Heirs to the throne

***

The morning after the coronation is always deceptively calm. Light crept into Shane’s chambers cautiously, as if the palace itself did not dare to wake him too abruptly. The stone walls retained the coolness of the night, and there was something unsettling about this coolness — not physical, but almost premonitory. Holland opened his eyes before the first footsteps sounded in the corridor and immediately understood: sleep had brought no rest. He sat up, ran his hand over his face, and paused for a moment to look at the crown left on the table. In the daylight, it seemed even heavier — devoid of shine, almost gloomy. A sign that he was now being watched differently. The council convened early. Too early to be a coincidence. The king appeared in the Council Chamber later than the others. When the doors swung open, the conversations did not immediately cease — not out of disrespect, but out of habit, pretending that everything was as it had been before. Only when he took a few steps forward, leaning on his carved cane, did silence finally fall. Shane rose first. His father looked older than the day before. His face was gaunt, his lips pale, and his eyes held a dull weariness that was impossible to hide. The king sat down heavily, as if the throne itself were a challenge for him, and covered his mouth with a handkerchief before speaking. A dry, ragged cough escaped him — too loud for such a hall. — Your Majesty… — someone began, but the king waved his hand. — It’s nothing, — he said hoarsely. — Age. No one believed him. And everyone knew it. The physician stood by the wall, not looking up. The elders exchanged glances too often. The king’s illness was not just a concern — everyone was worried about the question of “when”. — The coronation of the heir went well, — the king said, finally looking at Shane. For the first time that morning, there was warmth in his voice. — You are worthy of this honour. Hollander bowed his head politely. — I did what you taught me to do. The king nodded, satisfied, almost proud. The gesture was not ostentatious, but it was impossible not to notice. The senior elder raised the question of the need to make some decisions regarding the population. Rozanov sat a little apart. He did not lower his gaze or show any defiance — he simply sat there, like a foreign note in a written melody. When the king turned to him, his expression changed. It became stricter. Colder. — And you, — he said, — still prefer to remain silent? Ilya raised his head. — I prefer to listen, Your Majesty. — That’s convenient, — replied the king. — Especially when you have nothing of substance to say. Several elders lowered their eyes. Shane tensed but remained silent. — Perhaps Ilya simply sees threats where we are not yet accustomed to noticing them. The king turned his gaze to him, surprised and appraising. — Are you defending him? — I suggest we listen to him, if he has something to say. The pause dragged on. The king slowly leaned back in his throne, as if it took effort. — You have always been too soft, — he said at last. — But perhaps that is precisely why you should rule. The words hung heavy and final in the air. Ilya understood everything at once. The choice had been made. Not today. Long ago. The council continued, but Rozanov hardly heard a word. His gaze slid over the faces — old, experienced, already mentally distributing future positions. He looked at the king and felt neither hatred nor pain. Only a weary realisation: this man had never seen him as a son. Only as a problem. When the meeting ended, Ilya quickly left the hall, slamming the doors loudly behind him. Shane caught up with him in the gallery. — Are you all right? — he asked quietly. Ilya stopped, looked at him intently, almost studying him. — Does it matter? — Not at all. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. For a moment, Ilya wanted to laugh. But he didn’t. — Father is dying, — he said calmly. — And when that happens, the court will tear you to pieces. He took a step closer. His heart quickened. — If you’re lucky enough to stay alive, it won’t be because you’re a good son. He lowered his voice. — It will be because you learn to be cruel. Holland looked at him for a long time. He could feel Ilya’s tension and anger, but he couldn’t help himself. — You talk as if you’ve already made your choice, — Shane’s quiet voice probed for possible angles. Rozanov smiled bitterly. — I just realised a long time ago that I’m not in it. He left without looking back. Shane remained standing in the gallery, realising for the first time that the throne was approaching faster than he was ready for, and that the only person who spoke to him honestly was the one the court told him to be wary of.