The Prince's Script

Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Escaping the Royal Guard

The door exploded inward, splintering oak and iron. Three armored guards surged into the room, swords drawn, their faces hidden behind cold, steel visors. Rajasa didn't hesitate; he dropped to his knees, his face morphing into a mask of pathetic subservience.

"He tried to kill me, Captain! The Prince is having a fit of madness!" Rajasa shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Bakti.

Bakti stood frozen, his hand still gripping the desk. He glanced down at the diary. ‘7:10 AM: Scowl. Use your status. Belittle the Captain’s mother. It’s the only way to make them hesitate.’

"Madness?" Bakti barked, his voice dropping an octave as he channeled the sneering arrogance he’d seen in his own reflection. "Captain, look at this servant. He’s weeping on my rug like a common gutter-rat. Is this the quality of guard you provide? A sniveling child?"

The Captain, a mountain of a man whose armor was etched with the royal crest, halted mid-stride. He looked from the shattered porcelain to the sniveling Rajasa, then finally to Bakti.

"My apologies, Your Highness," the Captain grumbled, his voice muffled by his helm. "We heard a disturbance. We were told you were... unstable."

"Unstable?" Bakti let out a sharp, mocking laugh, stepping around the desk with exaggerated grace. "I dropped my tea. It was tepid and served by a moron. Does that constitute a breach of palace security in your pathetic little manual?"

"It’s not just the tea, Prince," a voice purred from the doorway.

Bakti turned. Standing behind the guards, leaning against the doorframe with effortless poise, was a woman with hair like spun copper and eyes that seemed to cut through his skin. Sartika. She was dressed in deep violet silks, her fingers tracing the hilt of a thin, ornate rapier at her hip.

"Sartika," Bakti said, his heart hammering against his ribs. Just keep playing the prick. "To what do I owe the displeasure of your company? Did you lose your way to the kitchen?"

Sartika didn't flinch. She stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over the scene with clinical detachment. "The King is worried, Kirun. You’ve been acting... strange since the sun rose."

"Strange?" Bakti smirked, hoping his nerves didn't show in his hands. "I’m the only one in this room with any sense of decorum. Get these brutes out of my sight, Captain. I’m tired of looking at their rusty scrap metal."

The Captain looked confused, his hand shifting on his sword hilt. "But the servant said—"

"The servant is a failed assassin with a flair for the dramatic," Bakti interrupted, casting a cold, dismissive glance at Rajasa. "Are you going to arrest me for being disappointed in my breakfast, or are you going to get out of my room?"

"We have orders to secure the chamber," the Captain insisted, stepping forward.

Bakti didn't back down. He grabbed the diary from the desk and held it up, his expression one of bored contempt. "Orders? Do you have orders from the King, or are you taking commands from a cowering servant now? If you want to play soldier, go patrol the walls. If you want to stay in my chambers, start by scrubbing the floor where that wretch spilled my drink."

The room went deathly silent. The guards shifted, clearly unsure whether to draw their steel or bow their heads.

Sartika laughed—a cold, sharp sound that sent a chill down Bakti’s spine. "He’s right, Captain. Leave us. I’m sure His Highness can handle one sniveling servant."

The Captain signaled his men. They retreated, their heavy boots thudding against the stone, leaving Bakti alone with the servant and the woman he didn't know how to handle.

"You’re good, Kirun," Sartika whispered, walking toward him, her heels clicking on the marble. "I’ve never seen you so... articulate in your cruelty. It’s almost impressive."

"I have my moments," Bakti replied, his jaw tight.

"Do you?" She stopped inches from his face, her eyes searching his. She looked at the diary in his hand, then back at his eyes. "You aren't the man who went to bed last night. You’re terrified, aren't you?"

"I’m bored," Bakti corrected, stepping back. "There’s a difference."

"Is there?" Sartika reached out, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of the diary. She didn't take it, but she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum. "You see, the Kirun I knew would have had that servant’s head on a pike by now. He wouldn't have debated a Captain. He would have slaughtered him."

Bakti felt the sweat pricking his hairline. "People change, Sartika. Maybe I’m just feeling merciful today."

"Merciful," she echoed, her lips curling into a predatory smile. She glanced at the door, then back at him. "You’ve changed too much, 'Prince.' And the people who put you on that throne? They don't like changes they didn't authorize."

"What are you implying?" Bakti asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Sartika leaned in, her breath cold against his ear. "I’m implying that if you don't start acting like the monster everyone expects, you won't survive until dinner."

She turned to leave, but stopped at the threshold. "Oh, and Kirun? The diary isn't just a book. It’s a list of your sins. Be careful who reads it."

As she stepped into the hallway, the ink on the page in Bakti’s hand began to bleed, forming a new sentence in frantic, black script.

‘8:00 AM: She knows. You have to kill her before she reaches the throne room. If she tells the King, you won’t even make it to breakfast.’

Bakti looked at the door, then at the pen on the desk. He was trapped, and for the first time, he realized the diary wasn't guiding him—it was ordering him.