Morning light crept through the heavy curtains of Reinhardt's chamber, spilling across the floor in muted gold. He stirred, blinking against the brightness. His head no longer pounded, and the burning fever from the night before had ebbed to a lingering warmth. As he shifted, something cool slipped from his brow onto the sheets. A damp cloth.
He stared at it for a moment, frowning. He remembered collapsing near the door, but not how he had ended up in his bed.
A faint sound pricked his ears—rustling fabric, a soft footstep—from within his wardrobe room. Instinct honed on countless battlefields surged to the surface. Without thinking, his hand slipped into the hidden pocket of his coat and closed around the hilt of a small knife.
Silent as a shadow, Reinhardt rose. His body still felt heavy, but his movements were precise. He crept toward the sound, heart beating slower, breath measured. The silhouette of a figure emerged from behind the half-open door.
In a swift motion, Reinhardt lunged, twisting the arm of the intruder and slamming them lightly against the doorframe. The knife's tip pressed just under their jaw.
"Who are you?" His voice was low, hoarse but cold. "Why are you here?"
Wide, frightened eyes stared back at him. It was the young maid from the previous day—the one who had been pushed by Stanford.
"You…" Reinhardt's eyes narrowed. "You're the one who came into my room last night."
"I–I'm sorry, Your Highness!" she stammered, her breath trembling. "I heard something—thumps from your room. I thought it was a thief, but then—"
Reinhardt pressed the knife a fraction closer to her chin, his own voice sharpening. "Who sent you? Was it Stanford?" Suspicion curled through his words. "Did he tell you to spy on me?"
Lucy's eyes brimmed with tears as she shook her head violently. "N-no… I just happened to walk by the corridor. I swear! I meant no harm, Your Highness!"
Reinhardt watched her closely, searching for any flicker of deceit. But all he saw was genuine terror: the tremor of her hands, the slight quiver in her voice. Slowly, he eased the pressure of the blade, then stepped back and lowered it completely.
The tension drained from the room like air from a bellows. Reinhardt exhaled, rubbing his forehead as he moved to sit down on the chair near his bed. The maid remained frozen in front of him, still trembling.
He sighed—a weary sound, not of anger but of exhaustion. "What is your name?" he asked at last, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Lucy flinched at being addressed. "My name is Lucy Hearcy, Your Highness," she whispered. "I–I'm sorry if I—"
Reinhardt raised one finger, a quiet gesture for her to slow her words.
"I'm truly sorry, Your Highness," she continued, voice softer now. "I didn't mean to intrude. I just couldn't leave you alone on the floor last night. That's why I tended to you…"
Her explanation wavered but did not break.
Reinhardt finally looked up at her. As he did, his eyes caught the small insignia sewn into the front of her uniform. Stanford's household crest. His expression darkened slightly.
"You're Stanford's maid," he said flatly. "You shouldn't be here."
Lucy bit her lip and lowered her head.
"Listen carefully." Reinhardt's voice shifted into the commanding tone of a prince who had led soldiers. "Do not say a word to anyone about last night. Whatever you saw, you saw nothing. That is the truth you will speak."
Lucy blinked, then slowly nodded. "Y-yes… I saw nothing, Your Highness." Relief washed over her face; a shy, almost timid smile flickered at the edges of her lips.
Reinhardt leaned back in the chair, eyes half-closed, feeling the last waves of dizziness ebb from him. "Good," he murmured.
Lucy hesitated, clutching her hands together, then bowed low. "It's… it's my pleasure to help, Your Highness."
She turned toward the door, fingers resting lightly on the knob.
"Wait." Reinhardt's voice, softer now, stopped her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Thank you," he said simply.
For a moment she seemed surprised. Then she smiled—an honest, small smile—and dipped her head again. "It's an honor, Your Highness."
She slipped out quietly, leaving the room in a hush broken only by Reinhardt's steady breathing. Alone again, he rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the knife in his hand. Even here, in the palace that was supposed to be his home, he could trust almost no one.
But at least, he thought, someone had still been willing to lift him from the floor.
-----------------------------------------
Reinhardt's steps were slow and deliberate as he walked down the marble corridor toward the King's private office. His fever had eased but his body still felt heavy. Today, he reminded himself. Today he promised we would talk.
He needed Stephen's permission for Jaesper to go to the front lines, and for more supplies to be sent. The wounded were waiting. Robert's last note still burned in his pocket.
At the door there were no guards—strange for a royal chamber. He hesitated only a heartbeat before lifting his knuckles and rapping firmly on the wood.
Silence.
He frowned, then caught it: a low sound from inside, half-groan, half-murmur. Alarm flickered in his chest. He pressed the handle and pushed the door open.
His eyes widened.
King Stephen sat in his high-backed chair, shirt open, while a young woman—half-naked, hair disheveled—straddled his lap. At Reinhardt's entrance she gasped, clutching her bodice to cover herself as she stumbled away. The King zipped his trousers, face dark with irritation.
