123 Not It (Working Title) (Patreon)

It is a fact, universally acknowledged, that all prisons stink.

Princess Lisabet Anastele Mariane Grise Longwinter had been in enough of them to allow, however, that this one was uncommonly nice. The stone floors were dry and clean. The furniture was uncomfortable, but present and in decent repair. There were sanitary facilities inside the cell and she was allowed to bathe under supervision of a female guard three times a week. They even fed the prisoners here. It was common, peasant fare, but it arrived three times a day (still hot!) and wasn’t even drugged.

It had been roughly a month, insofar as she’d been keeping track of time, since the night that Holt’s insurrectionists took the Capitol. She hadn’t seen any of her fellow prisoners, but she heard the guards talk sometimes about the trials and executions still going on outside. There was no chance that she’d be spared in the long run, but as a royal figure of relatively little importance, Stele knew she was likely to be saved for when the purge was nearing its end, probably as an appetizer for the grand finale of her father, eldest brother, and sister. They would go last. They’d had the biggest hand in the governance of Longwinter’s last and now fallen era and had become symbols of that rule, which meant they now had no way left to escape their bad endings.

Stele would have felt bad about it except she had no relationship with any of those people. Her mother had been imprisoned for an unspecified crime (probably that of being an impediment to her husband’s desire for a third marriage) before Stele had even been born and Stele herself grew up in a series of cells, first in the Northwatch Prison where her mother had been exiled, and the later in the Silent Abbey. She’d been taken back into her father’s care following her fifteenth birthday, but had never been allowed into his presence or that of her older siblings. Stele’s paternal family might as well have been strangers; strangers who made very bad, very selfish choices.

Now, at age twenty, Stele had returned to her origin; a prison cell.

One of the wardens tapped at the grate of her cell. It made Stele uncomfortable, the way they spoke to her. They didn’t address her formally, but they weren’t rude either. In fact, they were very nearly polite, if you ignored the fact that they never, ever spoke her name or used her titles. She didn’t know what that meant. 

“You have a visitor,” the woman, a sturdily-built Orc with neatly braided black hair shot through with streaks of white, informed her. “Rise. Enter the circle.”

Stele went over to stand in the iron circle set into the floor of her cell. As soon as she was inside, the warden touched something outside her cell and a glowing red containment spell sealed her into that small space. It was just large enough to contain an adult, but the walls of the barrier were so close they made the hair on her arms and neck rise up. She didn’t make a sound, though, and stood with her hands folded neatly over her stomach. Her deportment classes were paying off at last. Dame Ana would be pleased, if she were still alive.

She did not receive visitors and, indeed, didn’t want any. There was no one who could possibly make it to her cell that she really wanted to see –save one person and even then, not really. 

It would be best if she and that person never spoke again.

So, of course, he was the person who entered her cell.

Caine Holt looked tired, compared to when she’d seen him last. He was only twenty-seven, but a deep furrow had appeared between his dark brows, there were lines around his eyes, and it was unclear how long ago he’d last shaved or cut his hair. Otherwise, he looked good.

General Holt was infamous for wearing a tattered black coat and thick bear pelt collar wherever he went, no matter the weather. His present attire was much finer than his battle worn armor, but was still black. He wore a black uniform decorated with all the military honors Stele’s father had once stripped him of, plus a few new ones that she was unfamiliar with. He wore a new long black coat with a thick sable collar draped over one shoulder that gave his appearance a dangerous and unpredictable edge. 

She glanced down at his hands. He was wearing thin black leather gloves and she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. What was the point of anything if he was still wearing those?

Stele made herself look away. That wasn’t her business anymore. Really, it had never been her business in the first place. She crossed her arms and pressed a thumb against the reassuring shape hidden just beneath the smooth skin of her forearm. It wouldn’t be long now. 

The other warden, an Elf man of a variant she didn’t immediately recognize, dragged in a chair and set it down in front of Stele’s containment circle, facing her. Caine didn’t exactly drop into it, but he sat more heavily than was his habit. He really had to be tired. It was hard, she was sure, crowning yourself King. He’d do a fine job even if he’d been run ragged at the beginning. He could only look good, compared to the previous regime, at least. 

They stared at each other for a little while, just to see who’d break first, before Caine sighed and shook his head and then leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees as he looked her in the eyes and said, “Lady Hallowbrooke, it is solemn duty to inform you that your mother’s former husband was executed this morning, following a public trial where he and his offspring were condemned for their crimes against the people of the New Kingdom of Osica.”

