Chapter Seven: Secret Histories and an Overcooked Turnip
The throne room echoed with silence as Queen Mother Adalind studied Elliott like he was a slightly disappointing fruitcake. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows behind her—regal, ominous ones. Elliott tried to look brave. He mostly looked like he had a cramp.
"You're not mad, right?" he said.
"I am your Queen Mother," she replied.
"That's not a 'no.'"
Adalind strode past him, down the carpeted steps of the dais, trailing a cloak made from actual battle standards. "Sit," she ordered, gesturing to a creaky chair.
Elliott sat. It creaked ominously.
"This coin," she said, holding up the spider-devouring-rose token. "Do you know what it means?"
"Yes," Elliott lied. "Definitely."
Adalind narrowed her eyes. "It's the mark of the Thornveil Cabal. An order of shadow merchants, nobles, and assassins. Thought extinct."
"Well, I thought I was joining a theater troupe, so we're all learning new things today."
She didn't laugh. Instead, she reached for something beneath her cloak and slammed an old book onto the table beside him. It was bound in cracked leather and smelled of mildew, secrets, and maybe soup.
The title read: "The True History of the Crown of Harthmere"
Elliott blinked. "We have a true history? I thought we just embellished everything with extra dragons."
The Past is a Messy Room
Adalind opened the book. "You know your predecessor, King Wendell, died mysteriously."
"'Fell into a well while sword-juggling at a wedding,'" Elliott recited. "Which, to be fair, is both tragic and weirdly impressive."
"That's the story we told. The truth is… he was poisoned."
Elliott leaned forward. "By the Thornveil Cabal?"
"No," she said. "By his advisor. My brother."
Elliott froze. "You had a brother? Why have you never mentioned him?"
"He tried to kill me, Elliott. It makes holiday cards awkward."
She turned another page, revealing an etching of a young man with dagger-like cheekbones and an evil goatee. "Lord Corrick of Harthmere. Brilliant. Charismatic. Ambitious. Also a raging narcissist who once tried to marry a mirror."
"That's not even the worst arranged marriage I've heard this week," Elliott muttered.
"Corrick disappeared after the king's death. But now… the coin has reappeared."
"And someone's helping Grottenvast," Elliott said. "You think he's alive?"
"I think we're about to find out."
Meanwhile: The Kitchen is on Fire
Elsewhere in the castle, Dorian was heroically rescuing a tray of overcooked turnips.
"Why is the kitchen smoking?" he shouted.
A cook coughed through the haze. "Someone tried to use a dragon pepper in the stew. Then the stew exploded."
"That's not cooking. That's alchemy gone rogue."
The cook blinked. "You mean there's a difference?"
Seraphine entered with a swish of her cloak and a scowl. "Tell Elliott the palace is compromised. One of our guards fled this morning. He left behind coded letters. About the Cabal."
"Coded how?" Dorian asked.
"In limericks."
"Oh gods. We're dealing with rhyming traitors now."
Council Chaos, Again
The next morning, the Council of Lords reconvened. Elliott wore his least wrinkled royal robe and his "I know what I'm doing" face, which mostly made him look like he was trying not to sneeze.
Lord Pellington of Commerce stood. "Your Majesty, the economy is on the verge of collapse."
"Because of war?"
"No. Because people are hoarding turnips."
Lady Millicent added, "The bread guilds are threatening rebellion. Something about gluten rights."
Elliott raised a hand. "Everyone, breathe. Please. We have bigger problems than carbs."
The Owl hooted in ominous agreement.
Seraphine stepped forward. "The king has declared an internal investigation. Into treason."
A gasp rippled through the chamber. Elliott nodded solemnly. "We will root out corruption. Starting now."
Then he turned to Dorian and whispered, "Where do we start?"
"Probably the guy who's been muttering about 'righteous fire' near the library."
The Firebug and the Library of Doom
That afternoon, Elliott, Seraphine, and Dorian confronted the suspect: a hunched librarian named Ulric, who looked like he'd once dated a dust bunny and lost.
"I have nothing to hide!" Ulric protested, holding a flaming quill.
"You're literally holding fire," Dorian said.
"It's symbolic," Ulric snapped.
"Symbolic of arson," Seraphine deadpanned.
After some gentle interrogation (involving firm tea and passive-aggressive note-passing), Ulric broke.
"They approached me! Left letters in the tax scrolls. Promised me a librarian kingdom of my own!"
"That's not a thing," Elliott said.
"I wanted to call it 'Booksylvania!'"
Dorian patted him on the shoulder. "Dream big. Commit small crimes."
Midnight Revelations
That night, Elliott sat alone in the map room. Again. This time, he wasn't asleep. Just dramatically brooding.
He studied the coin. The rose. The spider.
Then he turned it over. Something new caught his eye.
A carving. Tiny. A sigil.
A crest with three serpents.
Elliott stood.
"Dorian!" he shouted. "Get Seraphine! And my boots!"
"Both boots this time?" came the reply.
"Yes. We're visiting the crypt."
The Crypt and the Secret Below
The royal crypt beneath the castle was cold, dusty, and deeply offended by sound. Torches flickered. Statues of past kings glared.
Elliott led the way with the coin in hand.
"There," he said. "That crest. On the tomb of—"
"Lord Corrick," Seraphine finished. "But he's supposed to be dead."
They opened the tomb.
It was empty.
Elliott stared.
"Okay," he said. "Someone explain how a dead traitor escaped his own tomb."
A faint whisper echoed behind them.
"You're asking the wrong question," came a voice.
They spun around.
At the far end of the crypt stood the hooded girl from before—the one who'd thrown him the coin.
She stepped into the torchlight.
"My name is Marlow," she said. "I'm Corrick's daughter."
Silence.
Elliott blinked. "...Of course you are."
End of Chapter Seven