Prince of Lies [COMPLETED]

Chapter 3

On the morning of the wedding, Frederick went to the royal stables and washed and groomed each of his favorite horses. He stayed there until he was certain someone would come looking for him, so he spared the servants the trouble and returned to the castle.

Neither his father nor Queen Dorothea passed a breath between them as they watched the sun sail into the sky, waiting to see if Bront would return. Frederick ignored them and allowed the servants to fuss. He knew his cousin would not be returning—he lacked the nerve to go through with something like this. Bront had always been too afraid to stomach any real responsibility, choosing to obey the Gentle King in all things, and because of that he had never left the castle.

Until now, of course.

But Bront had never held a sword. Never had a life beyond this place. He didn't know how to survive on his own, and Frederick wondered if he had even managed to live through a night away from here. There was a possibility that he was dead at this very moment. And though he planned to usurp Bront's line from the throne, he didn't wish for any harm to come to his cousin. Not really. Even now, Bront's presence filled the room.

The Royal House of the Sun, the king's line, dressed in gold for royal events. Bront's wedding attire hung on the wall, a vulgar golden suit complete with a thick ermine mantle so ridiculous that its train dragged across the entirety of the Groom's Parlor. The Queen had offered it to Frederick to wear, but he belonged to the Royal House of the Moon, his father's house and the house of the Prince Generals before him.

There wasn't enough time for the tailors to prepare his own wedding clothes, and he was satisfied to wear his navy suit with thin silver trim around the collar and cuffs, paired with a matching cape that hung from his shoulders and stopped at a sensible length. Modest compared to the monstrosity that had been prepared for Bront. Perhaps the outfit had been the real reason Bront fled, for his cousin cared about things like that. Had the luxury to think about things like that.

Frederick donned the gloves of a soon-to-be-married man, and he lowered to kneel before his father. "Get on with it."

They had all decided there would be no fanfare for this moment, it would not be part of the ceremony, and Urnald's eyes gleamed as he removed the silver crown from its pillow and placed it on Frederick's head. "It is done."

It was the crown of his House that had been passed from generation to generation. A piece of metal that held no jewels or stones but had the phases of the moon etched around its circumference.

Frederick imagined the moment he would finally wear it would be more significant—would make him feel more significant—but he felt nothing. Nothing at all. No pride filled his chest, no honor made him stand taller as he rose. It was just metal worn by his dead ancestors that did not make him any more or any less.

And now it was his.

He'd had time to think about what this meant and what this entailed. The responsibility. The severity. But all it brought with it was a wariness that hovered at the back of his mind. There were still more steps to take. Decisions to make. And for the first time he wondered: will it ever truly be enough?

Wearing it now ...

It felt like nothing but more to do, and the longer it stayed on his head, the more he felt the spirits of his house beginning to haunt him.

When Queen Dorothea became distracted by her servants with their last-minute wedding arrangements, Urnald reiterated what was to be expected of him. Once he secured the alliance of the queen and convinced her to follow him, he would be in the position to take the throne, regardless of whether the Gentle King and Bront came back. The fall of Hendlemark would be inevitable, and control would well and truly belong to them. Provided, of course, that his new wife willed herself to play the part assigned for her.