The palace kitchens were quiet at this hour, the massive copper pots scrubbed and hanging like silent sentinels. Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional drip from a faucet broke the stillness. Marcus sat on the edge of a narrow cot in the servants' quarters, elbows planted on his knees, head cradled in his weathered hands. At sixty-five, the lines on his face told stories the rest of the staff only whispered about.
He muttered to himself, voice rough from years of holding back what he really thought. "Why… why do they keep coming? Every damn month, another one slips through the gates, knife in hand, eyes full of righteous fire… and they all end up the same. Dead by their own blade. Or broken. Always broken."
A soft shuffle of footsteps made him lift his head. One of the newer servants—a boy named Theo, barely nineteen, still wide-eyed and eager to please—stood in the doorway clutching a tray of half-eaten midnight tea. He hesitated, unsure if he should speak.
"Sir? You… alright?"
Marcus exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so bitter. He waved the boy in without looking up. Theo set the tray down carefully and lingered, curiosity winning over caution.
"What do you mean, sir? 'Come to die with that monster'?"
Marcus finally raised his eyes. They were tired, but sharp—sharper than most people gave the old butler credit for. "I've been here since I was twenty. Forty-five years. Started as a footman, ended up running the whole damn household. And in all that time, I've kept records. Habits. Health. Every little thing about him."
Theo swallowed. "The prince?"
"Prince Elias Voss." Marcus said the name like a curse he'd long since stopped trying to exorcise. "Not a normal human. Never was. His IQ… they stopped measuring properly after a certain point. Last official test they dared run put him at 253. Or higher. Way higher. The psychologists quit after the third session. Said the questions were meaningless to him. He solved their puzzles before they finished explaining them. Then he started asking them questions. They left looking like they'd seen God and didn't like the view."
Theo shifted uncomfortably. "But… he's just a teenager. Seventeen, right? How can—"
"Because he's not a teenager in the way you or I understand it." Marcus leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as if the answers were written in the cracked plaster. "He's emotionless. Not repressed—absent. No joy, no anger, no fear. Just… observation. Cold, perfect observation. A demon wearing human skin. A monster without a name. Nothing."
Theo's eyes widened. "Nothing?"
"That's what he calls himself when he's in one of his moods. 'I am something called nothing.' He said it to that poor bastard tonight. And look what happened." Marcus rubbed his temples. "He doesn't kill with his hands. He kills with words. With questions. With that quiet, endless stare that makes you realize every belief you ever had was borrowed, fragile, fake. And once you see it… you can't unsee it."
The boy sat down slowly on the opposite cot, voice barely above a whisper. "But… the bodies. The suicides. You're saying he—"
"1997 people." Marcus's voice dropped to a gravelly murmur. "Not all of them came here with knives. Some were politicians who crossed him in passing conversation. Journalists who asked one question too many. Lovers who thought they could 'reach' him. Staff who got too curious. Family friends. Distant cousins. Even his own parents…"
Theo's breath caught. "His parents?"
Marcus nodded once, slowly. "Destroyed them. Not with poison or blades. Just… existence. He was four when his mother started having breakdowns. She'd sit in the nursery staring at him while he played chess against himself—perfect games, both sides. By six she was institutionalized. Said he looked at her like she was already dead. His father lasted longer. Tried to connect. Gave him books, tutors, everything. Elias read them all in hours, then politely explained why every philosophy, every religion, every political system was logically inconsistent. The old king started drinking. Then the pills. Then the balcony on a rainy night when Elias was twelve."
Theo stared, mouth dry. "He… pushed him?"
"No. He just existed. That was enough. The king jumped because the weight of being seen—truly seen—by his own son was heavier than any crown."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Theo finally managed, "Why does he do it?"
Marcus gave a hollow chuckle. "Because he's bored, boy. Endlessly, cosmically bored. The world is too slow. People are too predictable. He sees every move ten steps ahead, every lie before it's spoken. So he experiments. Pushes. Prods. Watches what breaks. And when it does… he feels something. For a second. Maybe amusement. Maybe relief. Then it's gone, and he starts again."
Theo hugged his arms to his chest. "And we just… serve him?"
"We serve the crown," Marcus corrected quietly. "What's left of it. The democracy keeps the palace running because abolishing it would look bad. So we stay. We clean the blood. We write the reports. We pretend the suicides are coincidences. And every month, another fool comes thinking they can be the hero who ends the monster."
