A/N: A very long chapter, 4.1k words. Enjoyyy
I've been rewatching too much Bridgeton and Queen Charlotte.
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The halls of the royal wing stretched ahead of me, wide and dimly lit, with only the occasional torch flickering against the stone walls. It was quiet — too quiet. Most of the court had retired for the evening, and only the soft shuffle of distant guards.
I walked with purpose, my boots echoing off the floor as I headed for Benedict's chambers. I didn't bother knocking when I arrived, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Benedict was seated by the fireplace, a book half-open in his lap, his silver white hair ruffled and his posture relaxed in that lazy way that always made it seem like nothing ever truly concerned him. When he saw me, he raised an eyebrow, shutting the book with a soft thump.
"Brother," he said casually, "come to interrupt my peaceful evening?"
I smirked, stepping into the warm glow of the fire. "Something like that."
He gestured to a chair across from him. "Sit, then. You're standing like a man who just signed away his soul."
"In a way," I muttered, sinking into the seat. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and for a few seconds, I simply stared into the flames.
"I spoke to Father," I said at last.
"About what? Your petulant dreams of adventure?" Benedict teased lightly.
"About leaving," I said, voice flat. "For real."
That made him straighten a little. His smile faded, curiosity replacing it. He leaned forward too, mirroring me. "I made him a proposal," I continued. "One he couldn't ignore."
"And?"
"And he agreed."
Benedict blinked. "You're serious."
"As a dagger to the throat."
He sat back, folding his arms. "Well, well. I'll admit, I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd have the stones to confront him about it directly."
"You know me," I said with a half-smile. "Full of surprises." Benedict's eyes narrowed slightly. "What's the catch?"
I chuckled. "You always were the observant one."
"I'm going to kill Hans." Benedict stared at me like I had sprouted wings. "You're what?"
"I'm going to kill Hans," I repeated calmly. "Publicly, messily enough that Father will have no choice but to exile me to preserve peace with the Southern Isles." He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly recalibrating everything he thought he knew about me.
"You're insane," he said finally. "Absolutely raving mad."
"Maybe," I said. "But it'll work."
"And you think Father will just… what? Let you go?"
"He agreed to it. Begrudgingly of cours, he knows it's cleaner this way." Benedict shook his head in disbelief. "By the stars, Camden…"
I leaned forward, voice dropping lower, more serious. "And I need your help." Benedict's gaze sharpened. "Help? How?"
"You've always wanted the throne," I said bluntly. "Even now, despite all the smiles and brotherly love, I know it's still there. In your blood. You want it."
He didn't deny it. He didn't even flinch.
Good.
"Once Hans is dead, there will be chaos and uncertainty, I need you to fan those flames. Play the part of the dutiful brother forced to step up and take the burden of crown because I — the disgraced Camden — failed our family."
Benedict's mouth twitched into a smile. "You want me to stage a political coup?"
"No," I said. "I want you to finish what I start, without any bloodshed. You take my place — with Father's reluctant blessing — and I get my freedom."
He drummed his fingers against the armrest, thoughtful. The firelight cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look older, more dangerous.
"And if I refuse?" he asked eventually.
I shrugged. "Then you stay the second son. Forever overshadowed by a ghost, a prince who abandoned his kingdom. You'll never escape my shadow unless you help me cast it the way we both want."
He was quiet for a long time. I could see the battle waging behind his eyes. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and smiled — a slow, cunning smile that reminded me painfully that we were brothers by blood, and blood alone had shaped us both into creatures of calculation.
"I'll do it," he said. Relief —sharp and sweet— surged through me, though I kept my face steady. "But," he added, lifting a finger, "I want your oath. That once you're gone, you stay gone. No coming back to reclaim what you left behind."
"You have my word," I said without hesitation. "The throne is yours. I'll forge a new life beyond these walls."
Benedict nodded, seeming satisfied. "When will it happen?"
"Soon," I said. "I'll wait for the right opportunity. A feast, a public gathering. Somewhere witnesses will see enough to believe the story without getting the whole truth."
"And after?"
"You mourn your brother's disgrace. You show the court your strength. You stabilize the kingdom in Father's name. In time, when the people love you enough, you become king."
