Chapter 2 Prisoner in the Making
PRISONER IN THE MAKING
SEBASTIAN
I'd barely closed my eyes when someone knocked.
Not the sharp rap of palace staff. Not the controlled rhythm of security. This was familiar. Three soft knocks, pause, then two more. Our code since we were children. It's me. It's safe.
“Come in,” I called, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion.
élodie pushed the door open, carrying a tray with coffee and something that smelled like the cinnamon pastries from the kitchen she knew I loved. My oldest friend. My only friend, really. The only person in this entire palace who knew what I did when the lights went out.
She was dressed impeccably as always. Dove grey suit that cost more than most people's monthly rent, dark hair pulled back in a twist that looked effortless but probably took twenty minutes.
The King's personal aide. Trusted. Invisible in the way only palace staff could be.
Which meant she had access to everything.
And she used it to keep me alive.
She took one look at me and sighed. Not disappointed. Just tired. The same exhaustion I felt mirrored in her green eyes—so close to mine in color that people used to joke we could be siblings.
“You went out again.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” I sat up, wincing as bruised ribs protested. “I was here all night. Sleeping peacefully like the responsible prince I am.”
“Sebastian.” She set the tray down on the side table with deliberate care. “You have soot in your hair. Your knuckles are split. And you're moving like someone kicked you in the ribs.” She turned to face me fully. “Don't insult my intelligence by lying badly.”
I ran a hand through my hair. Came away with black residue. “Could be from the fireplace.”
“The fireplace that hasn't been lit in three days?” She crossed to the cabinet under the mounted screen. Found the remote. “Try again.”
The television flickered to life. News filled the room in a wash of sirens and rain-blurred footage.
DOCKS RAID MULTIPLE PEOPLE DEAD.
My chest tightened. I watched bodies being carried out on stretchers. Watched armed police securing the perimeter. Watched my handiwork displayed for the entire city.
A studio anchor spoke over the images of blue lights and taped-off concrete. “We go now to the Metropolitan Police briefing at Southwark. Detective Chief Inspector Reuben Akintola.”
The feed cut to a small press room. A man in a dark suit stepped to the microphones. Late thirties, eyes like polished flint, close-cropped hair, skin the warm brown of old mahogany. Calm voice that carried to the back walls. Patient. Dangerous.
“Good morning. At approximately 02:10, officers responded to shots fired in the Belmont warehouse district. We can confirm multiple fatalities and evidence of a significant illegal arms operation.”
He looked straight into the cameras. Like he could see through the screen. Like he was looking directly at me.
“And to the individual who believes he is helping this city with a bow and a mask. You are not. You are contaminating scenes, obstructing investigations, and escalating violence. Whoever you are, you cannot be allowed to operate in London. Turn yourself in. If you have information, bring it to us like any other citizen. We will find you if you do not.”
Questions flew from reporters. Akintola lifted a hand. Calm. Controlled.
“We are pursuing active leads. We will not comment on ballistics, recovered weapons, or the nature of the projectiles. I will say this. There are groups styling themselves as reformists who are planning public disorder and worse. A vigilante on the streets gives them exactly what they want. A symbol to rally against. A reason to claim the crown cannot keep its own house in order.”
Another question. “Detective, are these reformists linked to the attack last month in Wapping?”
“We are examining connections between incidents. If you have video from the docks between midnight and two, contact the tip line. If you are tempted to play hero, do not.”
He stepped away. The feed returned to the studio, the anchor pivoting to a security expert who was already speculating about trajectory arcs and handmade arrowheads.
élodie muted the television and left the image frozen on Akintola's face. She didn't look at me right away. Just stared at the screen like she could will it to soften.
“You are a headline if you are caught.”
I looked past her to the frozen still of Akintola. The set of his jaw. The patience of a man who outwaits storms. “He said they will find me.”
“He might.” She picked up the remote. Set it down. Picked it up again. Nervous habit from childhood. “Your loop on the east corridor glitched for two minutes last night. I fixed it. If anyone else notices, there will be questions.”
Relief flooded through me. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me.” She finally turned to face me. “Give me less to fix.”
“The docks were necessary.”
“I know.” She moved to the bed, sat on the edge like she'd done a thousand times before.
