THE TRASH PRINCE'S BLUEPRINTS SYSTEM

CHAPTER 3: PRINCELY CONFRONTATION

In the twilight-shrouded capital of Blackmoor Province, the crimson sun bleeds over alabaster spires and velvet roofs. Blackmoor City does not sleep. It watches. It listens. And tonight, it whispers.

Inside the Philippa Hamilton Theater, nestled like a jeweled dagger in the heart of Blackmoor City, a grand performance unfolds, not only onstage, but in the velvet-draped box seats, where empires breathe, and dynasties scheme.

Now.

Crown Prince Alaric Valeheart Blackmoor-Thaloria sits like a lion among rabbits, golden eyes glinting with the self-assurance of a man born not merely to rule, but to dominate. The sigil of House Thaloria, a golden roaring lion watching over a chapel, is embroidered in gold thread across the chest of his sable doublet. Beside him, the woman known as the Lady of Blackmoor, Leonora Blackmoor, watches with the cold stillness of ice atop a grave.

To their right, Pope Aurelian Blackmoor, Most High Holy Mage and leader of the Holy Church, rests like a mountain carved of snow. His long white robes shimmer faintly with runes shaped like a cruficix. Behind him, the cardinals, holy mages wrapped in sanctified white, sit still as marble statues, staffs humming faintly with suppressed might.

They watch the play unfold, a dramatic re-enactment of the Founding Catastrophe, when chaos swallowed the world and the Holy Church rose from the ashes, cloaked in blood and glory.

But the real performance? It has not yet begun.

Enter Lady Philippa Hamilton.

"Why, fancy meeting you here, Your Highness Prince Alaric, Lady Blackmoor, Your Holiness Pope Aurelian. It is my pleasure, no, my privilege, to host such distinguished patrons in my humble little den of culture."

Lady Philippa curtsies with grace practiced a hundred times. She wears red and gold like a weapon, cloak, bodice, skirt, stomacher, gloves, all perfectly coordinated. The red and gold rose, the sigil of House Hamilton gleams on her chest and cloak like a merchant’s coin pressed against an altar.

Her fan, black lace, elegant, unnecessary, snaps closed. She doesn’t hide her face. She never does. There’s no need. She speaks in sweet notes dipped in subtle arsenic.

She slides beside the prince, every movement a calculation. Her mind, sharp as a jeweler’s blade, already cuts through probabilities and profit.

She will be remembered. Or she will die trying.

But then the prince speaks.

“Please, Lady Hamilton, do spare us your lyrical excretions. My mother, my uncle, and I have no appetite for poisoned honey tonight.”

Alaric’s tone drips with polite venom. He doesn't look at her, he dissects her. Golden eyes pierce through silk and smile.

“You flatter like a courtesan caught trespassing in temple halls. It’s unbecoming of a noblewoman, let alone a merchant who trades with both coin and creed.”

Philippa blinks once, as if struck, but not wounded.

“Why, Your Highness, you wound me. Truly. I am loyal to Thaloria. And I am loyal to the doctrines of the Holy Church.”

Lady Leonora’s gloved fingers twitch once. The Pope nods solemnly. The cardinals hum with restrained light.

But Alaric’s laughter cuts through the pretense like a knife through priestly robes.

“Loyal? To whom, Lady Philippa? The Kingdom? The Church? No, my dear, you’re loyal to your ledger. Your patron saint wears a coin purse for a mitre. Let’s not pretend your altar isn’t built of iron, silk, and sealed contracts.”

The nobles behind him, gray-haired allies with gold-ringed fingers, chuckle like wolves licking blood from their lips. The audience stirs, some in discomfort, others in wicked glee.

Then, a voice, brazen, mocking, and cuts sharp as a Dragonheart Imperium dagger.

“We are well met, bastard.”

The voice cuts through the rising tide like a sword through silk.

Second Prince Theron Valeheart Thaloria rises from his seat across the hall, accompanied by well dressed mages whose robes reek of privilege and powdered perfume. He walks with the swagger of a drunk philosopher and the poise of a man who knows precisely how far he can push before the blade drops.

He mounts the stage, grabs a magic voice amplifier from a startled actor, and speaks with cruel clarity.

“Oh, what’s this I hear, dear half-brother? Picking on Lady Philippa again? Has the Church not taught you manners, or did your mother’s milk sour your tongue?”

Gasps. Murmurs. Laughter.

Theron grins.

“You and your holy entourage should be on your knees thanking this woman. She took your coin. She hosted this blasphemous soap-opera of a play, what is it again? Oh yes, a revisionist tale of mage persecution wrapped in saintly fantasy. Do forgive me if I don’t clap.”

He paces.

“You forget, bastard prince, that House Hamilton made your seat warm. That their coin funded your throne. That their loyalty, fragile and rented, is not to you, but to the illusion of power you and your so-called church exhale.”

A laugh.

“And you, Lady Blackmoor. Don’t mistake your widow’s veil for divine protection. I haven’t forgotten the Queen’s death. Nor have others. The crown still drips.”

He turns to the Pope and cardinals.

“I’ve prepared a little surprise for you too. Just wait.”

Then,

Flames.

Theron conjures balls of fire from his hands, flicking them through the air like a bored child tossing pebbles. He sets ablaze the sacred props of the Church onstage, relics, holy banners, scrolls.

The actors flee.

The audience erupts.

Half scream. Half laugh. A few mock-pray with dramatic genuflections. Someone shouts, “Amen, Prince Pyromancer!”

Theron bows, deep and mocking.

And exits, satisfied.

Aftermath.

The theater churns like a stirred anthill. Nobles argue. Merchant lords whisper. Alliances bloom and wither in seconds.

The Pope walks out like a glacier in human skin, cardinals behind him, white robes now gray with ash. Lady Leonora follows, eyes unreadable. Prince Alaric trails, fists clenched, fury etched into every step.

He explodes outside the theater.

“That heretic! That multi-elemental whoremonger with delusions of grandeur! He dares to call me a bastard in front of my people?”

Leonora tries to soothe him with a hand on his arm. The Pope whispers something cold and ancient. The cardinals murmur a prayer.

Alaric ignores them.

“He even called me a puppet of the Church, of my mother! And those fools laughed! Do they think I won’t remember? Do they think blood won’t flow?”

The streets listen. The shadows retreat.

Meanwhile…

Lady Philippa Hamilton, magenta and black, already calculates.

A thousand thoughts. Ten thousand permutations. House Hamilton must survive. Must adapt. Must thrive.

She will seduce the Third Prince’s attention if need be.

If she must sacrifice Theron or Alaric or even the Pope, so be it.

Inside the Royal Castle’s training ground, King Alexander Cain Thaloria cuts through the air with a blade forged in the fire of civil war.

His opponent, Sir Liam Hamilton, Lord Commander of the Thalorian Kingsguard, cousin to Philippa, parries with all the grace of a man who’s danced with death before.

They duel.

Steel sings.

“Your Majesty?” Liam breathes heavily. “You seem…distracted.”

The King moves with a lethal economy. His blade hums with quiet malice.

“I’m thinking of sons who bite at each other’s throats while the wolves watch from beyond the gates.”

“You fear civil war.”

“I fear incompetence.”

Liam chuckles.

“Have you made preparations, then?”

A flash of memory, blood on marble. A throne wrested from a tyrant uncle.

“You fought beside me once, Liam. You slit the throat of a man who wore my crown. You’ve seen what I do to threats.”

The King feints. Liam parries, too slow.

A swift slash sends the Lord Commander to the ground.

King Alexander offers him a hand.

“Let them come.” His voice is ice. “Let them all come. I am ready.”