He laughed softly, almost wistfully. "You make it sound so simple."
"It won't be," I admitted. "But you were born for this, Benedict. We both know it."
He looked at me for a long time, his eyes strange — a mixture of pity, admiration, and envy. "You always were the braver one," he said quietly.
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe just the more foolish."
We stood together then, the fire between us crackling and spitting as if it knew something was ending — or beginning. I offered him my hand. He took it, clasping it tight.
"To the future," I said.
"To the future," he echoed.
***
[2 days later
The two days that followed were oddly pleasant, if I were being honest.
Hans — the so-called Prince of the Southern Isles — wasn't a terrible man to be around. He was charming in that polished, court-trained way, always with a smile and a courteous bow. He spoke with an easy laugh and a confident gleam in his eye that made him seem almost trustworthy. Almost.
I spent the days walking the palace grounds with him, occasionally with Benedict at my side. We spoke about politics, about sailing, about the subtle games of courtship and diplomacy. Hans was careful — careful to say the right thing, to impress the right people.
But it was in the tiny moments, the offhand glances, the brief flickers of disdain when he thought no one was watching, that I saw the real Hans.
Ambitious and ruthless.
He was not a man who sought alliances for peace. He was a man who sought kingdoms like a hunter stalks prey. By the second day, I no longer felt even the smallest pang of guilt over what I was about to do.
If anything, I was doing the world a favour.
That evening, as twilight draped its purple and gold cloak over Eldoria, I sat alone in my chambers, strapping on my leather bracers. The fire in my hearth burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. Outside my window, the gardens rustled in the night breeze.
It was time.
The guest house where Hans was staying was nestled on the far side of the palace grounds, just past the outer gardens and fountains. It was a grand thing, of course — marble steps, tall windows, and a tiled roof that gleamed under the moonlight. Several of Hans' personal guards milled around the front entrance, spears in hand, their armor glinting faintly under the torchlights.
"Prince Camden," one of the guards said, startled but still bowing stiffly. "Is there something—?"
I struck before he could finish.
A hard, precise blow to the side of his helmet sent him sprawling. The second guard shouted, bringing his spear up — too slow. I ducked under it, grabbed the shaft, and yanked, sending him off balance. A swift kick to the chest and he went down, wheezing.
Two more came rushing at me. I moved like a storm — fast, brutal, but controlled. I needed them alive. Witnesses were critical. I danced between their thrusts, disarmed one with a twist of my wrist, and slammed the butt of his own spear into his ribs.
The other tried to grab me from behind — I elbowed him sharply, heard the crack of his nose breaking, and shoved him to the ground.
In less than a minute, they were all down, groaning and cursing, but alive.
I pushed through the heavy oak doors into the guest house, boots thudding across the polished marble floors.
Hans' chamber was on the second floor. I took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering, the blood in my veins singing with adrenaline.
At the top of the stairs, a final guard stepped into my path, sword drawn.
"Stay back!" he barked, eyes wide. "I must ask you to—"
I didn't give him the chance. A sharp blow to his temple with the flat of my blade dropped him where he stood. Hans' door loomed ahead, I kicked it open.
Hans was seated at a desk, writing a letter. He looked up, startled, quill still in hand.
"Camden? What in—"
I crossed the room in three strides. The blade slid into his chest with a soft, wet sound. Hans gasped, his hands fumbling uselessly at the sword buried in his heart. His eyes — wide, accusing, terrified — locked onto mine.
For a moment, I felt something stir inside me. Not regret. Not sorrow. Just the cold, heavy finality of the act.
He collapsed, blood blooming across his tunic.
I wrenched the blade free, blood dripping onto the carpet. That was when the doors behind me burst open.
'Perfect timing brother.'
Benedict stood there, flanked by two of his personal guards. Their faces were masks of horror and disbelief.
"Camden!" Benedict shouted, voice rich with perfect, well-practiced outrage. "What in the gods' names have you done?!"
I said nothing, I simply turned, bloodied sword in hand, and looked at them. Benedict's guards advanced cautiously, weapons drawn.