He looked at Theo then, really looked at him. "You're young. You can still leave. Before he notices you."
Theo didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the corridor leading upstairs, toward the prince's wing.
Marcus sighed and stood, joints creaking. "Get some sleep, kid. Tomorrow the press will swarm. They'll want photos of the 'tragic incident.' And Elias will smile for the cameras—perfect, empty smile—and say exactly the right thing. Because that's what monsters do. They look human when it suits them."
As Marcus walked past, he paused at the door. "One last thing. Never ask him a question he doesn't want to answer. Because once he starts answering… you stop being you."
Theo stayed seated long after the old butler left, staring at his hands as if checking to see if they still belonged to him.
Upstairs, in the darkened royal suite, Elias Voss sat by the window, watching the city lights flicker like distant, meaningless stars. A faint smile touched his lips—not cruel, not kind. Just… aware.
The game, as always, continued.
The royal library was a cathedral of forgotten things. Towering shelves of leather-bound volumes stretched into shadow, lit only by the soft amber glow of a single reading lamp on the far table. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beam like tiny ghosts. Elias Voss sat in his usual armchair—high-backed, velvet worn smooth by years of solitary occupation—legs crossed, a thick volume of advanced game theory open on his lap. He hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. He simply stared at the words without reading them, listening instead to the palace settling around him like a dying animal.
The heavy oak door creaked open.
Marcus stepped inside without knocking. He knew better than to announce himself; Elias always heard him coming anyway. The old butler moved with deliberate slowness, shoes whispering against the Persian rug, until he stood beside the chair. He didn't sit. He never did in this room.
Elias didn't look up at first. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost gentle.
"So… what happened, Marcus?"
Marcus exhaled through his nose—a sound that carried forty-five years of restrained exasperation.
"You mean besides the corpse currently being zipped into a black bag downstairs? Or the fact that Theo—the new boy—is currently staring at his own hands like they might betray him next?"
Elias closed the book with a quiet snap. He set it aside on the small side table and finally met the butler's gaze. Those eyes—clear, unblinking, the color of winter sky—held no guilt, no satisfaction. Just mild interest.
"Both, I suppose."
Marcus folded his arms. "The press office is already drafting the statement. 'Tragic mental health incident. The palace extends condolences.' Standard template. They'll run it tomorrow morning before the breakfast news cycle. No one's asking difficult questions… yet."
"Yet," Elias echoed, tasting the word. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. "Optimistic of you."
Marcus ignored the bait. Instead he shifted his weight, glancing toward the tall windows where the city lights glittered like scattered coins.
"You should sleep, Your Highness. Tomorrow is Monday. School starts at eight. The car will be ready at seven-fifteen."
Elias tilted his head, genuinely surprised for perhaps the first time that night. "School. Right. I almost forgot."
He said it like someone remembering they had left the stove on in another life.
Marcus raised one gray eyebrow. "Almost?"
"Time slips when the variables change too quickly." Elias stood smoothly, unfolding himself from the chair with the liquid grace of someone who never wasted motion. He was taller than most people remembered—seventeen and already carrying the quiet authority of someone much older. "Tell someone to set my bag. The usual: textbooks, notebook, spare pen. Nothing flashy. I don't want to draw attention."
Marcus gave a curt nod. "Already done. Your driver knows the route avoids the main gates—fewer cameras."
"Good." Elias walked toward the nearest shelf, trailing a finger along the spines as if reading titles by touch. Then, casually, as though asking about the weather: "When is the next meeting with the psychologist?"
Marcus went very still.
"The one from the university board?" Elias clarified, turning just enough to catch the butler's expression. "Dr. Lira Voss—no relation, amusingly enough. She insisted on monthly evaluations after… the last incident. Said it was 'for public confidence in the royal institution.'"
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Next Thursday. Four p.m. Here, in the east drawing room. She requested privacy. No recording devices."
Elias nodded once, as if filing the information away in an invisible ledger.
"Excellent. I do enjoy our little chats. She always arrives so confident. Leaves looking like she's forgotten her own name."
Marcus finally let out a long, tired breath. "You enjoy breaking them, don't you?"
Elias paused, finger still resting on a volume of Nietzsche. He didn't turn.
"I don't break them, Marcus. I only hold up a mirror. If the reflection is unbearable… that's not my fault."