"You should knock before you enter," Stephen barked, his tone sharp at the interruption.
Reinhardt's face hardened. "Your Majesty, I did knock. There was no answer." His voice was cold. "And you should not be doing something like this when you already have wives."
Stephen's eyes flashed with anger at the rebuke. "This is none of your business! I am the ruler of this kingdom, and you are merely a prince with no name!"
The words hit like a slap. Reinhardt's jaw tightened but he didn't lower his gaze.
"Even if I have no name, no land," Reinhardt said slowly, "I fought for you. I helped you defeat the Demon Kingdom. Yesterday I told you—I need aid for my comrades who are still injured on the battlefield. I need your permission to send Viscount Jaesper to them—"
"Enough!" King Stephen's hand slammed down on the desk, rattling the inkwell.
The mistress darted out of the room, head bowed, leaving the two men alone. Stephen rose to his full height, pointing an accusatory finger at Reinhardt.
"Last night the ministers and nobles were asking me for the progress of the next war!" he shouted. "And where were you? Disappearing without a word! How can you shame me when I have introduced you as our champion?!"
Reinhardt's fists curled at his sides. "I already told you, Your Majesty," he said, voice low but firm. "We just ended a war—not with men, but with demons. The soldiers are broken and bleeding. And you speak of new wars already? Have you thought of your people?"
"We have plenty of replacements!" Stephen cut in, as if this solved everything. "If you manage to defeat the Demon Kingdom, it should be no problem to wage war on another!"
The words struck Reinhardt like a blow. "Replacements?" he repeated, his tone a dangerous whisper. "You mean to conscript commoners? Force them to fight?"
Stephen's mouth curled into something like a smile, pride gleaming in his eyes. "Why not? They will be of use as soldiers. They cannot stay in this kingdom without fighting for it."
For a heartbeat, Reinhardt just stared. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a short, sharp laugh. A bitter laugh, empty of amusement. He had once admired this man, and had once believed that standing by his side would make him worthy of the throne.
But now, in the office, stinking of perfume and wine, staring at the king who spoke so proudly of feeding commoners into another war, all he felt was disgust.
"You…" Reinhardt's laughter faded into a low voice that trembled with rage. "You would sacrifice your own people like pawns and call it loyalty."
Stephen's eyes narrowed. "Mind your tone, boy. Do not forget who you are speaking to."
But Reinhardt only straightened his back, his eyes hard as emerald glass. In that moment, something inside him shifted—a piece of reverence breaking clean away.
Reinhardt stared at King Stephen. His lips curved upward, but it was no real smile—only a twisted, bitter shape that made the King stiffen where he sat.
Stephen's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. "What," he demanded, voice sharp, "is so funny?"
Reinhardt took a slow step forward, then another, his boots echoing on the marble. "Your Majesty," he said softly, "I've been wondering… do you even know the Hero's name?"
King Stephen flinched as though struck. "Of course I know it! What is the meaning of this?"
Reinhardt's eyes glinted, and he bit his lip until it almost bled. "Then tell me," he said quietly. "What is his name?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. Sweat began to bead at Stephen's temples. For the first time since Reinhardt had entered the palace, the King looked unsettled.
"What use is it to say his name?" Stephen snapped. "People remember him as the Hero, and that is enough!"
Reinhardt's voice rose, cutting through the room. "What is his name, Father?!"
Stephen froze. The word landed between them like thunder. Reinhardt had never called him father in this palace—not once. The King's eyes widened. His pride flared hotter than his shame.
As Reinhardt drew closer, Stephen's hand shot out. The punch landed hard across Reinhardt's face.
The younger man staggered back and dropped to one knee. His palm came up to cradle his cheek, his head bowed toward the floor.
"You rude, ungrateful child!" Stephen roared. "Remember who gave you life! Remember who raised you!"
A low laugh rolled from Reinhardt's throat. He lifted his head, green eyes burning. "You can't even answer a simple question, Father," he said, his voice shaking with rage. "I asked you the name of the Hero who fought for your kingdom, who bled for your throne, who secured your victories. His name is Kael…" He took a step closer, voice rising with each word. "…Michael Taylor! The man you used up and threw away like a tool!"
Stephen's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. The words struck deep, but his pride lashed back. "I am your King!" he shouted. "When I command you, you will obey! Get out of my sight!"
Reinhardt did not move. His twisted smile returned, sharper than before. "A King who cannot even name his own savior," he murmured, "is no king at all."
For a heartbeat the two men stared at each other—the tyrant on his throne, the nameless prince on his knees. Then Reinhardt slowly rose, his cheek swelling where the blow had landed, his hands trembling but his eyes like polished stone.
Without bowing, without another word, he turned and walked out of the office. The echo of his footsteps rang down the corridor like a promise.