"Seize him!" Benedict barked. "Take him alive! He must answer for this crime!"
I dropped the sword without resistance. Let it clatter to the floor. I knelt, placing my hands behind my head. The guards descended on me, shackling my wrists with heavy iron cuffs.
Benedict approached, looming over me, his expression a perfect blend of heartbreak and righteous fury.
"You've disgraced our family," he said coldly. "You'll answer for this treachery."
I didn't respond, I didn't need to. The wheels were already turning.
As they hauled me to my feet and dragged me from the room, I caught one last glimpse of Hans' lifeless body sprawled across the carpet, the letter he had been writing still fluttering on the desk.
Outside, the cool night air hit me like a slap.
From the guest house to the dungeon was a long, humiliating walk, and word spread faster than wildfire. Servants peered from behind columns. Nobles whispered behind raised hands. Guards stiffened at attention as I passed, some with pity, some with disgust.
In the dungeons, they threw me into a stone cell, locking the heavy iron door with a final, echoing clang.
I sat down on the cold floor, leaning back against the wall, and closed my eyes.
And somewhere, I imagined, Father sat in his throne room, listening to the news brought by frantic stewards and red-faced lords.
Benedict would rise and I would fall. Just as I had planned. And my freedom was now just within reach.
=
=
[Next Morning]
The morning sun barely had a chance to stretch its light over Eldoria before the news swept through the capital like a wildfire in dry brush.
By the hour of the lion — the time when the sun hit the highest banners of the castle — every noble, merchant, scribe, and servant knew: Prince Camden, the Crown Prince of Eldoria, had murdered a foreign prince under the roof of his own home.
Of course, they didn't know the truth. They only knew the story that had been artfully planted in the taverns, whispered in the merchant halls, and muttered by the guards who had been so "brutally" knocked aside before the act.
It didn't take long for the ton — the grand, preening heads of Eldoria's oldest and proudest houses — to descend upon the throne room like vultures sensing a fresh kill.
By midmorning, the air inside the hall was stifling. The scent of perfume and sweat clung heavily to the gilded columns and crimson tapestries.
The great double doors were flung wide, guards standing at rigid attention as lords, ladies, dukes, and barons flooded the room in a sea of velvet, silk, and gleaming jewelry.
At the head of it all, sitting atop his marble throne, was Alistair Eldenhart, King of Eldoria. He was a hard man to rattle. His icy blue eyes scanned the room, a thin muscle ticking along his jawline, but otherwise he sat as still as a mountain under storm clouds.
At his side sat Evelyne, his queen, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore a simple dress of dark emerald, her hair pinned high, her expression calm — far calmer than many would have been under such assault.
But the slight tightening around her eyes betrayed the fire burning beneath her skin. The nobles, however, smelled blood.
"My liege!" roared Duke Calveth, a portly man with a face like a bloated toad. "This crime cannot go unpunished! Hans was a guest beneath your roof! This will ruin our standing among the Southern Isles!"
"And the other kingdoms!" Lady Mernith shrilled, her powdered wig trembling as she flapped her lace fan aggressively. "Think of the damage to our alliances! No princess will wed an Eldorian son now! No trade ship will dare anchor at our docks!"
"It's treason, Your Majesty!" spat Lord Redrick, thumping the butt of his cane against the marble floor. "Treason against the very laws of hospitality!"
"And what of the Queen's influence?" a sly voice piped up from the back.
The room hushed slightly — just slightly — as all heads turned toward the speaker, a minor lord named Percival Venra. He wore a thin smile and an even thinner moustache, twirling a ring around his pinky.
"It is well known, Your Majesty, that Queen Evelyne comes from... humble origins. Perhaps... too humble," he said, voice oozing false courtesy. "Perhaps the crown prince's wild nature is a reflection of commoner blood. Instability, impulsiveness, a lack of—"
He didn't finish the thought though, because Alistair stood up. The throne room seemed to tilt with the force of it, as if the very walls held their breath.
Alistair's voice, when it came, was cold as a winter gale.
"One more word," he said, his gaze locked on Percival, "against my queen — my wife — and I shall have your head removed from your body before you take your next breath."
