The 100 hired staff filed out in neat, orderly lines, some exchanging nervous glances, others eyeing the towering palace with awe.
A murmur of excitement spread through the group as the Chief of Palace Staff approached, her posture rigid, her gaze sharp.
"Form lines," she commanded curtly, her voice cutting through the light chatter.
The staff fell into a perfect formation, moving toward the final security checkpoint before entering the palace.
The Royal Guards, notorious for their strict and often brutal enforcement of protocol, stood by, watching the proceedings closely.
A young man, jittery with nerves, muttered to the person beside him, "Do we have to do this again? We've already been checked twice."
Before anyone could respond, one of the guards, broad-shouldered and stern-faced, stalked toward the young man, the displeasure in his eyes unmistakable.
He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "If you don't want to follow procedure, I'll gladly escort you out myself," he growled, each word dripping with menace.
The young man's face drained of color as the weight of the guard's words sank in.
His companions exchanged uneasy glances, quickly falling silent.
The guards of the Royal Family were infamous not just for their discipline, but for the severity of their methods.
Nobody in their right mind would risk stepping out of line with them around.
"Baby, maybe we should reconsider this heist," Lani whispered to Maverick, her voice barely audible, but laced with fear.
Her wide eyes darted around, taking in the imposing guards and the heavily fortified palace they were about to enter. "This is too dangerous."
Maverick, his posture casual, brushed off her concerns with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Stop worrying, baby. Nothing will happen. We've got this," he said confidently, though his own gaze lingered a second too long on the heavily armed guards.
As the final security checks concluded, the group was finally led into the grand hall of the palace.
They stood in straight, perfect lines, awaiting further instructions.
The Chief of Palace Staff stepped forward, her back straight and her gaze fixed on the crowd. "You have all been brought here to serve the King and Crown Prince in various capacities," she began, her voice echoing slightly in the large, ornate hall. "You will conduct yourselves with utmost respect and adherence to protocol at all times."
As she spoke, the grand double doors at the far end of the hall swung open with a heavy creak.
The sound reverberated across the chamber, drawing every eye in the room to the figure stepping inside.
The Queen Consort, regal and imposing, entered, flanked by a team of guards.
The entire room instinctively lowered their heads in a deep bow, a show of respect and deference to the royal figure.
Camille paused at the front of the room, her eyes scanning the rows of staff before she began her address.
"Thank you for coming out today to serve our kingdom," she said, her voice smooth yet commanding.
"It is through your dedication and loyalty that we maintain the legacy of this great palace and protect the future of our beloved Crown Prince."
When she finished, the hall erupted in soft, polite applause.
Maverick, standing beside Lani, gave a low whistle under his breath, but even his usually carefree demeanor seemed subdued by the weight of the Queen Consort's presence.
Meanwhile, in the Crown Prince's chambers, Arthur sat across from Elena enjoying tea and biscuits as they exchanged stories.
Just then, a soft knock echoed through the room, and a servant entered with a quiet bow.
"Your Highness," the servant addressed Arthur, "the King awaits you in the Royal Memorial Room."
Arthur's light-hearted expression dimmed slightly at the mention of the room.
He nodded, standing up from his seat and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "I should go."
Elena offered him a small, understanding smile. "Go ahead, I'll finish the tea."
Leaving the chambers, Arthur made his way through the labyrinthine halls of the palace toward the Royal Memorial Room, where the memories of those who had passed were enshrined in reverence.
Upon entering, he found his father, King Henry, standing silently in front of a portrait of the late Queen, Arthur's mother.
Her image was flanked by all her favorite belongings—an ornate crown encased in glass, delicate keepsakes from their family history.
"Father," Arthur said softly.
Henry turned to face his son, his expression weary but softened by nostalgia.
"Hey, son," he greeted quietly, gesturing for Arthur to come closer.
Together, they stood in silence for a long moment, both of them gazing at the portrait of the woman who had once been the heart of their family.
"She was everything," Henry murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Before she was gone… everything was so much simpler, happier. I'm sorry, Arthur. I wasn't the father I should've been to you after her death."
Arthur remained silent, his gaze still fixed on his mother's face.
He had heard these words before, but the hurt ran deep, deeper than apologies could heal.
When his father spoke again, the request came gently but insistently.
"Come back to the palace, Arthur. Rule by my side. Prepare yourself to take the throne when the time comes. It's your birthright."
Arthur clenched his fists, his heart heavy. "I'm not ready, Father," he admitted after a long pause. "Even after all these years, I'm still hurting."
Henry nodded, his expression softening with understanding. "Take your time, son. I won't rush you. But remember, the crown waits for you."
Unbeknownst to the two of them, Alexander stood just outside the room, listening intently to their conversation.
His fist clenched at his side, his knuckles white with anger.
He hated them both—his father for favoring Arthur, and Arthur for always being the perfect son.
The warmth in their conversation only fueled the bitter fire in his heart.
Without a word, Alexander turned on his heel and stalked away, his hatred for his father and brother simmering dangerously.
Back in the grand hall, where the new staff were still being guided through their duties, the Chief of Palace Staff suddenly received an urgent message.
She was being summoned by the second prince, Alexander.
The blood drained from her face as she hurried to his chambers, her heart pounding in her chest.
She knocked softly on the heavy doors to his room before entering. "Your Highness, you summoned me?" she asked, bowing deeply, her voice trembling.
Alexander, lounging lazily on his bed with a cigarette dangling from his lips, narrowed his eyes at her.
He stood up slowly, walking toward her with a menacing calm.
Without warning, he kicked her hard in the stomach, sending her sprawling to the floor.
"You address me as Your Holiness," he hissed, his voice cold. "How many times have I told you?"
The Chief of Palace Staff coughed, choking on her pain, but dared not speak.
Alexander kicked her again, and again, each blow landing with brutal precision.
Finally, he stepped back, watching her writhe on the floor in agony.
"Have you replaced everything with silver?" he demanded, his voice a sinister calm.
"Yes, Your Holiness," she gasped, struggling to keep her composure through the pain.
A twisted grin spread across Alexander's face. "Good."