The Prince's Arranged Marriage
Chapter 68: Anonymous

Chapter 68: Anonymous

The dawn light streamed softly through the lace curtains of our chambers, illuminating the scattered silks and candles that still scented the air with rose and myrrh. I woke to the echo of our night’s closeness—Alexander’s steady breath beside me, the worn linens that bore our warmth. Our bodies had spoken truths we had struggled to voice in daylight; the intensity of that union lingered between us, gentle and fierce all at once.

As I drew my blankets closer around my shoulders, Alexander shifted, blinking awake. His dark curls fell into his eyes as he smiled sleepily. He reached out, brushing a hand across my chest. "Good morning," he murmured.

"Good morning," I replied, voice thick with the promise of new closeness. I turned to him, intent on the quiet tenderness I saw in his eyes. Yesterday’s worries felt miles away. For a fleeting moment, it seemed the palace’s intrigues could not touch us here.

Alexander tugged me closer, and I closed my eyes, savoring the last vestiges of night. On the surface, everything was perfect: the union we had forged, the trust between us, our shared triumphs in court—and our private interlude that had reminded me how deeply we loved each other.

But beneath that calm lay currents stirring once more. Our political battles were never truly over. Whispers still crawled through Valtoria’s marble corridors like shadows at dusk. I could sense them, even in this sanctum of warmth and affection.

---

We dressed slowly, lingering over each button and cufflink as though it were a ritual. Alexander chose a dark green coat trimmed with gold embroidery, while I settled on the midnight-blue Veridian coat I had worn with success at the last council. Each garment served as armor against the day ahead.

In the sitting room, Marisella awaited us, bearing a small leather satchel sealed with unmarked black wax. She passed it to me in silent understanding. "Your Highness," she said softly, "this arrived at dawn."

My stomach tightened. All morning posts passed through her careful hands, and she would never leave a letter uninspected if it posed risk. I saw no return address, no crest—only that seal, unfamiliar and ominous.

Alexander frowned. "What is it?"

I hesitated, breaking the wax seal and drawing out a folded sheet of heavy parchment. Unfolding it revealed neat, precise handwriting:

> **To Prince Lucien and Prince Alexander of Avaloria—**

> Beware the smiles behind open doors. Those who speak your praise with gilded tongues now plot your ruin. I name them here: Minister Hadrian of Trade, Countess Elowen of the Eastern Gallery, and Lord Torric of the Royal Archive. All three conspire to undermine your rule, to betray you to foreign powers, and to sever the alliance between Avaloria and Veridia.

>

> This note is your shield. Act swiftly, or the rot will consume you both.

>

> —A Friend in the Shadows

My hands trembled slightly. Alexander reached for the parchment, scanning the words. I felt my pulse in my throat.

"Hadrian... Elowen... Torric," Alexander muttered. "Those are the three who’ve opposed you most fiercely."

I nodded, unable to speak. Confirmation lay there in black ink. For weeks I had suspected secret machinations, but this was the first direct accusation naming faces I knew well.

Alexander folded the letter carefully. "We need to verify this."

My stomach churned. The thought of accusing these ministers of treason felt like stepping into a storm. Yet I could not ignore the warning. And I could not bring myself to show Alexander how deeply those accusations cut.

"It’s... startling," I whispered, eyes flicking to his. "I don’t—"

"We cannot ignore it," he said firmly. "If we are to maintain the throne’s integrity, we must be sure."

I swallowed. "Then we must gather proof."

He nodded, all business now. Marisella had slipped from the room, silently summoned to join our cause. I turned to Alexander. "Discretion is vital. If word spreads we suspect them, they’ll go deeper into hiding."

His expression was unwavering. "Agreed. We must move carefully."

---

We breakfasted on fresh fruit and fine porridge delivered by the palace kitchens. The lingering sweetness of our night before was gone, replaced by the brisk tang of urgency. Each bite felt distant as Alexander outlined our plan:

1. **Surveillance of Council Meetings.** We would attend every session where those three ministers spoke, compare their word against the public record, and note any discrepancies.

2. **Secure Documents.** Marisella, with Captain Archibald’s help, would retrieve private correspondence or drafts that passed through the chancellery vaults—the very place we knew Hadrian and Torric had tried to suppress certain records.

3. **Quiet Inquiries.** We would dispatch trusted staff to discreetly question minor courtiers and aides about hushed conversations they might have overheard.

I agreed, heart heavy but determined. We dressed for court and made our way through sunlit galleries, the palace’s mosaic floors muted under our footsteps.

---

In the council chamber, those same towering columns seemed more imposing than ever. We took our seats: Alexander upon the dais, Lucien to his right. The room filled quickly as envoys and ministers arrived. When Hadrian entered and bowed formally to Alexander, I felt a flash of resentment. That smile—so polite—masked the venom I now suspected.