It took her a long, awkward pause to remember that ‘Hallowbrooke’ was her mother’s maiden name. The Hallowbrooke Duchy had been expunged from her father’s court decades ago, the majority of their lands seized, and all her maternal relatives had been exiled or executed for reasons her Father hadn’t bothered to justify. As far as Stele knew, her grandparents hadn’t even gotten the dignity of a sham trial the way their former son-in-law apparently had. 

Then there was that caveat of ‘your mother’s late husband’, that Caine had used when he informed her that she was the last remaining survivor of her family.

“What have you done?” she asked, hardly recognizing her own tone. 

An old familiar glint of amusement flashed through Caine’s black eyes; the look he gave her when he’d pulled a damn fool stunt and was ready to talk about it. “Your parents divorced, Lady Hallowbrooke, before you were even born. Your father’s name is not listed in your birth records. It was only at the Dead King’s whim that you were brought to the Capitol. There is no legal document that proves he ever entered you into the Longwinter family. By the custodial laws of New Osica, you are and have always been the last Duchess of Hallowbrooke.”

“Hallowbrooke is four hectares of bog, General Holt,” Stele replied, still wrestling with her feelings. “My fa—the Dead King…” she faltered over the words ‘my father’ both because she’d never been permitted to use them and because she couldn’t stand the mad bastard, “...regularly sunk dead bodies there to preserve them for later use. Hallowbrooke is a graveyard now.”

That seemed to give Caine pause and he looked back towards a young, severe-looking woman who’d been hanging back outside Stele’s cell.

“Parliament has unanimously voted to restore the county map to match the last census, from the year 705,” she explained with a flat expression. Stele notices broad slashes of pigmented skin framing her eyes and her sharp nose; an Avian, then. No wonder she wasn’t making much expression. “The 705 Census predates the Dead King’s national reorganization and reports Hallowbrooke Duchy as a legitimate house of the Old Osican aristocracy, to which there is only one known heir remaining.”

“Hallowbrooke House and the attached grounds have been in the possession of Termain since your mother’s arrest,” Caine said, taking over the conversation. “Given the fact that he died in the fighting when we retook the Capitol, he isn’t around to object to you retaking your inheritance.”

Gerald Termain was, or had been, Stele’s father’s primary enforcer; a giant of a man with a face like a slapped ass. He’d been granted the title of Archduke Termain for his terrible labors; namely murder, extortion, kidnapping, and other evils. What Stele had somehow never realized was that his demesne, Termain Orda, had originally belonged to her family. No wonder he’d always wandered around the Annex Palace like he owned it, sneering and making uncomfortable eye contact with her. 

Part of her was still reeling to know that her father was already dead. What did that mean for her? And why was Caine Holte here, talking to her like he planned to release her?

This was not in the plan.

“A tailor will arrive later today, to fit you for a coronation gown,” Caine continued as he waved over the Avian woman, who stepped to one side and revealed a heavy cart of polish wood jewelry cases that she’d been hiding with the bulk of her skirt. She pushed the card inside the cell. “These are the Longwinter tiaras that no one can agree on the historical significance of. Most of them seem to have been made especially for your older sister and the late Third Queen. Parliament has agreed to let you select whichever you like for your personal collection. The rest will be broken up and the materials sold to pay restitution to the families of the servants your sister had executed over the years. These two…,” he indicated two of the crowns that were made in an older style, “...are of an age where they could potentially have been made for your mother.”

Stele stared at them and cleared her throat. “The one to the left is part of the Hallowbrooke Blushing Pearl Parure, which was made for my mother as part of her trousseau. I recognize it from her wedding portrait. The other is the Longwinter Red Beryl Fringe Tiara from the Second Era. It’s usually worn as a necklace, but I’m told it is stored as a tiara. It can only be worn by a Queen Regnant and so has not been worn in public since the reign of Catalya III.”

“Hm,” Caine made a noncommittal noise. “It was found in your older sister’s private vault.”

“The others are all what Regina called her ‘costume’ jewelry and I have no interest in them,” Stele replied, choosing to not address that comment. Regina had no hope of inheriting the throne, but it was just like her to steal a significant artifact from her descendants, who might need it. “The gems are all real enough, but none were meant for state occasions. The Third Queen Consort wasn’t permitted to keep private jewelry. All her jewels were kept in the main vault and she had to report there to withdraw any. That’s why she is usually depicted as wearing flower crowns and ribbons in her hair.”

Stele’s stepmother, the poor timid thing, had been ten years younger than Stele’s mother when she was crowned as the Third Queen Consort, barely an adult. Stele had never learned what her name was. Everyone referred to her just by her title and she made no waves in court. She survived by submitting to whatever her mad husband demanded of her and, otherwise, by being as uninteresting as possible. She’d died in childbirth around the same time Stele had been recalled to the Capitol and so had been spared the ultimate fate of all the members of the Longwinter family—save Stele, it seemed.