The silence that followed was heavier than the books surrounding them.
Marcus spoke quietly, almost to himself. "One day, someone's going to hold that mirror up to you."
Elias's smile returned—small, sharp, beautiful in its emptiness.
"I've been waiting forty-three years for that day, Marcus. So far… nothing."
He turned fully now, eyes locking onto the butler's with that same dispassionate intensity that had undone so many before.
"But thank you for the reminder. It's good to be kept on schedule."
Marcus said nothing more. He simply bowed—old habit, meaningless gesture—and backed toward the door.
As his hand touched the handle, Elias's voice followed him, soft as a secret.
"Marcus?"
The butler paused.
"Make sure Theo gets a good night's sleep tonight. He looked… unsettled."
Marcus's shoulders stiffened. Without turning, he replied, "He'll be fine. As long as he doesn't ask you any questions."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Elias stood alone in the library once more. He returned to the armchair, picked up the game theory book, and opened it to a random page.
But he didn't read.
He simply sat, listening to the palace breathe around him, waiting for the next variable to arrive.
Monday was coming. School. Psychologists. Mirrors.
And somewhere, deep in the quiet machinery of his mind, Elias Voss smiled at the thought of all the fragile little identities he might unravel before the week was out.
The game never really ended.
It only changed players.
Elias let the silence linger for a moment longer, as if savoring the way the words had settled between them like dust in an abandoned room. Then he straightened, the faint smile never quite reaching his eyes.
"Alright," he said softly. "I'm going to sleep now. And… think about everything."
The way he said "everything" made it sound like a casual promise and a quiet threat all at once. He gave Marcus a small, polite nod—the same one he used with diplomats and delivery boys—and turned toward the door. His footsteps were measured, unhurried, the sound of someone who had nowhere urgent to be because the world moved at his pace anyway.
Marcus watched him go, the heavy library door closing with a soft, final click.
Alone now, the old butler stood motionless in the amber glow of the lamp. His shoulders sagged, just a fraction—the only sign of exhaustion he ever allowed himself. He rubbed one hand across his face, fingers pressing hard against his temples as if trying to push the headache back inside.
"Forty-three years," he muttered to the empty shelves. "Forty-three years and he still plays me like a fiddle."
A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. It echoed faintly off the books, then died.
He shook his head slowly. "To confuse me again. Always the same game. A little truth, a little lie, a perfectly timed pause… and suddenly I'm the one questioning whether I'm even awake."
Marcus glanced at the armchair where Elias had sat moments before. The velvet still held the faint imprint of his weight. He reached out and smoothed it flat, almost absently, like erasing evidence.
"He knows exactly what he's doing," he whispered. "Every word is a thread. Pull one, and the whole tapestry unravels. And I keep letting him pull."
He turned off the lamp with a decisive flick. Darkness swallowed the room whole.
Outside in the corridor, Elias moved through the palace like a shadow that had forgotten it was supposed to be attached to something. The marble floors reflected the pale moonlight slanting through high windows. His footsteps made no sound—he had long ago learned to walk without disturbing the air.
He passed the grand staircase, the portraits of long-dead kings and queens who had once wielded real power instead of just wearing it like expensive jewelry. Their painted eyes followed him, accusatory and empty. He didn't look back.
When he reached his private wing, the guards at the door straightened instinctively. They knew better than to speak unless spoken to. Elias gave them the slightest nod—acknowledgment, not permission—and slipped inside.
His suite was vast, silent, and cold. Moonlight poured across the polished floor in silver stripes. He didn't bother turning on the lights. Instead, he walked straight to the window seat, sat down, and stared out at the city below.
The lights twinkled like distant thoughts—pretty, meaningless, fragile.
He leaned his head against the cool glass.
"Sleep," he murmured to himself. "And think about everything."
A small, private smile curved his lips.
Tomorrow was Monday.
School. Psychologists. Mirrors.
And somewhere in the quiet machinery of his mind, Elias Voss began to turn the next piece on the board.
The game never really ended.
It only waited for the next move.
(And somewhere down the hall, Marcus poured himself a small glass of whiskey he kept hidden in the back of the pantry, raised it in a silent toast to no one in particular, and whispered, "You win again tonight, you little monster.")
He drank it in one swallow.
Then he went to bed, knowing full well that sleep wouldn't come easy.
Not when the palace was still breathing with the presence of something that had never truly been human.