The proceedings began in routine fashion. Alexander opened with praise for the new grain reserves; I followed with a proposal to extend Veridian aid to Avalorian frontier towns. As I spoke, I watched Hadrian’s hand curl around his notes, his eyes narrowed. Minutes later, during the open discussion, he rose with a reluctant cough.

"Implausible," he said, voice measured. "The road shipments from Veridia have had unforeseen complications. I question the reliability of these statistics."

I identified the draft he cited, the same one we had restored. The data came from Veridia’s eastern surveys, delivered personally by Marisella. Yet here was Hadrian insisting it was false.

When I countered—point by point—he cut me off. Again and again, he interrupted, citing imaginary errors in methodology. The first half of our plan fell neatly into place: public rebuttal followed by private smear.

Elowen and Torric joined in soon after, lending polite support to Hadrian’s stance. The three of them formed a silent phalanx of opposition, their words laced with courtesy but edged with dismissal. Their tactic was obvious: question the facts, then question the man presenting them. Gather enough doubt, and the proposal would die in committee.

I fought to maintain composure. My pulse pounded as the chamber filled with the buzz of debate. Alexander responded only twice, his tone calm but firm, reinforcing my data and refuting each point. Yet the ministers’ chorus hardly faltered. The session dragged on, until at last, Alexander called for a recess.

Walking into the hallway, I felt sweat cool on my brow. The initial fury I had felt turned to grim resolve.

---

Over the next several days, we embarked on the surveillance phase. Secret copies of council minutes were requested and cross‑referenced. We discovered minor discrepancies: phrases missing here, whole paragraphs altered there—evidence that those three had deliberately manipulated records to undermine my position.

Marisella wrote by candlelight in the archives, retrieving first‑drafts from hidden compartments beneath the desks. Lord Torric’s involvement became clear as we found his hand in the edits—deletions of proposals I had put forth, additions that favored his own provincial interests. Hadrian’s name appeared on off‑the‑record memoranda urging regional governors to ignore certain directives. Elowen’s correspondence revealed she had been in contact with merchants in Veridia, promising them preferential treatment if they refused contracts recommended by my office.

By the end of the week, we had a dossier of solid proof—dozens of pages, letters, meeting transcripts all pointing to a conspiracy of self‑interest and—potentially—treason. Yet, more troubling than their plots was the ease with which they removed whatever they pleased, sending Avaloria’s interests askew.

Alexander reviewed the materials late one evening in our sitting room. The soft glow of lanterns cast his lined features in warmth as he looked up from the pile.

"This is enough," he said. "We can move against them."

I almost said yes. Almost. Instead, I hesitated.

"Are you certain?" I asked, voice hoarse. "This will ignite every court faction. There could be violence—perhaps open rebellion among their supporters."

He closed the folder and placed a hand on mine. "I am certain. We must defend the crown’s integrity."

My heart thudded, torn between relief and fear. Relief that we now had proof. Fear of the confrontation to come. My gaze traveled across the velvet drapes to the window overlooking the silent gardens, silvered by moonlight.

The next steps were clear but dangerous: a formal accusation, a public hearing, and the sentencing of so‑called traitors. I would stand before my new people and declare that those they had trusted most were thieves of the public good, conspirators against their own kingdom. It was a line of duty I had never anticipated—I had come to Avaloria as a foreign prince, but now I would stand as its defender against its own.

I drew a slow breath. "We do this tomorrow," I said.

Alexander’s gaze was steady. "I will stand by you."

---

That night, sleep fled me. I lay awake, restless, recalling every gentle moment shared with Alexander: the hush of candlelight, the soft cadence of his voice, the warmth of his body beneath mine. In these quiet lapses between duty, loving him had been an escape from the court’s machinations—a place where no whisper could follow, where no knife could pierce our trust.

Now, I wrestled with the knowledge that our union itself had become a battlefield. The day ahead would demand all my resolve, forcing me to confront not only the ministers who conspired against me, but also my own fears: fear of betrayal, fear of failure, fear that even Alexander’s unwavering loyalty might not protect us from the storm we were about to unleash.

I rose quietly, slipping from our bed and into the cooled marble corridor. Under a canopy of hushed lantern glow, I traced my steps to the window of our suite. Beyond, the palace gardens lay still, and somewhere distant, a nightingale called.

I pressed a hand to the glass, feeling the weight of imminent dawn pressing on my mind. Tomorrow, I would speak out. Tomorrow, I would stop being silenced by whispers. Tomorrow, I might lose everything.

But I could not stand silent any longer.

With that final thought, I turned from the window and returned to the bedchamber, where Alexander slept peacefully, unaware of the storm I carried in my heart.

I did not wake him. Instead, I retrieved the dossier from my desk—the black‑waxed envelope of evidence—and placed it, unopened, in my hand. Tomorrow, we would decide its fate.

For now, I let the quiet night hold me, even as the palace itself began to stir with the distant promise of a new day.

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