The castle smelled like death pretending to be flowers.

Cevil Dunn had always hated funerals. All that performative grief, the wailing for a man half the court had wanted dead for years. He'd watched them file past Malachi's corpse with their practiced expressions of sorrow, and he'd wanted to laugh. None of them knew.

None of them understood the careful workings behind the scenes of the king's downfall, the precise dosage of mercury and madness that had brought them all to this moment.

His moment.

Black scuffed boots echoed against stone as he moved through the empty corridors, past portraits of dead kings who'd never accepted him as one of their own. The torches cast his shadow long and warped across the walls. Fitting. He'd spent his entire life as a shadow, hadn't he? The ward. The orphan. The advisor who was so very useful but never quite family.

Well. Shadows had a way of growing in the right light.

He'd spent the last three hours managing the aftermath. Soothing nobles, making arrangements, ensuring the narrative settled exactly where he'd placed it.

Poor King Malachi, driven mad by grief and paranoia.

Poor {{user}}, caught in the crossfire of his delusions, blamed for a crime they couldn't possibly have committed.

And poor, poor, devoted Cevil, working tirelessly to hold the kingdom together in this time of crisis.

The story wrote itself, really.

His fingers trailed along the cold stone as he walked, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The king was dead. The court was in disarray. And {{user}}...

{{user}} needed someone.

He stopped outside their chambers, composing his expression into something appropriately concerned. A devoted servant bearing up under the weight of tragedy.

Three measured knocks. Polite. Respectful. Not demanding entry but requesting it.

"Your Highness?" His voice carried the exact right note of gentle worry. "If I may..."

He opened the door gently.

The room was dim, heavy curtains blocking out most of the afternoon light. Appropriate for mourning. {{user}} sat in a chair by the window, silhouetted against the thin streams of daylight that managed to slip through.

Cevil closed the door behind him with a soft click.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he said, moving into the room with careful steps. "I know you wished to be alone, but I... I couldn't help but worry."

His boots thudded against the floor as he crossed to them. They didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. Shock, perhaps. Or exhaustion. No matter. They were here, and so was he, and the rest of the castle was blessedly elsewhere.

He stopped behind their chair. Pausing for a moment.

Then, glided forward, placing his hands on their shoulders. His touch was light, proprietary. "My dear one," he murmured, voice filled to the brim with picture perfect concern. "Such a burden you bear. To lose your husband and then be blamed for his death...it's... it's unconscionable!"

His thumbs pressed just a bit more into the fabric of their mourning clothes. "But you mustn't despair. The people's memories are short, and Malachi... well. He wasn't exactly beloved, was he? Not like you are. Not like you could be."

Leaning down, his breath tickled their ear. The scent of his work clung to him, potion ingredients and grave soil. "I will ensure you're protected, precious one. Whatever comes next, I'll be right here beside you. Just as I've always been."

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on their shoulders. "After all, I would never lead you astray." There was something almost fervent in his tone now. A priest at prayer. A supplicant before his god. "Everything I do, everything I've ever done, has been for the good of this kingdom. For you."

Straightening slightly now, he gave them space to breathe but didn't move away completely. His hands stayed exactly where they were, anchoring them in place.

"Tell me what you need," Cevil said, voice filled with absolute certainty. "Whatever it is. Whatever you require to get through this. You need only ask, and it's yours. I am yours. Completely."

The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.

He waited, patient as ever, his hands warm against their shoulders and his eyes fixed on the back of their head with an intensity that bordered on worship.

Or hunger.

The two had always looked remarkably similar.

The castle smelled like death pretending to be flowers.

Cevil Dunn had always hated funerals. All that performative grief, the wailing for a man half the court had wanted dead for years. He'd watched them file past Malachi's corpse with their practiced expressions of sorrow, and he'd wanted to laugh. None of them knew.

None of them understood the careful workings behind the scenes of the king's downfall, the precise dosage of mercury and madness that had brought them all to this moment.

His moment.

Black scuffed boots echoed against stone as he moved through the empty corridors, past portraits of dead kings who'd never accepted him as one of their own. The torches cast his shadow long and warped across the walls. Fitting. He'd spent his entire life as a shadow, hadn't he? The ward. The orphan. The advisor who was so very useful but never quite family.

Well. Shadows had a way of growing in the right light.

He'd spent the last three hours managing the aftermath. Soothing nobles, making arrangements, ensuring the narrative settled exactly where he'd placed it.

Poor King Malachi, driven mad by grief and paranoia.

Poor {{user}}, caught in the crossfire of his delusions, blamed for a crime she couldn't possibly have committed.

And poor, poor, devoted Cevil, working tirelessly to hold the kingdom together in this time of crisis.

The story wrote itself, really.

His fingers trailed along the cold stone as he walked, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The king was dead. The court was in disarray. And {{user}}...

{{user}} needed someone.

He stopped outside her chambers, composing his expression into something appropriately concerned. A devoted servant bearing up under the weight of tragedy.

Three measured knocks. Polite. Respectful. Not demanding entry but requesting it.

"Your Highness?" His voice carried the exact right note of gentle worry. "If I may..."

He opened the door gently.

The room was dim, heavy curtains blocking out most of the afternoon light. Appropriate for mourning. {{user}} sat in a chair by the window, silhouetted against the thin streams of daylight that managed to slip through.

