Chapter 25 Hidden Hand
HIDDEN HAND
SEBASTIAN
The palace felt different when you knew you were about to burn it down.
I stood in my father's study, rain tapping against the windows like fingers asking to be let in. The fireplace crackled, throwing shadows that danced across walls covered in portraits of dead kings. Men who'd held power and lost it. Men who'd made terrible choices and called them duty.
Viktor stood beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Both of us were still damp from the drive back from Greenwich. My hair stuck to my forehead. His jacket dripped water onto expensive carpet.
My father didn't seem to notice. Or care.
He looked older than he had this morning. Older than he had yesterday. Like the weight of what we were about to tell him had already settled into his bones before we'd said a word.
Viktor laid a folder on the desk. Heavy. Final. The sound it made hitting mahogany felt like a verdict.
“Evidence from the Sentinel network,” Viktor said. Voice flat. Professional. “Payments. Coded shipments. All routed through Marcel Holdings.”
I watched my father's face. Waited for shock. Anger. Denial.
Found none of it.
Just weariness. Like he'd been carrying this truth for longer than he wanted to admit and was relieved someone had finally dragged it into the light.
“I feared as much,” he said quietly. His fingers traced the edge of the folder but didn't open it. “Marcel's reach was always longer than his conscience.”
The admission landed like a stone in still water.
“You knew?” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “You fucking knew?”
“Sebastian—”
“How long?” I stepped forward, hands fisting at my sides. “How long have you suspected your closest advisor was trying to kill me?”
My father's eyes lifted. Met mine. Held them with the kind of exhaustion that said he was done fighting. Done pretending.
“I suspected,” he said carefully. “But suspicion without proof is just treason with better manners.”
“That's bullshit and you know it.”
“It's politics.” His voice hardened. Just slightly. King instead of father. “Marcel has been my friend for thirty years. Has stood by this family through every crisis. I couldn't accuse him based on instinct alone.”
“Even when that instinct said he wanted me dead?”
“Especially then.” He opened the folder finally. Started flipping through pages. Financial records. Encrypted messages. All the evidence Viktor and I had bled for. “Because if I was wrong, I'd destroy a good man's reputation. And if I was right...”
He trailed off. Looked at me with eyes that carried too much.
“If you were right, you'd have to admit you trusted a monster,” I finished.
“Yes.”
The word hung there. Simple. Devastating.
Viktor's hand found my wrist. Gentle pressure. Grounding. I took a breath. Another. Forced myself to think instead of just feel.
“When did you start suspecting?” I asked.
My father closed the folder. Leaned back in his chair like the weight of it was too much to carry sitting straight.
“After your mother died.”
Ice slid down my spine.
“What?”
“Marcel was... too helpful. Too eager to take control while I grieved. Too quick with solutions that consolidated his power.” My father's voice went distant. Remembering. “He kept me standing when I wanted to fall apart. Kept the kingdom running. Made himself indispensable.”
“So he could control you.”
“So he could control everything.” My father's hand moved to a drawer. Pulled out a bottle of scotch I'd seen him reach for too many times. “I suspected. But I was weak. Broken. And he was there.”
Viktor stepped forward. “Your Majesty, what exactly did you suspect about the Queen's death?”
The question stopped my father mid-pour.
I looked at Viktor. Found him watching my father with eyes that saw everything. Tactical. Assessing. Reading the room like he read threats.
“Viktor?” I asked. “What are you asking?”
He didn't look at me. Kept his focus on my father. “Sir?”
My father set the bottle down without pouring. His hands shook. Just slightly. Enough to notice.
“The route that night was Marcel's suggestion,” he said quietly. “He insisted we change paths. Said the original plan was compromised by protest activity. That we needed to avoid certain streets.”
My chest went tight. “He chose the route.”
“He chose the route,” my father confirmed. “And when the attack happened, he was the first one there. The first one to comfort me. The first one to start cleaning up evidence.”
“What evidence?” Viktor's voice went hard. Dangerous.
“Shell casings. Bolt fragments. Anything that might have traced back to who ordered the hit.” My father finally poured the scotch. Drank it in one swallow. “I thought he was protecting me. Protecting the investigation. But he was protecting himself.”
The room spun. I gripped the back of the chair to stay upright.
“You think Marcel killed my mother.”
Not a question. Statement. Accusation. Truth I'd been hunting for eighteen years finally finding form.
