By morning, Alderia was burning—
not in flames, but in fury.
Crowds filled the palace square, their voices rising like a storm that wouldn't end. Placards waved. Reporters screamed. Drones hovered above the gates, capturing every ounce of disgrace.
UNFIT TO RULE.
THE PRINCE WITHOUT HONOR.
SHAME OF THE CROWN.
From his window, Prince Adrian Vale watched it all. The people he was born to lead now demanded his downfall. His reflection in the glass looked foreign—pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger wrapped in royal silk.
He hadn't slept. Couldn't. The hours since dawn had been a blur of panic, of polished lies dressed up as strategy. Advisors rushed through halls with clipped voices, his mother issued commands like verdicts, and every whispered word carried one goal—protect the crown, even if it meant destroying its heir.
Behind him, Henry cleared his throat, the sound small and trembling.
"The Council is meeting in an hour, Your Highness. They expect you there."
Adrian didn't turn. "Do they expect me to apologize for breathing?"
Henry hesitated. "They're calling it an invasion of privacy, but public anger's growing. Some are asking if you'll still be crowned."
Adrian's jaw flexed. "So that's it? One mistake and they want a new prince?"
Henry's silence answered for him.
⸻
The Council chamber reeked of old wood and tension. The walls seemed to lean in, heavy with judgment. Twelve faces turned as he entered—noble, polished, and all pretending not to be disgusted.
His mother, Queen Isabella, sat at the head of the table, spine straight, her expression carved from marble.
"Prince Adrian," began Councilman Farrow, his voice thin with forced respect. "The situation is dire. We cannot suppress the footage. The monarchy's credibility—"
"—is already gone," Adrian interrupted, his tone flat.
The room stiffened. His mother's eyes flashed, warning him to hold his tongue.
"The palace must respond," she said crisply. "You will issue a statement. Deny the video's authenticity. Express regret for its circulation. Withdraw from public duties until further notice."
"Deny the video's authenticity? How is that even possible?" asked Adrian.
"It is a digital world," she snapped. "You can easily tell them it was AI," she added with all seriousness.
The king chuckled and muttered under his breath, "AI indeed."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Protect the crown."
He gave a bitter laugh. "You'd rather bury me alive than face the truth."
"You buried yourself," she replied, each word sharp enough to bleed.
The room went cold.
Adrian stood. "Then I'll clean it my way."
Her voice cracked like a whip. "You'll do as you're told."
He paused at the door, his voice low. "Not anymore."
⸻
He walked the palace corridors alone.
Every whisper fell silent when he passed.
Every portrait seemed to watch him with contempt.
Then he heard them—two technicians in the communications wing, speaking in hurried, hushed tones.
"…the file didn't come from inside our servers," one said. "It was inserted manually two nights before the upload."
Adrian froze.
Two nights before.
The gala.
Liana's perfume on his jacket.
He stepped out of the shadows. "Who else knows this?"
The woman flinched. "Your Highness! No one, sir. The report hasn't been sent up yet."
"Keep it that way," he said quietly. "Send everything you find to me directly."
"Yes, Your Highness."
He walked away, heart pounding.
If the footage didn't come from inside… someone had made it look like it had.
⸻
By dusk, the protests thinned, but the damage was done. Alderia's golden prince had become its living scandal.
He stood on the terrace, the wind biting his face, the city glimmering below. His phone buzzed in his hand—Liana Monroe's name lighting the screen.
He stared at it for a long moment. Then he pressed call.
One ring. Two. Then her voice filled the silence.
"Hey, this is Liana. Leave a message and I might call you back… if you're lucky."
Her voice hit like a blade to the chest.
"Liana," he said softly after the beep. "I just need to know why. Not for the world. For me."
He ended the call, throat tight.
A knock broke the quiet. Henry again—face pale, eyes darting.
"Someone left this for you, sir."
He handed over a plain white envelope. No seal. No handwriting on the front.
Adrian opened it carefully.
Inside—
a single photograph.
It showed him and Liana in the palace garden, sunlight filtering through the trees. She was laughing, head thrown back. He was watching her, unguarded.
But in the corner of the photo, reflected faintly in the window behind them, a blurred figure stood—
camera raised, recording.
Someone had been watching.
Adrian turned the photo over.
Four words were written on the back in neat, slanted handwriting:
You were never alone.
⸻
The night air cut through him like frost.
For the first time, he didn't feel ashamed. He felt hunted.
Someone had set him up. Someone close enough to know where to aim.
He closed his fist around the photo, paper crumpling under his grip.
If the palace wanted him quiet, fine.
He'd play the obedient prince one more day.
But the next time the world spoke his name, it wouldn't be as a victim.
Because the golden heir of Alderia wasn't broken—
he was just beginning to sharpen his crown.