“It’s indecent. Frankly, I’m disgusted and appalled,” said a prominent nobleman standing near King Edgar. He stayed silent, listening. “Art is meant to pay homage to our betters. And this… this lurid piece...” the man gestured toward the painting, which depicted a couple in embrace. The man seemed dark and terrifying, while the woman vivid and full of life. “It’s simply self-indulgent.”

  “Come now.” Another person spoke up, and King Edgar turned his head to listen to them. “Let’s not be absurd. Art is meant to touch at the deepest reaches within oneself. It’s meant to express that which exists both inward and outward; the finest aspects of humanity. And this piece… what is it emblematic of, if not the deepest desires within us? The self-indulgence that exists all around us? Most noblemen have mistresses, by this point—let’s not act as though a scene like this doesn’t speak to exactly what’s occurring around us.”

  The babbling went on and on and on, and Edgar listened closely to it. He loved art from the very bottom of his being. That was the only thing that he’d been able to enjoy his entire life. He’d tried very hard to be like his father, but… this was the only thing that brought him joy in his life. Fine wine, fine art, and passable company. If Edgar’s day was like that, then Edgar’s day was a good one.

  He couldn’t possibly miss the symbolism behind these pieces.

  All of this… this grand display, this grand show… it was about him. It was a representation of the shift in the royal court, the changing attitudes of all those around them. He knew that things weren’t going smoothly. His father had never needed to employ the holy paladins to get people to obey him. He’d never had widespread defiance like this.

  And Isabella had chosen to make that manifest here, in the most public setting imaginable. He might’ve had her punished then and there, but acting on symbolism alone… there wasn’t justification. And… above all…

  I really love it, Edgar reflected as he looked around.

  The whimsical playfulness of the pieces. The bright colors. The straightforward messaging. The laxness of it, the looseness of it, the freedom of it. He hadn’t even realized what he’d been missing until he saw it. He could think of half a dozen different places that he’d decorate his room with these pieces. They brought color, brought life, to these sterile marble halls of Archduke Felix’s estate.

  Edgar heard the tinging of a glass, and turned his head. There, Duke Albert held a glass, tapping it with a spoon.

  “In light of discussion occurring around this room, I must make a public statement, as an aficionado of the art world and owner of the largest auction house exclusively devoted to art in the world,” Albert said loudly. “I condemn, in the strongest possible terms, these art pieces, and rebuke Archduke Felix for playing host to them.”

  “Meaning you’re terrified that your business is under threat by artists out from underneath your thumb,” Duke Valerio interrupted him evenly, his voice louder. Isabella stood by his side, watching Albert with a cold gaze.

  “Art is a vessel of devotion and a symbol of fealty,” Albert continued. “As a loyal subject of the king, I would be remiss not to scold the intention and the meaning behind these paintings.”

  “Presuming you speak earnestly… if some of your personal commissions were brought to light, Albert, you would be hanged,” Archduke Felix said strongly. “Even still, do you stand by what you said, so callously interrupting my daughter’s debut?”

  “Perhaps we can humbly ask what His Majesty thinks,” Albert said, directing his attention.

  Edgar straightened his posture as all eyes fell upon him. There were expectant, almost eager gazes all upon him. Isabella was among them, watching him passively. He didn’t like the way that she was looking at him. There wasn’t fear in those eyes of hers. Just… calculation. He walked forward, standing in front of her. The whole room focused in on them.

  “He’s right,” Edgar said, looking down at her.

  “Your Majesty, I can—”

  “As punishment, I’ll be taking three of these paintings.” He looked back. “Guards. Take that one, that one, and that one,” he said, pointing out his favorite pieces. “We’re leaving.”

  Isabella blinked at him in shock, perhaps unable to find the words.

  Edgar turned and left the hall, feeling complicated emotions. Archduke Felix stepped forward, saying, “Your Majesty. Could I at least ask you to spend some time with my daughter before parting?”

  Edgar looked toward her. She wore a lovely red dress and had a pretty face, but that didn’t do much when the woman was as large as she was. She tried to smile at him, but it looked stiff and fake.

  “I haven’t trained to dance with towering statues,” Edgar said uncaringly. “This has been enough of a farce as it is without sharing my time with a giantess.”

  The archduke stared murderously at Edgar, but he brushed past the man and carried on his way.

  ***

  Isabella kneaded her palms in the quietude following the king’s departure. She had been expecting the king to be dragged into this at some point, but she hadn’t expected his reaction. Edgar had always been unpredictable. She had thought she’d be capable of calming his temper, but… he’d left and taken some art with him. It was only a half an hour into the event.

  Archduke Felix looked back at her, clearly upset about what had happened. She’d heard what the king said—for any father, let alone Felix, that would be incredibly infuriating. The king had given somewhat tacit endorsement of the pieces she’d chose by taking them away, but now?

  Archduke Felix might blame me for this, she thought. Things could become much harder for me. At the same time… the king himself took the paintings. That has to mean something. And that’s definitely something I can turn to my advantage.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  She was minutely troubled. Edgar had taken the most expensive paintings from the bunch. Was that simply good luck, or good taste? She honestly couldn’t say. Regardless… if this was the beginning of the night, the remainder of it promised to be fraught with drama.

  “Good day, Your Highness,” said a calm voice so familiar that it set her on edge immediately.

  Isabella turned and stepped away, laying eyes on Duke Albert. It had been a very long time since she’d spoken to Duke Albert. Years, in fact. She had been counting the days since his passing happily. His designs had taught her much, but they were lessons she’d rather not have learned.

