For the rest of the day, Cedric sequestered himself in his chambers, piecing together his fragmented understanding of this world. Dinner arrived via a timid servant. Survival instincts had dulled his disorientation—the faster he mastered this role, the safer he'd be.
Regrettably, Prince Cedric's memories offered little beyond debauchery. No political insights, no diplomatic strategies. Even basic geography—town names, historical events—failed to align with any European history Leon knew. No wonder the king dumped him in this backwater, he mused. A prince too incompetent to cause real damage.
His siblings? Cedric's recollections were laughably shallow: "Brother One fights well. Brother Two's sneaky. Sister Three's terrifying. Sister Five's too clever." Decades of rivalry reduced to childish labels. Their allies, strengths, ambitions? Blank.
In Borderwatch, nobles openly scorned Cedric after mere months. Only the king's parting gifts—Bartholomew the administrator and Kael the knight—kept the territory from collapse.
The next morning, a maid named Tira repeatedly reminded Cedric of Bartholomew's urgent request. Grudgingly, he groped her rear (a Cedric-ism) and ordered her to send the advisor to the parlor.
As Tira fled, blushing, Cedric wondered: Do I have a "system"? He mentally chanted "Status screen! Inventory!" Nothing. Typical. Novels lie.
In the parlor, Bartholomew paced like a caged bear. "Your Highness, why delay the execution?"
"What's a day matter?" Cedric waved for breakfast—fried bread, eggs, milk. "Sit. Eat." He poured the advisor a cup, noting the man's dawn arrival. Small gestures bred loyalty.
Bartholomew ignored the food. "Every hour risks her coven attacking! This isn't like your usual antics!"
"Since when do you believe Church fairy tales?" Cedric snorted. "If they call witches evil, we'll call them liars. Undermine their grip here."
The advisor gaped. "But witches are—"
"Evil? Prove it."
Bartholomew hesitated, as if humoring a fool. "Your Highness, three days ago, guards found an abandoned campsite west of Blackwood Forest. They recovered this." He slid a coin across the table.
Cedric picked it up—warm as a heating pad. Ceramic, not metal. Its surface bore crude carvings: three peaks encircling an eye.
"The Sigil of Mount Sanctum and the Eye of the Abyss," Bartholomew whispered. "The mark of the Covenant of the Veiled Sisters."
Cedric's mind drew blanks. The prince knew nothing of occult lore.
"Witches bleed like us," the advisor pressed, "but those who embrace their corruption gain terrible power. They burn bright and fast—uncontrollable desires, demonic pacts. The Church's Purge Legions exist because, centuries ago, witches nearly drowned kingdoms in blood. This 'Mount Sanctum' in their myths? A gateway to Hell, where they seek refuge from their cursed lives."
Cedric chewed bread, disgusted. Same old fearmongering. Execute first, ask never.
"And the Covenant?"
"A recent plague. They recruit witches, lure them to find this 'sanctuary.' Last year's missing infants in Harborlight? Rumors say the Covenant steals children to create new witches."
Bartholomew leaned closer. "Your Highness, if the Church learns we harbored a witch, they'll send Inquisitors. The king's decree grants you autonomy, but defying holy law? Even a prince isn't immune."
Cedric rolled the warm coin between fingers. So witches are real here. But are they monsters… or scapegoats?
"Tell the guards to double patrols," he said finally. "And bring me the prisoner tonight. Alone."
"Your Highness—!"
"Alone, Bartholomew."
The advisor left, shoulders slumped. Cedric stared at the sigil. The carved eye seemed to watch him—a challenge, or a plea.
Let's see what a real witch looks like.