Utter silence. The kind of silence that buries itself deep in the bones. Percival went pale, swallowed thickly, and immediately bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the floor.
The other nobles muttered and shifted, suddenly remembering the iron beneath their king's crown. From the side door, a commotion stirred — the heavy footsteps of a hurried messenger — and then the grand entrance opened once more.
Benedict strode in.
Now dressed sharply in deep navy and gold, the royal crest stitched over his heart. His silver white hair was neatly combed, his posture proud, and his face wore the perfect mixture of sorrow and resolve.
He approached the foot of the dais and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice carrying across the room. "I have come to beg clemency for my brother."
The crowd erupted into a chorus of shocked gasps and murmurs.
"Clemency?!"
"After what he did?"
Alistair raised a hand for silence. The room obeyed, grudgingly. Benedict straightened, his blue eyes shining with carefully measured emotion.
"Camden has indeed committed a grave crime. None can deny that," he said. "But he is still our blood. A prince of Eldoria. To execute him would stain this kingdom's soul — brother killing brother. Son slain by father. We would be no better than savages."
The nobles grumbled uneasily, exchanging glances. It was a dangerous point, and a good one.
Benedict pressed on, his voice growing stronger.
"I propose instead," he said, "that we exile him. Strip him of his titles. Banish him from Eldoria under pain of death should he return. Let him bear the shame of his deeds. Let the world see that Eldoria does not tolerate betrayal — even from its own."
Alistair said nothing yet. He only stared down at Benedict, weighing, judging. Then another voice broke the tension — this time, from among Hans' surviving guards.
"My lord!" shouted one of them, stepping forward, his arm still bandaged from the scuffle. "We saw it! We saw the Crown Prince slay our master! He must be punished! Blood for blood!"
A few other guards cried out in agreement. Alistair finally descended from his throne, every step like a drumbeat of judgment. He paced the room slowly, every eye following him.
When he spoke, his voice rolled across the throne room like distant thunder.
"Camden Eldenhart will be stripped of his titles, his claim to the throne, and his name among our nobility."
A fresh wave of gasps and muffled outbursts rippled across the court.
"He shall be exiled from Eldoria by the setting of the sun three days hence. Should he ever set foot upon these lands again, it shall be under the sword."
He stopped beside Benedict, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Benedict Eldenhart shall assume the duties of Crown Prince from this day forward," Alistair said. "May the gods grant him the wisdom to guide this kingdom with honor."
Benedict bowed his head, face full of humility, at least outwardly.
I knew better.
The court exploded into motion — some nobles cheering, others howling, some arguing and bargaining and whispering. But the decision was made. It was done.
Alistair returned to his throne, watching the chaos unfold beneath him with the cold detachment of a king who had seen the rise and fall of too many petty men to be moved now.
Meanwhile, back in the dark of my cell, I sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, smiling faintly to myself. Everything was falling exactly into place.
Soon, I would be free. Free of the palace. Free of the crown. Free to carve my own path across the wide, waiting world.
[A few days later]
The stone corridors of the castle felt heavier that afternoon, like the very walls were trying to hold me back. Three days had passed since the king's judgment, and now the hour had finally come.
I had spent the time mostly in the dungeon, away from the public eye, though not truly imprisoned. Not really. It was more for show, to satisfy the ton's thirst for justice.
Today, the guards who flanked me weren't jailers. They were my friends — my loyal brothers-in-arms — men who had bled beside me in training fields and drunkenly sworn oaths under the stars.
Their faces were grim as they walked me through the castle halls one last time, past tapestries and suits of armor I'd grown up with, past hidden alcoves where I'd once hidden from tutors and played at knights with Benedict.
At the foot of the grand stairs, beneath the towering stained glass window depicting Eldoria's founding, she was waiting for me. My dear mother Evelyne.
Her dark green dress fluttered faintly in the draft, and her golden hair, pinned with emeralds, caught the dying light from the window.
When she saw me, she smiled — a smile strained at the edges, but brave nonetheless. I slowed, dismissed the guards with a glance, and crossed the distance between us alone.
"Mother," I said softly.
