The Prince's Shadow

Chapter 3: The face on the screen

Chapter Three: The Face on the Screen

It was supposed to be just another ordinary morning.

The sun hadn't clawed its way yet above the spiky rooftops of East Caelwyn, and the streets slept under a blanket of mist. Sheila Ren stood at the cracked counter of the herbal shop where she had spent the last five months, grinding dried chamomile into powder with slow, mechanical movements. The scent of mint and lavender hung thick in the air, clashing with the ever-present dampness that clung to the old stone walls.

The shop’s bell jingled quietly as the door creaked open.

“You’re in early,” Sheila said, not looking up.

Lysa’s voice followed, breathless and excited. “You need to see this.”

Sheila paused, glancing toward the younger woman. “See what?”

Lysa withdrew a sliver of communicator pad from her satchel and slid it across the counter. "It's him. The prince. Prince Kairo. He's back. They showed the procession everywhere across the capital this morning."

A queasy weight dropped in Sheila's stomach.

"What do you mean he's back?"

Even though she just saw it not long ago she still acted surprised

As if she couldn't believe it.

Lysa smoothed the screen. A video appeared, the screen twitching slightly as it picked up the public broadcast signal.

Dulled trumpets brayed. Roar of multitudes. The camera panned over thousands along the Processional Mile. Black and red banners streamed from towers and balconies.

Then the carriage of gold.

Sheila's heart started racing. Her hands tightened around the pestle, her knuckles going white.

The man stepped down from the carriage tall, slender, dressed in formal black. His red cloak streamed behind him in the morning breeze. The camera closed in.

And there were the eyes.

Those same, bottomless eyes.

She stepped back.

"No…" she whispered.

Lysa's eyes flickered open. "What is wrong?"

It was him. The man on the altar. The beast that'd addressed her as she died in the dark. The one she'd told herself she'd never forget. And here he was now on every TV in Caelwyn, smiling like a messiah.

"I—I have to sit down," Sheila sighed. She retreated from the counter and fell onto the wobbly old stool at the back of her.

Lysa spun around to her. "Sheila?"

She didn't answer at once. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her body was frozen, but her mind raged. Those weren't recovering prince eyes. They weren't warm. They weren't thankful. They were hard, calculating seeing everything, drinking it all in, plotting.

“I know him,” she finally said.

Lysa looked puzzled. “You’ve seen him before?”

“No.” Her voice was hollow. “I’ve survived him.”

Sheila didn’t remember the walk home. Only that she was suddenly there, standing in the center of her room with the door shut behind her, the communicator pad still clutched in her trembling hands. She sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, and replayed the footage over and over.

Every frame. Every movement. Every glance.

It was him. No doubt. She'd attempted to bury the memory a thousand times, tried to make herself believe it was a dream that trauma had a way of manipulating the mind, that time destroyed the face of a nightmare. But time hadn't erased those eyes.

She zoomed in on the video. Liked to see the moment the prince looked into the audience.

His smile faltered. For a half second.

As if he had seen something.

As if he had seen someone.

As if he had seen her.

A chill ran down her spine. "No… no, it can't be."

But it was. If he lived, if he was strolling about faking being a prince, then he might still remember her. She had been a servant, a maid in the lesser wings, not even worth remembering. But he had remembered. He had tried to kill her.

And now he had the crown.

By mid-afternoon, she walked the length of her room.

"Think," she breathed to herself. "Think."

She dared not go near the palace guard. Not after the last experience. She had attempted it once before, half-dead and desperate. They'd dismissed her claims as fantasy. Some had even ridiculed her. Others had hushed that she'd seduced a lord and been punished for her inappropriateness. The official explanation had buried her in shame and terror.

She was not the same girl they'd discarded.

She needed someone who had seen what she had seen. Someone who would maybe believe her.

Tate Wyvern.

Her heart stumbled in pain at the name.

Tate had believed her once.

Years ago, he'd been a smart young man making a name for himself in the royal guard intelligent, honorable, idealistic. When she'd told him about it, he hadn't mocked her. He had listened. He had asked her questions. And then he'd vanished from court.

Whispers said he'd been dishonorably discharged.

She hadn't seen him since.

She zipped up her coat, stuck a knife in her boot, and stepped out into cold evening.

Lysa caught her halfway down the block.

"Where are you going?" she gasped.

"To find somebody," Sheila replied without pausing.

"Is this something about what you were saying earlier? About the prince?"

"Yes."

Lysa looked around. "You can't just go around speaking like that. People love him. They believe he's a miracle."

"That's why he's so dangerous."

"And come with me."

"No." Sheila stopped and confronted her. "If this fails, if I don't appear then you're left behind. You tell somebody what you were told."

Lysa blanched. "Do you think he'll come after you?"

Sheila swallowed hard. "I think he already has."

The tavern where Tate was supposed to work was buried near the harbor, covered up between warehouses and old salt stores. The sign groaning on the door had worn out long ago, and the reek of brine and bad ale met her when she pushed open the door.

The man at the bar raised his head. Tall. Broad of shoulder. His hair was longer than it had been the last time she'd seen him, now combed back in loose waves. He was wearing a weathered shirt, sleeves rolled up, scars curving down his forearm.

Tate Wyvern.

She walked up to the bar. "Do you remember me?"

His eyes narrowed. "Sheila."

So he did.

"Did you watch the broadcast this morning?" she asked.

"Everyone did."

"You saw his face."

"I did."

She leaned in. "It's him."

He didn’t blink. “Say that again.”

She lowered her voice. “The man who tried to kill me in the asylum ten years ago… it’s the same man who got out of that carriage.”

Tate poured himself a shot of something dark and drank it in one go.

“You’re sure?”

“I’d bet my soul on it.”

He looked around, then motioned to a room at the back. In private, he closed the door and turned.

"I thought you were dead."

"I came close enough. You did then. Do you now?"

Tate did not answer right away. He massaged the back of his neck. "I lost everything because I believed you."

"And now you know you were right."

"Maybe. Maybe not. That is the son of Caelwyn up there. That is not a man you accuse on hearsay."

Sheila's fists were clenched in anger. "I have his face burned into my nightmares. I don't need evidence. I need someone to assist me in putting a stop to him."

He looked at her for an extended period. "Even if it cost me everything once more?"

Sheila took a step forward. "I lost everything already. The only thing that's left to me is this truth. And I'll die before I let him keep on lying."

Tate moaned. "Then I suppose we're both going to end up as traitors."

She didn't smile. Couldn't.

Because now she had someone believing in her again.

But she also knew that the game had changed.

The prince returned.

And this time, she'd be ready for him.