The Prince's Script

Chapter 10

Chapter 10: The Page Turns

The hallway was a suffocating throat of stone, choked with the smell of ozone and burnt silk. Kirun stared at his own face—the same sharp jaw, the same haunted eyes—now twisted into a mask of cruel, regal boredom.

"You’re really him, aren’t you? The original owner of this body," Kirun rasped, his voice sounding thin against the heavy thrumming of the castle walls.

"Owner is such a crude term, don’t you think?" Lucius tilted his head, the movement fluid and unnervingly practiced. "I’m the architect. You’re just the tenant who forgot to pay the rent."

"Architect? You’re a ghost with a flair for the dramatic," Kirun spat, his hand twitching toward the heavy, iron-bound diary still clutched in Lucius’s fingers. "What do you want?"

Lucius laughed, a sound like glass shattering on marble. "I want the mess cleaned up. You’ve been running around like a headless chicken, and frankly, you’re embarrassing the bloodline."

"I’m embarrassing the bloodline?" Kirun took a half-step back, his boots scraping against the uneven floor. "I’ve been trying to keep this 'bloodline' from getting me killed every ten minutes!"

"And you’ve failed," Lucius countered, his gaze dropping to the diary. "Look at it. The ink is drying, Kirun. The story is running out of road."

Kirun felt a cold spike of dread in his chest as the diary’s cover dimmed, the crimson glow fading into a dull, lifeless grey. "What did you do? Why isn't it writing anymore?"

"It’s finished with you," Lucius said, tossing the book toward Kirun.

Kirun fumbled, catching the heavy volume. It felt colder than ice. He flipped it open. The pages were stark white, empty as a grave.

"Hey! Say something!" Kirun shouted, shaking the book. "Give me a tip! Tell me how to get out of this hallway!"

"The book doesn't talk to corpses, Kirun," Lucius sighed, adjusting his cuffs with detached elegance. "And the guards are already closing the bulkhead. Did you really think Wahid was the only one playing the long game?"

"The guards? Since when does the help listen to a ghost?"

"They aren't listening to me," Lucius smirked, stepping aside as heavy, rhythmic thuds echoed from the end of the corridor. "They’re listening to the King. The lockdown order just hit every level of the palace."

"The King?" Kirun’s pulse hammered. "I thought the King was a figurehead. A puppet."

"A common misconception," Lucius said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "Puppets don't hold the strings, Kirun. They only pretend to be made of wood."

"You’re telling me he’s been watching this? The poison? The assassins?"

"He’s been grading the performance."

A squad of armored soldiers appeared at the corridor’s turn, their halberds leveled, faces completely obscured by polished, featureless visors. They moved with a chilling, synchronized silence.

"Looks like the play is over," Kirun muttered, his grip on the diary tightening. "Any last words, or are you just going to stand there and watch me get perforated?"

"I’m going to watch," Lucius agreed, leaning back against the cold stone. "It’s been an exhausting day."

"Surrender the book, Prince!" the lead guard boomed, his voice distorted by his helm.

"Which one of us are you talking to?" Kirun shouted, throwing a glare at the original Lucius.

"The one with the pulse," the guard growled.

Kirun turned to Lucius. "You’re just going to let them take me?"

"I told you, you’re the tenant," Lucius shrugged. "I’m just here to reclaim the furniture."

Kirun didn't wait. He bolted in the opposite direction, his boots skidding on the dust. "You’re a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Run faster, Kirun! The King doesn't like tardiness!" Lucius called out, his laughter echoing against the high ceilings.

Kirun ducked around a pillar, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. His side wound throbbed, a hot reminder of his mortality. He checked the diary one last time.

Nothing.

"Great," he hissed, sliding into an alcove. "Just perfect. I’m being hunted by the King, abandoned by my own ghost, and my GPS is broken."

He heard the heavy, clanking steps of the squad approaching. They weren't rushing. They were herding him.

"They’re herding me toward the throne room," Kirun realized, his stomach dropping.

"They are," a voice whispered from the shadows behind him.

Kirun spun, coming face to face with Sartika. Her face was smeared with dust, and there was a jagged tear in her silk dress, but her eyes were still burning with that strange, violet light.

"Sartika? What are you—"

"Quiet," she commanded, pressing a cold, gloved hand to his lips. "The King isn't a man, Kirun. He’s a machine. A collection of every secret and sin this kingdom has ever birthed. If he catches you, he won’t just kill you. He’ll rewrite you."

"Rewrite me?" Kirun blinked, his heart racing. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you become another page in his library," she whispered, her gaze darting to the advancing guards. "You stop being Kirun. You stop being Lucius. You just become a memory."

"I don't like the sound of that," Kirun said, his voice trembling. "How do we stop it?"

"We don't," she said, pulling a thin, silver needle from her sleeve. "We cut the power."

"The power? The King is a person!"

"The King is a system," she corrected, her grip tightening on his arm. "And systems have a core."

Kirun looked at the empty, white pages of the diary. A single, thin line of ink began to bleed onto the paper, sluggish and dark. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.

Kirun stared at the jagged, frantic script forming beneath his fingertips.

‘11:59 PM: If you want to live, kill the King.’