“Find the rest of the pearl set and get the Red Fringe to the royal archive to be restored,” Caine instructed his assistant who nodded with respect and set the two important tiaras aside on the cart before she withdrew.

‘I don’t like this,’ Stele thought to herself and rubbed the hard object under her skin for reassurance. “What need do I have for a coronation gown? Why do you need my opinions on tiaras?” she asked, afraid that she knew the answer.

Caine didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood up and came so close to the boundary of her containment circle that their chest could have brushed together if there hadn’t been something between them. “You made me a promise, once,” he said softly. “I’ve decided to make you keep it.”

“What promise?” Stele asked, flabbergasted. 

A mirthless smile flicked across Caine’s haggard face. “I did not expect you to remember and I knew it was an empty flattery at the time, but it’s within my power to force your sincerity—and I’m going to. In one week’s time, you will be crowned as Queen Anastele I; the first Queen Regnant of the New Constitutional Monarchy of Osica. Parliament will send a representative, supervised by me, to inform you of the limits placed upon the monarch in this new era. Suffice it to say that, going forward, our Kings and Queens will operate under the rule of law rather than the other way around.”

Stele was so thunderstruck by this statement, which was both everything she’d been working towards these past years while also not being what she wanted at all, that the first true thought that crossed her might tumbled straight out of her mouth, “Are you mad? You’re ending the Longwinter dynasty by putting a Longwinter princess on the throne?”

Caine smiled at her. “Oh, but you’re not a Longwinter princess. You’re the Hallowbrooke princess, the only remaining daughter of the second most exalted lineage in the nation. The Longwinters have been marrying their spare children into your family since the First Era, after all, and your people have always been sympathetic to Beastfolk concerns. It’s what got your mother’s people exterminated, after all.”

Stele felt her ears go hot. “My mother and her family were killed because the Dead King needed a new source of iron when the Oak Mountain mines played out and couldn’t get it through marriage while she still had power to resist divorce.”

Caine shrugged to acknowledge her point. “That’s not how my people remember them, which is what’s relevant. They’ll accept a Hallowbrooke on the throne if it means minimal disruption to the operation of the country and a faster return to normalcy.”

This was not how it was supposed to go. What was the point of a revolution if it wasn’t revolutionary? There was meant to be a Beast King on the throne by now! She should have realized her plan had gone off the rails when she’d addressed him as ‘General’ and no one corrected her. 

“What is the point of this?” Stele asked, fighting to keep her composure. Her face felt dangerously hot. “You can’t possibly trust my rule and, if I am to be your puppet Queen, then why not take power for yourself now when it’s in your grasp? You’ve gone this far. Why choke in the final act?”

“Who says that I am?” Caine replied with another slow predator’s smile. “I’ve accomplished exactly what I set out to do. The coronation ceremony will take place in a week. I’ll return later to discuss the program with you. If you behave for the seamstress, then we can also discuss an increase in your privileges now that the trials have concluded and the old regime has been laid to rest. I trust you have no interest in attending the funerals?”

Stele didn’t answer and Caine huffed a mirthless laugh. “I thought so. We’re going to spread his ashes and the ashes of his offspring in the Antioche Bog once we’ve finished recovering the bodies of his victims that you mentioned.”

Oh, well, that was alright. Stele regretted softening for even a second when Caine barked a laugh. Her sentiments must have shown on her face. 

“We will be taking meals together going forward,” he informed her. “Tell the seamstress if there’s anything in your quarters that you want to keep and she’ll inform the Mistress of Wardrobe. In the meantime, she will bring you a change of clothing and some additional comforts for you here.”

Stele didn’t reply and watched him leave in stony silence. That stubborn fool was going to ruin everything she’d been working for.

The wardens released the containment circle and withdrew from her cell. Stele went over to her cot and sat down to have a serious think. There had to be a way to recover from this and it didn’t take her long to come up with one. Really, it was simple. She’d follow her original plan, with a few alterations. 

“Warden, may I have some stationary?” she called out. “I have a letter to write to General Holt.”

The Orc woman nodded and actually brought her pen, paper, and a blank seal without argument. She even relocated a small table and stool from the guards’ area and arranged it in her cell to take advantage of what little natural light there was available to them. 

It took her a moment to compose her thoughts and a bit longer for her to commit them to paper. The wardens seemed uninterested in reading her correspondence and did not interfere when she folded and sealed the letter.

The Elf accepted the letter with a bow and a murmured “By your will, Highness”, when she handed it over.

“I am going to lay down for a time,” she then informed the remaining warden. “Please inform me when the next visitor arrives?”

“By your will, Highness,” the Orc woman replied, with less hesitance than her compatriot.