Chapter 122: The Serpent's Grand Entrance The Glass Chapel, itself an affair of light and pretension, was still silent as the chamber orchestra scaled a victorious climax. All eyes, which had been restlessly flitting about the room, were centered now on the grand staircase, where the "Crown Executor" was to make his formal appearance. He stood at its summit, a figure against a background of massive, magically illuminated glass, a figure of absolute power and invincible presence. He was no longer tonight merely "Prince Kairo". He had shed that pose, that pretence of sorrowful control, for something far more terrifying and absolute. He wore the uniform of radiant black and silver, his bodyguard a menacing phalanx of unyielding, impassive men standing at his side. The coiled, sinister serpent sigil, worked in silver across his breast, declared his new loyalty in a chill, chattering assertion. His once so carefully wrought face, so skillfully made to imitate the Prince's, now wore a mas

Chapter 124: The Unbearable Wait The waiting within the palace was vibrant, a living thing, a suffocating weight upon all who were confined within its walls. The "culinary accident" in the kitchens, quickly brought to order, had burst the thin veneer of normalcy. Guards, their faces tight, hurried with greater urgency, their grumbles of "sabotage" and "uprising" cutting through the tense laughter of the gala. The guests, their smiles frozen masks of fear, clung to their companions, their eyes scanning the room, searching for a glimpse of the concealed peril. Sheila, with her task accomplished in distraction, faded back into the crowd, her own face a guise of pretense. She moved with purpose, her gaze sweeping about for the one individual who could now help them: Queen Alys. She found her standing next to a big, decorated statue of the deceased King, her own face a serene guise of peace, her eyes fixed on the ballroom doors, a silent witness to her unyielding resolve. Sheila approac

Chapter 126: The Shattered Mirror The deafening scream of the crowd, attesting to the imposter's horrific success, rang through the Grand Chapel. As he raised his goblet in a final, triumphant toast, one shattering shriek, a woman's cry, echoed from the back of the chapel. A black cloud of smoke, smelling of oil burned, erupted from a nearby grille of ventilation. It was a diversion. It was a signal. It was Sheila's game. The imposter's head twitched at the sound, a glint of annoyance and then pure rage in his eyes. He was about to order his guards to dispose of it, but before he could, a fresh sound, a sound of muffled movement, echoed from the back of the throng. There was one man, a man in a scholar's robe, forcing his way through the people, a massive, black shape swathed in a cloak in his arms. He was moving with a wild, desperate urgency, his gaze fixed on the stage. He was Tate. And in his arms, the real Prince Kairo. A wave of confusion swept through the crowd. Whispers, m