THE TRASH PRINCE'S BLUEPRINTS SYSTEM

CHAPTER 6: PRINCE THERON'S PLOTS

Rain glides over Caelora like silk over skin, gentle and deceptive. Beneath its gentle fall, the province hums with hidden machinations, its heartbeat veiled behind trade statistics, polished banners, and the rhythmic tapping of boots on cobbled roads.

Inside the Second Prince's private chambers, a sun-warmed alcove of tastefully defiled luxury, Theron Valeheart Thaloria, second son of the king and official Lord Protector of Caelora Province, lounges in his high-backed velvet chair with irreverent glee. A goblet of Sanctified Draught rests in one hand, condensation trickling down its blessed rim, while a butter-drenched Veritas Morsel disappears into his mouth with the casual blasphemy of a man who no longer fears judgment.

Laughter bursts from his lips. Smooth, sharp, and utterly smug.

"Perfect," Theron murmurs, voice like wine over steel. "I can already see the veins popping on Duchess Leonora Blackmoor's elegant little forehead. That Pope Aurelian must be frothing like a whipped dog."

He reaches for another Morsel, dips it with ceremony into golden butter, and pops it past his lips.

Reports are scattered before him on the carved ironwood desk, details fresh as the morning blood on holy robes. Holy Mages, found sprawled like discarded icons in alleyways, crossroads, and sacred streets across the breadth of Thaloria. Each corpse is marked by a charred script: "Bastard prince. Hypocrite holy mages."

Public. Brazen. The commoners saw it all.

And they did not flinch.

Theron leans back, smirking as he reads the latest intelligence from his city watch, the ink barely dry. Security, education, and trade in Caelora have never been stronger. The province hums beneath his palm like a well-oiled machine. No Holy Church incantation can outmatch meticulous administration and the simple art of not treating your subjects like shit.

He takes a sip of the sacred Draught, smacks his lips, then says aloud, "Holy ale, my arse. Just fermented barley and saffron blessed by that grinning toad Aurelian."

A knock at the door.

Sir Blain Renaud enters without waiting. He is lean, iron-haired, eyes full of tired loyalty and the usual undercurrent of dry sarcasm. He pauses mid-step, glancing at the half-eaten holy wafers, the tankard, the table spread like a peasant's festival but with relics.

"If the Holy Church saw this," he drawls, "they’d summon a dozen inquisitors, piss themselves, and have you stoned."

Theron gestures with his goblet. "Then let them come. I’ll offer them a seat and some buttered blasphemy… before putting them to the sword. Have a bite, Blain. Drink. This heresy pairs wonderfully with defiance."

The knight sits, grabs a morsel with the reverence of a man holding court evidence, dips it into the butter and chews.

A beat.

"In the name of The Sovereign, this is sinful."

"Precisely. That’s why it tastes so divine."

The room warms with dark laughter.

They eat. They drink. And behind every relaxed jest, tension coils like a serpent waiting to strike.

Blain pours himself a second tankard. "You've done well, Your Highness. The people adore you. Merchants line your streets. The provincial roads are safer than the palace halls. Which begs the question, why not let things lie? Why provoke the Church and House Blackmoor with assassinations that scream your name in every corner of the kingdom?"

Theron’s smile thins.

"Because silence is a luxury of cowards. They murdered my mother. They collared my birthright. And they have the gall to wear righteousness like a crown while doing it. If they wanted me to be silent, they should have killed me outright."

Blain's expression darkens. "I don’t disagree. I just hope you don’t mistake momentum for invincibility."

Theron leans forward, eyes like golden blades. "Blain, I do not seek invincibility. I seek inevitability."

He raises a letter, its wax seal freshly cracked, and tosses it across the desk.

"Read. It’s from your brother."

Blain skims it, brow rising.

"He suggests weaponizing the panic further. Creating a mock-sympathy movement across the western parishes. Stir support from lowborn mages, make them seem persecuted. If the Church responds harshly, it makes them look like tyrants. If they don’t, it makes them look weak."

Theron nods. "Elegant, isn’t it? Like pressing a dagger into someone’s throat with one hand and showing a dove to the crowd with the other."

Blain exhales, hands the letter back. "Dangerous game, Your Highness."

"The only kind worth playing."

The doors creak open again. Lady Caelora, Second Princess-Consort of Thaloria Kingdom, glides in, grace wrapped in authority. Midnight hair tied in a warrior’s braid. She scans the scene with practiced disappointment.

"Theron," she says, "you’re drinking the sacred ale again. And those wafers, do you have to butter them?"

"They’re dry otherwise. Like the sermons of the High Confessor. Come, my love. Have a taste."

She ignores the food, plucks the letter from his hand instead.

"What did you do this time?"

He reclines again, all arrogance and amusement. "I made a move. Now I make it worse."

She reads. Her eyes widened. Her posture shifts.

"You mean to fan the flames further? Theron, do you even realize what you've set in motion? This isn't just petty sabotage anymore. You're igniting war."

He rises slowly, eyes glittering.

"War is already here. I just added poetry to it."

Caelora stares at him, long and hard. Then almost reluctantly, she smiles.

"You bastard. Just... don’t die before the work’s done."

"I don’t intend to die at all. That’s their job."

Later that night, Theron stands atop the western parapet of Skycloud Citadel. Frost and snow sprinkles over his coat, wind howling at his silver-lined cloak.

Below him, down in the Vale of Caelora, Caelora pulses with light. Lanterns sway over bridges. Traders still haggle in moonlit markets. Soldiers drill in the torch-lit yards.

Theron inhales deep.

The province thrives. And soon, it will bleed if it must.

He turns as a new figure steps onto the parapet. Lady Philippa Hamilton, garbed in travel cloak and finery, her expression unreadable.

"Your messenger said you had a proposition, Your Highness. One worth betrayal."

Theron smiles like a devil in a cathedral.

"Not betrayal, Lady Philippa. Just... correction."

She crosses her arms. "You want House Hamilton. And you think buying my support will get you that."

"No. I know it will. Because your cousin wears the white cloak, your father has no other heirs, and your ledger speaks louder than your prayers."

She stiffens, but does not deny it.

"You’re not as charming as you think, Theron."

"I don’t need to be. Just effective. You want profits. I offer unregulated trade rights to the northern ports of Caelora. I offer the Church’s collapse, and the market vacuum that comes with it."

"You’re insane."

"Perhaps. But I’m winning. And winners set the price of sanity."

Philippa eyes him for a long time, then extends her hand.

"I want iron guarantees. In writing. And a double share if the Holy Church collapses."

"Done."

They shake.

The deal is struck.

And in the West, the Holy Church reels.

Reports flood the ShadowPeak Citadel in the heart of Blackmoor City. House Hamilton’s trade convoys now move freely through Caelora. Their soldiers drill with Caeloran armsmasters. Their coin flows not into Blackmoor coffers but into Theron’s.

At the Conclave Cathedral, Crown Prince Alaric rages like a lion cornered in fire.

"He bribed Hamilton?! That snake, that scheming little-"

Leonora’s voice cuts through his fury.

"He has style, I’ll grant him that. But style is not victory. We bleed him dry. Slowly. We make Caelora a wasteland."

Aurelian mutters prayers that curdle into curses.

The game has begun.

And in Caelora, under the flickering lamplight of a chamber gone quiet, Theron sharpens his quill, not for letters, but for legacies.

Let them come, he thinks. They play with scripture. I play with cities.

He lifts a goblet to his lips.

Another toast to holy damnation.