  “Duke Albert,” Isabella said coolly, not allowing her composure to waver.

  Valerio put a hand on her shoulder, offering support. “I do hope you weren’t troubled by the stairs.”

  Albert didn’t even regard Valerio, staring at Isabella with his unbreakable composure. All of her life, she’d never seen Albert break that mask of calm. Even when he’d been beneath the guillotine, he stared ahead calmly like it was a mere annoyance. In a way, it was more frightening than if he was a brute, always throwing and screaming and yelling.

  “If you wished to go into the business of art, you could’ve come into my hands,” Albert said. “Not only could I have helped you procure and sell these pieces… I could’ve made you a goddess in the eyes of men, Your Highness. Now, you’ve angered His Majesty.”

  Isabella tensed at the familiar phrasing.

  “She certainly doesn’t need your aid in being known for her beauty,” Valerio said. “You do have eyes, don’t you? Perhaps your cheeks have swollen enough to muddle your vision.”

  “I do. You’ve both dressed very finely,” Albert said politely. “Those clothes must’ve been quite expensive.”

  “Not quite so expensive as yours, I suspect,” Isabella said, emboldened by Valerio. “Your tailor is managing to keep up with fashion’s ever-changing demands—such a challenge, I imagine, when styles become so… fitted.”

  Valerio laughed. “Indeed, Your Highness. The duke has a considerable presence. He has an air of abundance about him in all things; it’s as though he fills the room. Lesser men might struggle beneath the tremendous burdens that Duke Albert bears. I can only marvel at his endurance—few could bear such weighty responsibilities with such poise.”

  Isabella couldn’t help but laugh slightly. She was surprised at how well laughter made her tension drain. Ironically, the duke seemed smaller in the face of their mockery. She hadn’t known how grateful she was for support until she had it.

  “I look forward to the auction,” Albert said, still unphased. “I do hope you have sufficient bidders. I would hate to see you be embarrassed, walking away tonight having sold nothing. Good day, Your Highness.”

  Albert limped away. Isabella looked at Valerio. He watched the man with a hateful gaze.

  “The man is hard to rattle, I’ll give him that,” Valerio conceded. “But we can break him, I’m sure. Together, it’ll be easy.”

  Isabella nodded. “Together, it may be,” she agreed.

  For tonight at least, she would rely on Valerio without reservations.

  ***

  Edgar retired to his bedroom, carrying one of the paintings along with him. There were few servants around at present, but he wasn’t overly upset. They’d likely been sent away because they all expected him to be at the debutante ball. Two holy paladins followed him around, standing guard vigilantly. He propped the painting against the leg of a table, then sat on his bed, pouring himself a glass of wine as he studied it.

  Something needed to be done about Isabella. Something needed to be done about all of them. He needed something big, declarative. Count Faust hadn’t been enough. True fear… one body alone wouldn’t inspire true fear.

  After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, Edgar felt the urge to go to the bathroom. He rose, walking to his privy chamber. When he opened the door, he saw his Royal Attendant of Hygiene shift into place suddenly. He looked nervous, rattled.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Edgar asked, looking around the privy chamber suspiciously.

  “Nothing, Your Majesty,” the man answered, breath a bit rapid.

  Edgar looked back, and his holy paladins immediately advanced into the room, scanning the place as was their duty.

  “I was… asleep, Your Majesty,” his attendant admitted. “I apologize deeply.”

  Edgar narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He opened his mouth to speak again, but there was a sudden burst of noise, and sharp pain spike right below Edgar’s neck. He fell backward to the ground, clutching at the spot. A bolt protruded out of his chest. He heard fighting break out—things breaking, shattering, in the privy chamber ahead.

  Edgar tried to crawl backward with his legs and arms, barely comprehending what was happening. He tried to yell for help, but ended up feeling nothing but a warm, iron-like liquid fill his mouth. Blood, he realized. It was blood. After what felt like an eternity, he saw some black figures walk above him. He thought they were his paladins at first, but…

  “Give me your knife,” one said, kneeling down. “Finish it now. We’ve got to get out quickly.”

  “No, no,” the other said, making the other stand back up. “Help me drag him to the privy.”

  “What?!”

  “We’ll stuff his head in there,” the man said decisively. “Let the man’s last meal be what he’s been making all of us eat since he rose to the throne. For Count Faust, for everybody. We’ll send a message.”

  “You’re mental!” The man paced around the room, obviously anxious beyond belief. Eventually, though, the man kneeled beside Edgar, reaching out. “If we get caught behind this, I’ll drag you to the hells myself.”

  Edgar tried to resist the hands that wrapped around his arms, but already he felt too weak to do so. Only one thought persisted in his head.

  This is me. This doesn’t happen to me.

  ***

  “Claude!”

  Claude, reading late at night, looked up as someone burst in. “What?”

  “It’s happened,” the man said, breathless. “The palace is in total lockdown. The holy paladins—what few remain, anyway—are trying to shut things down, catch the culprits. But our men… our men say that the king is dead. He’s dead, Your Highness. I mean it sincerely.”

  “You’re sure?” Claude shut his book and rose to his feet. “This isn’t some bait, some trap, by a clever strategist?”

  “Not a chance,” the man shook his head. He took a deep breath, then said declaratively, “It’s real. Edgar II is dead.”

  Claude’s breathing hastened, and then he shook his head rapidly. He rubbed his eyes to dismiss his fatigue, then slapped his face. Perhaps he didn’t need to. Adrenaline flooded his body.

  “Get everyone ready,” he commanded. “All my people, all my loyalists—it’s time to secure the palace. Make sure that the gates are open to us.”