"My darling boy," she whispered. Her hands came up to cup my face, as if trying to memorize every angle of it.
"I could still stay," I joked, trying to lighten the leaden weight between us. "I'm sure if I cried enough, Father would let me off with only half an exile."
A watery laugh slipped from her lips, and she shook her head. "You were never meant for cages, my sweet Camden," she said. "Not even golden ones."
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. For a moment, I forgot the grand plans, and schemes. I was just a boy again, her boy.
"Come with me," I said suddenly, the words tumbling out raw and desperate. "Please, Mother. Let's leave this place together. We'll vanish into the world, go back to that cozy little village by the sea. No crowns, no duties... just us."
I could see the flicker in her eyes — the terrible, aching temptation.
But Evelyne Wilder had not risen from humble beginnings to queenhood by following her heart alone. She had steel in her spine, woven deep and unbreakable.
She pressed her forehead against mine, closing her eyes.
"I would go with you in a heartbeat if I could," she whispered. "But I cannot abandon this kingdom, nor your brother. He needs me, Camden. You need me — even if you don't know it yet."
"I understand," I said hoarsely. "I hate it... but I understand."
When we finally pulled apart, she reached into the folds of her gown and pressed something into my hand. A small pendant, shaped like a lion roaring at the stars. Our family crest.
"For when you forget who you are," she said. "Or when you need to remember."
I clenched it tightly in my fist, holding onto it like it was the last solid thing in the world. Then, together, we walked out into the courtyard where the others were waiting.
At the great eastern gates of Eldoria, beneath the towering black-iron portcullis, a small group had gathered to see me off.
My loyal friends, dressed in simple traveler's cloaks to accompany me as far as they dared.
My father, standing stiff and proud, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes unreadable. And Benedict, already wearing the crimson sash of the Crown Prince across his chest.
"You'll be missed, you know," Benedict said quietly as I approached. "Not just by her." He nodded toward my mother. "By me too."
I clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't get sentimental on me now," I teased. "You've finally got what you always wanted. The throne. The boring meetings. The endless parade of old men farting through council sessions."
He laughed — a real laugh, warm and genuine.
"I'll rule well," he promised.
"I know," I said. "Just... don't lose yourself in it, Benny. Promise me that."
"Don't call me that and I'll make the damn promise."
We embraced briefly, then I turned to Alistair. My dear old father. He looked down at me, his face carved from stone. But his hand — calloused and strong — gripped my shoulder tightly.
"You have a dangerous gift, Camden," he said. "A fire that will burn the world or light the way through it. Which one... is up to you."
He didn't say he loved me. He didn't have to. It was in the set of his jaw, in the way his hand lingered for a fraction longer than necessary before he pulled away.
"Go," he said. "Before I change my mind."
I smiled. A real, pearly white smile. Turning, I mounted my horse — a sleek black steed with a white blaze down his nose. A gift from my mother a year ago after my pony Starlight unfortunately died.
The gates creaked open slowly, revealing the wide, waiting world beyond. Rolling hills, dense forests, winding rivers — the unknown. To adventure and freedom.
I looked back one last time, at my mother, tears glistening in her proud eyes, at my father, standing like an immovable mountain, at my brother, nodding once, sharply, at my friends, smiling and saluting.
Oh, and Louise who stood in the far back. I never got along with that woman.
I saluted them back with two fingers to my brow, casual, irreverent, completely me and then I kicked my heels into the horse's flanks. We surged forward through the gates, the wind whipping through my hair.
And I laughed.
I laughed so loud and so hard it echoed off the stone walls behind me, a raw, unchained sound.
I laughed for freedom, for the sheer joy of being alive, for the road stretching wide and wild before me, full of dangers and wonders and every possibility under the sun.
The kingdom of Eldoria shrank behind me, a gilded cage receding into the mist.
And ahead...
Ahead lay everything.
And I couldn't wait to claim it.
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A/N: That's it!! The backstory and motives have been established. Farewells were said, tears were shed.
Now we begin the real story.
Like my other 2 books, I don't plan anything, I just write whatever is on my mind that day. So frankly I donno which character Camden should meet first.