Whitehall Palace, 1611

  Power does not announce itself with a shout.

  It watches. It listens. It waits.

  And when the moment is right, it strikes.

  For years. Robert Cecil has been my

  father's most trusted advisor, a man who operates not with brute force but with whispers and quiet manipulations. I have seen him bend the most powerful lords to his will with nothing more than a well-placed word.

  Now, I fear he has turned his attention to me.

  And worse he has begun to notice Harry.

  The First Warning

  It begins with a conversation I was never meant to hear.

  I am walking past the council chamber when I hear my father's voice, low and thoughtful.

  "He spends too much time among the servants.

  A pause.

  Then, Cecil s voice, calm as ever. "A prince should learn to wield a sword, not play among beggars."

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  My fingers curl into fists.

  "He has never been like his brothers, my father continues. "There is something different about him,"

  Cecil does not respond immediately. I can almost hear the gears turning in his mind. Then-

  "Perhaps," he says slowly, "It is time we tested him."

  The Trap

  That evening, I find Harry in the hidden passage, our usual meeting. place. He is crouched over the chessboard, deep in thought.

  I sit beside him. "We need to be careful."

  He raises an eyebrow. "That s new."

  I don't smile. "They re watching us. Robert Cecil suspects something."

  Harry exhales, rubbing a hand through his hair. "What do we do?"

  I hesitate. "We do nothing. If we act like we re hiding something, it will only make them look harder."

  For the first time, I see something rare in Harry's eyes.

  Doubt.

  But he nods. "Alright. We play along."

  We do not have to wait long for Cecil to make his move.

  Two days later, a noble' s son challenges me to a duel in the training

  yard. It is unexpected-I have never been a favorite among them, but neither have they sought to provoke me so openly.

  I recognize the trap immediately.

  They want to see how I fight. How I react.

  If I am what they fear.

  I cannot refuse. To decline would be weakness.

  So I take the wooden practice sword and step into the ring.

  Henry de Vere stands opposite me, smirking. "I hope Your Highness will not bruise too easily."

  I grip the hilt, forcing my expression to remain neutral.

  This is not about victory.

  This is about survival.

  The Duel

  The first strike comes fast-faster than I expect. Henry is skilled, his

  movements sharp and controlled. He

  lunges, and I barely sidestep in time.

  I hear murmurs from the watching nobles.

  They are waiting for me to falter.

  I grit my teeth and shift my stance. I cannot win this with brute strength-Henry is stronger, taller. But strength

  is not the only way to win.

  I let him strike again. I step back, feigning clumsiness. He presses forward, growing bolder.

  Then, I make my move.

  I pivot sharply, using his own

  momentum against him. He stumbles -just slightly, but it is enough. I strike his wrist with the flat of my sword. He yelps, his grip loosening.

  I kick his leg out from under him.

  He falls.

  The courtyard is silent.

  I do not gloat. I do not smirk. I simply step back and offer my hand.

  Henry glares but takes it.

  A nobles son can afford to lose.

  A prince cannot afford to win too well.

  A Silent Threat

  That night, I find a letter slipped beneath my chamber door.

  No seal. No signature. Just a single line.

  He is not one of you. He never will be.

  I do not need to ask who "he" is.

  They are warning me.

  They are warning him.

  I burn the letter in the candle flame, watching as the edges curl into ash.

  The game has begun.