“I think Marcel created the circumstances that got her killed,” my father said. “Whether he pulled the trigger or simply ensured she'd be in the right place at the right time...” He set the glass down hard enough to crack. “The result is the same.”
Rage exploded through me. Hot. Blinding. Eighteen years of grief and guilt and hunting in the dark finally finding a target.
I lunged for the door.
Viktor caught me. Arms around my waist, lifting me off my feet, holding me back with the kind of strength that said he'd expected this.
“Let me go!”
“No.”
“Viktor, let me—”
“I said no.” His voice cut through the rage like a blade through smoke. “You go after him now, you die. He's expecting it. Waiting for it. Wants you to lose control.”
“I don't care!”
“I do.” He turned me around. Forced me to look at him. “I care, Sebastian. And I will not let you throw yourself into a trap because you're angry.”
“He killed her!” The words ripped out of me. Raw. Broken. “He killed my mother and I've been living under the same roof as him for eighteen fucking years!”
“I know.” Viktor's hands framed my face. “I know. And we will make him pay. But not like this. Not stupid. Not reckless.”
“Then how?”
“Smart. Planned. With proof he cannot deny and witnesses he cannot silence.”
My father's voice cut in. Tired. Resigned. “Bring me proof, son. No speculation. Proof I can hang a man with.”
I looked at him. At this king who'd suspected his closest friend of murdering his wife and done nothing because he needed evidence. Because he was bound by laws and protocols while the monster walked free.
“You'll have it,” I said. Voice shaking. “Tonight.”
My father's expression shifted. Fear underneath the exhaustion. “Sebastian—”
“Tonight,” I repeated. Viktor's hand found mine. Squeezed. Understanding without words. “We're going into his office. We're taking everything. And when we're done, you'll have enough proof to execute him twice.”
“You can't—”
“Watch me.”
I pulled away from Viktor. Headed for the door. My father's voice followed.
“Keep him alive, Viktor. Please.”
“Always, Your Majesty.”
The corridor outside felt colder. Darker. Like the walls knew what was coming and were holding their breath.
Viktor caught up to me in three strides. Pulled me into an alcove away from watching eyes and listening ears.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
“Fair.” His hand came up. Touched my face. “But you will be. After this is over. After we finish it.”
“Promise?”
“I never make promises I cannot keep.”
“Then don't promise. Just... stay close.”
“Always.”
The word settled over me like armor. Like hope wrapped in certainty.
We stood there for a moment. Both knowing what came next. Both knowing it could destroy us.
Then I kissed him. Hard and desperate and tasting like rain and rage and everything I couldn't say.
When we broke apart, he was smiling. Small. Real.
“Let's burn it down,” I said.
“Da. Let's burn it all down.”
Midnight found me in the service corridors with Dom at my side and a satchel full of lockpicks across my shoulder.
The palace after dark was a different animal. All the pretty facades dropped away. What remained was stone and shadow and the kind of silence that made you aware of every breath.
Dom moved like he'd been born to sneak. Silent. Fluid. Every step deliberate. He wore black tactical gear that made him look like he belonged in a war zone instead of a palace.
Maybe there wasn't a difference anymore.
“Royal burglary,” he said quietly, picking the lock on the archives door with practiced ease. “Didn't think this would make my résumé.”
I grinned despite everything. “You're enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe. But it's nice working with someone who actually listens.” The lock clicked. He pushed the door open with his shoulder. “Viktor's told me about you. The vigilante archer. Said you move like violence was a second language.”
“What else did he say?”
“That you're reckless. Stubborn. Impossible to protect.” Dom glanced at me. Blue eyes sharp in the dim light. “And that he'd burn the world down to keep you alive.”
The admission hit harder than it should've.
“He said that?”
“Didn't have to. I've known him for five years. Never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.” Dom moved down the corridor, checking corners. “Like you're the only thing keeping him human.”
“He keeps me human too.”
“I know. That's why this matters.” He stopped at the next junction. Listened. “Marcel's office is two corridors over. Finance gala runs until one. We've got thirty minutes.”
“Plenty of time.”
“Optimist.”
“Realist.”
We moved in sync. Dom covering angles while I watched our backs. The kind of synchronization that came from trusting someone with your life even when you'd only known them a few hours.
The corridor outside Marcel's office was empty. Quiet. The kind of quiet that felt wrong.
“Too easy,” Dom muttered.
“Maybe we're just good.”
“Or it's a trap.”
“Could be both.”