~Twelve Lunar Arcs Before~
If they want to kill me, they could just say so.
Two hours.
Two hours of my life I'll never get back.
Two hours of Professor Mathers droning on about treaties and trade routes like they're the keys to saving humanity. Spoiler: they're not.
And yet here I am. Locked in a classroom that smells like old ink and dust, staring at a man who looks like he was summoned from the depths of a library that time forgot. Mathers adjusts his spectacles and leans over his desk like this is the most riveting thing he's ever taught.
"The Halmore Treaty," he intones, his voice raspy and lifeless, "is the cornerstone of our maritime dominance and trade stability. Without it, the kingdom would have—"
I stop listening.
My eyes drift to the window. Outside, the world is still moving. The sun is still shining. The birds are still flying. The kingdom hasn't collapsed yet, treaty or no treaty.
An aetherwing catches my attention, circling high above the gardens. Its feathers glint in the light, sharp and silver like the edge of a blade. For a moment, it's the only thing that exists. The way it moves—quick, precise, and utterly free. I almost stand to watch it.
Almost.
But then Mathers's face looms into view, magnified by his oversized glasses. His bushy eyebrows twitch like he's been waiting for this moment his entire life.
"Perhaps you could enlighten us, my prince," he says, voice dripping with judgment. "What is the significance of Halmore that has you so utterly captivated?"
I blink. It takes me a second to remember where I am.
"Uh..."
"Yes?" His tone is a challenge.
"The Halmore Treaty solidified trade routes with the northern provinces," I say, rattling off the words like I'm reading them from a script. "Ensuring maritime dominance and reducing the Crown's reliance on overland trade. It also paved the way for the Fourth Edict on taxation, which I'm sure you'll explain to me in great detail next."
Mathers looks vaguely impressed. Or maybe it's just gas.
"Indeed, my prince. Indeed."
He waddles back to his desk, muttering something about taxes, and I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. Two hours of this. Two hours of my life I'll never get back. And for what? To be a good boy.
If they think I care, they're wrong.
By the time Mathers finally dismisses me, my brain feels like it's been wrung dry and left out in the sun. There's nothing scheduled on the training grounds today, which means I'm free to waste my time as I please.
So I head to the greenhouse.
It's my mother's favorite place. A riot of pink and purple blooms, their veins glowing faintly under the sunlight streaming through the arched glass roof. The air is warm and heavy with the scent of roses and lemons, and the quiet chatter of maids drifts through the space like birdsong.
She's at the center of it all, sitting beneath a canopy of flowering vines. My mother. Elegant. Poised. Perfect.
Her hair is coiled into a flawless braid, and the silver circlet on her brow glints in the light like a reminder of who she is—and who I'm supposed to be. She moves with a grace that feels practiced, deliberate, like every motion is part of some grand performance.
And yet, when her eyes lift to meet mine, her face softens. She smiles like I'm the one thing in this world that doesn't have to be perfect.
"Oh, not again," she says, her voice light but exasperated.
"What?" I grin, crossing the room in a few long strides. "I can't come say hello?"
I press a kiss to her cheek and swipe a macaroon off the tray before she can stop me.
"You're impossible," she says, shaking her head.
"Perfectly impossible," I correct, taking a bite.
Across from her, the Duke of Hawthorne sits stiffly, his sharp features arranged into their usual scowl. He watches me like I'm something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
"Your Highness," he says, his tone clipped.
"Duke," I reply, equally clipped, though I flash him a grin just to watch him twitch.
"Did you even wash your hands?" my mother asks, arching a brow.
"Of course I did," I lie.
She rolls her eyes but doesn't press the issue, instead turning her attention back to the tea. She pours with precision, adding sugar and milk as though the entire kingdom depends on it.
"Honestly, Liam," she says, handing me a cup, "what am I going to do with you?"
"Nothing," I say, shrugging. "I'm perfect as I am."
"Perfectly insufferable," she mutters, though I catch the faintest hint of a smile.
The Duke clears his throat, cutting through the moment like a dull blade. "Perhaps the prince could use his time more productively," he says. "The kingdom requires a steady hand, and his Highness would make an excellent candidate for—"
"No." I cut him off before he can finish.
His jaw tightens.
"That's right." I lean back in my chair, swirling the tea in my cup. "Find someone else to wear your metal ring. I'm not interested. Besides I'm the richest among all of them,"
"Liam," my mother starts, but I hold up a hand.
"It's fine. Let him talk. Let him waste his breath." I glance at the Duke, my grin sharp enough to cut. "It's not like I'm going to change my mind."
The Duke's eyes darken, but before he can respond, my mother coughs.
It's soft at first, a delicate sound she covers with her gloved hand. But then it happens again.
And again.
Her body jerks forward, the sound rougher this time, and my heart stops.
"Mother?" I set down my tea, my voice sharper than I intended.
She waves me off, but her hand is trembling. "It's nothing," she says, her voice thin.
But then blood spills from her lips, splattering across the pristine white tablecloth.
The teacup in her hand slips and shatters against the floor.
"MOM!"