Close enough to touch but not touching. “But you can't keep running in the open like this.
The reformists are naming dates now. Not whispers.
Not maybe. Actual dates for demonstrations.
If there's a riot at Parliament or a bombing at the bridge, Akintola will lock down half the city.
He'll shake every corridor in this palace until he finds the draft under your door.”
“They'll have to get past Apollo first.”
She almost smiled. Then it faded. “Your father will not survive losing you.”
“He won't survive losing the city.”
For a moment we said nothing. Rain freckled the window. On the television, the expert traced an arc on a graphic of the warehouse roof, a cartoon arrow falling neatly through a vector.
élodie reached for my wrist, turned it to look at the bruise shadowing the bone. Purple and yellow. Fresh. Her thumb hovered over it, didn't touch. Professional assessment. “Left hook?”
“Twice.”
She let my hand go. “I hate that I know that. That I can read your injuries like a language.”
“Me too.”
She stood, moved to my dresser. Started pulling out clothes for the day without being asked. Dark trousers. White shirt. The jacket I preferred because the cut didn't restrict movement. She knew my wardrobe better than I did. Knew which pieces I could fight in if necessary.
“You need allies who can do what you cannot,” she said, laying the clothes out with precise care. “Or who will do it legally.”
“Legality didn't save her.”
The words hung between us. Heavy. Final.
élodie's hands stilled on the jacket. “No. It didn't.” She turned to look at me. “But it might save you. If you'd let it. If you'd trust the system instead of trying to be the system.”
“The system is broken.”
“Then fix it from inside. You're the crown prince. You have more power than any vigilante ever will.” She moved back to the bed. Sat closer this time. Close enough that our knees almost touched. “Use your position. Use your voice. Stop trying to save the world alone.”
“I'm not alone. I have you.”
Something flickered across her face. Too quick to read. “You shouldn't have to rely on me. Shouldn't have to sneak and hide and lie.” Her hand found mine. Squeezed. “You deserve better than this.”
“I deserve what I've earned.” I squeezed back. “And you've been earning it with me. Covering for me. Risking everything to keep me safe.”
“That's what family does.” She said it simply. Like it explained everything. “You're all I have, Sebastian. You and your father. This palace. You've been my family since I was seven years old. Since my parents died and your mother took me in.”
“I remember.” I did. Remembered her moving into the room next to mine. Remembered her becoming the sister I'd never had. “She loved you.”
“She loved everyone.” élodie's voice went soft. Distant. “That's what made her dangerous to the wrong people. All that love. All that compassion. All that belief that people were fundamentally good.”
“You think that's what got her killed?”
“I think someone saw weakness where there was only strength.” She released my hand.
Stood. Moved to the window. “Your mother believed the world could be better. That people deserved second chances. That mercy was power.” She touched the glass.
“Maybe if she'd been harder. More suspicious. More willing to see enemies instead of potential allies...”
“She'd still be dead. Just more bitter about it.”
élodie laughed. Hollow. “Maybe. Or maybe she'd have seen the knife coming.”
The words settled like lead in my gut. Because she was right. Because my mother's kindness had made her vulnerable. Because love and trust were weapons other people used to destroy you.
“Is that why you do this?” I asked. “Why you cover for me? Because you learned from her mistakes?”
“I cover for you because I love you. Because you're the only family I have left.” She turned from the window. “And because someone needs to keep you alive long enough to actually make a difference instead of dying in some warehouse because you're too stubborn to accept help.”
The intercom chimed, formal and soft. My father's voice, smoke and gravel. “His Majesty requests your presence, Your Highness.”
élodie's expression shifted. Professional mask sliding into place. “You should shower. Get dressed. Try to look less like you spent the night fighting a small war.”
“No promises.”
“Liar,” she said. But there was affection in it. The same affection that had carried us through eighteen years of friendship. “I'll tell your father you'll be there in fifteen minutes. That gives you time to clean up and rehearse whatever excuse you're planning to use for the bruises.”
“Kitchen accident.”
“You don't cook.”
“Tripped over Apollo.”
“Apollo is perfectly trained and never in the way.”
“Aggressive doorknob?”
She almost smiled. “Work on it. Your father's not stupid.” She moved toward the door, paused with her hand on the handle. “Sebastian?”
“Yeah?”