THE TRASH PRINCE'S BLUEPRINTS SYSTEM

CHAPTER 7: PRINCE THERON'S MISCHIEF

True to his word, Second Prince Theron Valeheart Thaloria, Lord Protector of Caelora Province and thorn in the side of crown and creed, makes his grand appearance later that evening. His arrival at Lady Philippa Hamilton's theater is nothing short of theatrical, a calculated, poisonous bloom amidst the perfumed court of power and faith.

He enters the front courtyard with all the regal arrogance befitting a man who sees himself not merely as a prince but as the correction of a kingdom’s decaying spine. The mages who follow him, those educated in secret libraries, those stripped of their rights by royal decree, stand dressed in robes that shimmer like oil on black water. They follow their prince with silent pride, adorned in mockeries of the Holy Mage vestments, each one bearing Theron's sigil, an Omnimancer holding an enchanted lamp in a dark field, quartered between House Thaloria's, an owl with glowing eyes, perched upon a tree, watching a field full of wheat, and the soaring hawk amidst a snowy mountain of Caelora, embroidered in gold thread and defiance.

He doesn’t just come to watch the play, he comes to make a statement, a wound so deep and clean it leaves no room for plausible deniability.

The theater’s banners fly Theron’s colors. The audience is handpicked, nobles disenchanted with the Crown Prince, merchant guilds long taxed and shamed by the Holy Church, and mages who survived purges with scars to show for it. And yet, among the commoners and the cloaked elite alike, the air is charged with tension and forbidden delight. It smells of incense, pride, and blood yet unshed.

Lady Philippa Hamilton, ever the viper wrapped in velvet, greets Theron with the grace of a highborn hostess and the cunning of a woman whose loyalties shift with profit. Theron grants her more than coin, he grants her future dominion: exclusive trading rights in Caelora, introductions to mage artificers whose crafts can rival the famed Dragonheart Imperium Steel of the dragonlords, and, as a masterstroke, two rare dragon eggs, glistening obsidian-black with veins of fiery red, bought directly from Lord Dragonfyre, Lord Protector of Dragonfyre Province, and Warden of Dragonrider Bay.

"Only a madman,” she whispers to him, lips brushing his ear, “will hand me fire, gold, and power in exchange for theatre."

"Then let the world burn beautifully," Theron replies, his smile more dangerous than any sword.

The play begins.

Inside, the atmosphere is charged. Actors take the stage, their makeup painted in pale tones to mimic the serene detachment of the Holy Mages. But their words are venom.

"Once," the narrator begins, his voice echoing across the gilded hall, "there was a Church born not of piety, but of politics,"

Gasps and chuckles mix like wine and poison.

Scene by scene, the play tears apart the Holy Church’s origin myths. The actors reenact how House Blackmoor manipulated the desperate aftermath of the Great Disaster, elevating the Church not out of faith, but to control magic and monopolize knowledge. They show Inquisitor Mages purging schools of arcane thought, priests shaming scholars for valuing books over benedictions. They speak of villages burned for teaching children mathematics without scriptural approval.

When the stage shifts to portray the rise of Caelora, how under Theron's leadership, education flourished, mages studied freely, and the roads were patrolled not by priests but by scholars and soldier-mages, the audience breaks into applause, held barely in check until the final act.

Meanwhile, the refreshments served to the guests outside are nothing short of high blasphemy, dressed as high cuisine. Chilled Holy Draught served with crystalline ice cubes, the sacred Veritas Morsels deep-fried and dipped in garlic butter, served with fried dragonfruit and honey-glazed gourd slices.

A Holy Mage walking by faints at the sight of it. A beggar accepts a golden ticket from a smiling attendant dressed in a bastardized Holy Mage robe and mutters, "Blessed be the prince who gives bread without prayer."

Back inside, the second act begins.

The actresses playing the Holy Sisters emerge, their Lumen Veils transformed from modest white flowing robes into scandalous ensembles that would make a courtesan blush. Transparent silks clinging to curves, skirts slit high above the thigh to show their legs, and the transparent small-clothes underneath, veils worn loose to expose coiffed hair styled with wild abandon. The sight scandalizes half the audience and enthralls the other.

Lady Caelora, ever unbothered, sits beside her husband in matching mock vestments, her veil a shimmering gauze that does little to hide the satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. She clinks her chalice of Holy Draught with Theron’s.

“Blasphemous to the bone,” she murmurs.

“And beautiful,” Theron replies, sipping deeply.

On stage, the mock rituals reach their climax. A prayer is read aloud not from the real Lumen Arcanist Scriptures, but from a forged tome bearing Theron’s seal. The verses ridicule the endless novenas, decry the obsession with humility, and call the faithful ‘obedient sheep led by blind wolves.’

The climax of the play nears an imagined future where mages, taught by Caeloran scholars, rebuild Thaloria into a kingdom of reason, magic, and invention, while the Church retreats into silence and irrelevance. The actors kneel before painted icons of the Holy Church and, in voices laced with saccharine mockery, chant:

“Your Holiness, my lords and ladies, we have disrespected you. Come after us, and silence us, if you dare. Show us your oh-so righteous anger and indignation against us sinners, who dared to defile and desecrate your oh-so clean image.”

Silence falls. Then, the theater erupts.

A storm of applause, laughter, coins, and flowers rains down on the stage. The audience is on its feet, clapping, cheering, whistling. Some cry tears of joy. Others of rage. But all know: this was no mere performance. This was war in velvet.

Prince Theron rises from his seat and bows his head slightly—not to the actors, but to the crowd, the kingdom, and to the Church he has just insulted with artistry so refined it cannot be punished without admitting truth.

Lady Caelora laughs.

“You’ve started a fire in their temple, my lord.”

“I hope it burns long and slow,” he says, “so they choke on the smoke before the flames reach them.”

From the wings, one of his aides slips him a parchment—another report: riots in Blackmoor lands, unrest in temple towns, and whispers in noble courts.

He reads it, then folds it neatly.

“Time for act two,” he mutters.

And as the applause still echoes in the great theater, Prince Theron walks out, his smile polished like a dagger, and the game, now truly, begins.

As if to further spite the Holy Church, Prince Theron boldly entered an empty chapel just a few blocks away from the Philippa Hamilton Theatre with his wife, Second Princess Consort Octavia Caeloria-Thaloria, unlaces and pulls down his breeches, whilst Octavia hiked up her miniskirt, removes her small-clothes, and sits on top of Prince Theron, with her arms placed on Prince Theron's back in an embrace, gasping and moaning in pleasure every time Theron’s thick manhood penetrates the sweet hole between her legs, with her face flushed,eyes closed, mouth open from the sheer pleasure.