As you command."
---
It took days. Edward moved quietly, like a shadow through the castle, listening to half-spoken sentences, trading polite nods with frightened servants, watching the flicker in the soldiers' eyes.
Finally, the trail curved to the unlikeliest of places. Not a bitter knight. Not a jealous noble. But the king's own youngest son—Kairus.
Edward's hands tightened behind his back when he heard the name. The whispers began with him?
He didn't dare rush to the king with such a claim. Instead, he doubled his efforts. He followed the lines of gossip, tugged at threads in the dark, read between the cracks of silence. And what he found chilled him more than the whispers themselves.
The bruises were real. The stolen crates, real. The missing weapons and rations, very real. Missing Golds, Fact.
And Ser Dwayne's handprints were everywhere.
---
When Edward finally returned to the king, his report was heavy with truth.
Alexander listened in silence, his face unreadable. When Edward finished, the king rose slowly from his chair, the weight of his crown suddenly heavier than iron.
"Prepare the court," Alexander commanded. "If there is rot in my envoy, we will cut it out in the light of day."
----
And so a trial was set.
The hall was thick with heat and unease. Servants pressed into the corners, knights lined the walls, nobles perched like vultures on their chairs. At the center stood Ser Dwayne, armor polished to a shine, sword at his hip, jaw hard as stone.
Beside the dais, Eustass—no, Kairus—watched with calm, wide eyes. Innocent to everyone else, but inside he was sharp, coiled like a blade, waiting.
The herald's voice rang out: the charges.
Missing supplies. Missing Golds. Foreign crests. Bruised soldiers. Broken oaths.
Every word felt like a stone hurled into a pond, ripples of murmurs spreading through the crowd. The tension pressed heavy, like the very walls leaned in to listen.
King Alexander leaned forward on his throne, voice low but heavy as iron.
"Ser Dwayne," he began, "crates marked for the army have vanished under your watch. What say you?"
Dwayne bowed his head slightly, then raised it with controlled confidence.
"Your Majesty, supplies vanish every season. Bandits plague the roads. Smugglers lurk in the hills. To lay that chaos at my feet is to mistake my burden for my fault."
Edward stepped forward, parchment in hand. His tone was sharp, almost accusing.
"And what of this?" He held up the foreign-sealed letter, its crest catching the torchlight. "Correspondence with rival houses. Explain that, Ser Dwayne."
Murmurs exploded again, a hiss of curiosity and outrage.
Dwayne did not flinch. His voice rose steady, commanding.
"I am the Royal Envoy. My duty is to speak with other nations, even rivals. To keep their daggers at bay, we must know their reach. Would you rather your envoy be blind, Your Majesty?"
The rebuttal landed. Several nobles exchanged uneasy glances; some even nodded faintly.
Edward pressed harder, jaw set.
"And the soldiers, the bruises—your men bear marks not from war, but from you."
Gasps shot through the crowd. A knight in the back shifted uncomfortably.
But Dwayne only let out a sharp laugh, short and bitter.
"Bruises? Soldiers train. Steel strikes, fists fly. Any man here who has swung a blade knows the weight of a spar. Shall I be condemned because my men bleed in practice?"
The knights lining the walls shifted, some murmuring agreement.
Edward's tone turned heavier as his gaze swept across the council.
"Enough talk of shadows. Then riddle me this—where have the kingdom's golds gone? The treasury bleeds, yet no thief is caught. Who will answer for it?"
All eyes shifted uneasily—until Ser Dwayne straightened in his seat, his voice steady, almost too steady.
"With respect, Your Grace," he said, "the missing golds were never stolen. They were transferred for the war effort—supplies, arms, rations. Records of it exist, though not all nobles have access to such accounts. If the vaults appear lighter, it is only because the kingdom shoulders the burden of defense."
The chamber buzzed, some nodding, others frowning. His words sounded polished, rehearsed.
Edward's eyes lingered on him, sharp as a blade. "And yet the ledgers reveal gaps. Transfers unmarked. Are you certain your explanation holds?"
Dwayne's jaw tightened, but he bowed slightly.
"If there are gaps, then it must be the fault of the scribes. I have nothing to hide."
The tension eased as murmurs shifted, but Eustass knew better. Behind Dwayne's calm mask lay the truth no one else could see.
King Alexander's eyes narrowed, flicking to Edward. The butler's lips pressed thin, but the king raised a hand to silence him. He wanted to hear more.
Dwayne stepped forward, his voice booming across the chamber now, dripping with conviction.
"I have bled for this kingdom. I have marched across borders, starved on its roads, carried its banners through mud and fire. And now I am called traitor? Because crates vanish? Because a boy whispers?"
The words cut deeper than the blade at his side. His gaze swept the hall, daring anyone to meet his eyes. Many looked away.
The tide was shifting.
Eustass felt it, sharp in his chest. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken—but suddenly, the carefully laid cracks in Dwayne's armor were being filled with iron. The man was twisting every accusation into proof of his loyalty.
And it was working.
The murmurs were no longer just doubt—they carried sympathy. Knights, nobles, even servants were leaning, tilting toward Dwayne's words.
King Alexander sat back slowly on his throne, expression unreadable. Edward's parchment shook faintly in his hands, his certainty slipping.
And from the crowd, a single voice rose, trembling but defiant:
"Ser Dwayne has always stood for the kingdom! Who dares accuse him?"
It spread like fire—murmurs of support, loyalty, defense. The atmosphere turned, thick and volatile, like a storm seconds from breaking.
Eustass's nails dug into his palm. From the outside, he still looked like the silent, wide-eyed prince. But inside, his mind screamed.
Did I forget something? Did I miscalculate?
At the center of the hall, Ser Dwayne lifted his chin, eyes blazing with righteous fury.
"I am no traitor," he declared, voice echoing like thunder. "I am the kingdom's shield. And if you doubt me, then doubt the crown itself—for I am its hand."
The hall erupted. Nobles gasped, knights muttered, servants froze like prey in torchlight.
Eustass's chest went cold.
For the first time, the boy who thought himself ten steps ahead felt the ground shift beneath him.
The trial was not his victory yet.
And in that roaring hall, one truth slammed into him like a blade—
Dwayne might just walk free.