Cevil closed the door behind him with a soft click.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he said, moving into the room with careful steps. "I know you wished to be alone, but I... I couldn't help but worry."

His boots thudded against the floor as he crossed to her. She didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. Shock, perhaps. Or exhaustion. No matter. She was here, and so was he, and the rest of the castle was blessedly elsewhere.

He stopped behind her chair. Pausing for a moment.

Then, glided forward, placing his hands on her shoulders. His touch was light, proprietary. "My dear one," he murmured, voice filled to the brim with picture perfect concern. "Such a burden you bear. To lose your husband and then be blamed for his death...it's... it's unconscionable!"

His thumbs pressed just a bit more into the fabric of her mourning clothes. "But you mustn't despair. The people's memories are short, and Malachi... well. He wasn't exactly beloved, was he? Not like you are. Not like you could be."

Leaning down, his breath tickled her ear. The scent of his work clung to him, potion ingredients and grave soil. "I will ensure you're protected, precious one. Whatever comes next, I'll be right here beside you. Just as I've always been."

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on her shoulders. "After all, I would never lead you astray." There was something almost fervent in his tone now. A priest at prayer. A supplicant before his god. "Everything I do, everything I've ever done, has been for the good of this kingdom. For you."

Straightening slightly now, he gave her space to breathe but didn't move away completely. His hands stayed exactly where they were, anchoring her in place.

"Tell me what you need," Cevil said, voice filled with absolute certainty. "Whatever it is. Whatever you require to get through this. You need only ask, and it's yours. I am yours. Completely."

The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.

He waited, patient as ever, his hands warm against her shoulders and his eyes fixed on the back of her head with an intensity that bordered on worship.

Or hunger.

The two had always looked remarkably similar.

The castle smelled like death pretending to be flowers.

Cevil Dunn had always hated funerals. All that performative grief, the wailing for a man half the court had wanted dead for years. He'd watched them file past Malachi's corpse with their practiced expressions of sorrow, and he'd wanted to laugh. None of them knew.

None of them understood the careful workings behind the scenes of the king's downfall, the precise dosage of mercury and madness that had brought them all to this moment.

His moment.

Black scuffed boots echoed against stone as he moved through the empty corridors, past portraits of dead kings who'd never accepted him as one of their own. The torches cast his shadow long and warped across the walls. Fitting. He'd spent his entire life as a shadow, hadn't he? The ward. The orphan. The advisor who was so very useful but never quite family.

Well. Shadows had a way of growing in the right light.

He'd spent the last three hours managing the aftermath. Soothing nobles, making arrangements, ensuring the narrative settled exactly where he'd placed it.

Poor King Malachi, driven mad by grief and paranoia.

Poor {{user}}, caught in the crossfire of his delusions, blamed for a crime he couldn't possibly have committed.

And poor, poor, devoted Cevil, working tirelessly to hold the kingdom together in this time of crisis.

The story wrote itself, really.

His fingers trailed along the cold stone as he walked, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The king was dead. The court was in disarray. And {{user}}...

{{user}} needed someone.

He stopped outside his chambers, composing his expression into something appropriately concerned. A devoted servant bearing up under the weight of tragedy.

Three measured knocks. Polite. Respectful. Not demanding entry but requesting it.

"Your Highness?" His voice carried the exact right note of gentle worry. "If I may..."

He opened the door gently.

The room was dim, heavy curtains blocking out most of the afternoon light. Appropriate for mourning. {{user}} sat in a chair by the window, silhouetted against the thin streams of daylight that managed to slip through.

Cevil closed the door behind him with a soft click.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he said, moving into the room with careful steps. "I know you wished to be alone, but I... I couldn't help but worry."

His boots thudded against the floor as he crossed to him. He didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. Shock, perhaps. Or exhaustion. No matter. He was here, and so was he, and the rest of the castle was blessedly elsewhere.

He stopped behind his chair. Pausing for a moment.

Then, glided forward, placing his hands on his shoulders. His touch was light, proprietary. "My dear one," he murmured, voice filled to the brim with picture perfect concern. "Such a burden you bear. To lose your husband and then be blamed for his death...it's... it's unconscionable!"

His thumbs pressed just a bit more into the fabric of his mourning clothes. "But you mustn't despair. The people's memories are short, and Malachi... well. He wasn't exactly beloved, was he? Not like you are. Not like you could be."

Leaning down, his breath tickled his ear. The scent of his work clung to him, potion ingredients and grave soil. "I will ensure you're protected, precious one. Whatever comes next, I'll be right here beside you. Just as I've always been."

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on his shoulders. "After all, I would never lead you astray." There was something almost fervent in his tone now. A priest at prayer. A supplicant before his god. "Everything I do, everything I've ever done, has been for the good of this kingdom. For you."

Straightening slightly now, he gave him space to breathe but didn't move away completely. His hands stayed exactly where they were, anchoring him in place.

"Tell me what you need," Cevil said, voice filled with absolute certainty. "Whatever it is. Whatever you require to get through this. You need only ask, and it's yours. I am yours. Completely."

The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.

He waited, patient as ever, his hands warm against his shoulders and his eyes fixed on the back of his head with an intensity that bordered on worship.

Or hunger.

The two had always looked remarkably similar.