Chapter Eight: Skeletons, Spies, and a Questionable Cupcake
If Elliott had a crown for every time someone dramatically announced a secret lineage in a crypt, he'd have… well, two crowns now. But that still felt excessive.
"You're Corrick's daughter?" he repeated, incredulous.
Marlow nodded, lowering her hood. Her hair was streaked with silver despite her youth, and her eyes were the unsettling color of storm clouds before a magical thunderstorm — the kind that smelled faintly of regret and roasted goose.
"You didn't think treason skipped a generation, did you?" she said.
"I was hoping," Elliott muttered.
Seraphine stepped forward, sword half-drawn. "Why are you here?"
Marlow held up her hands. "To help. I'm not my father. I was six when he disappeared. My mother died in exile. All I've known is running, hiding, and occasionally disguising myself as a nun. Very hard on the posture."
Dorian leaned against a crypt pillar. "So what now? You break into the royal crypt just to drop dramatic exposition?"
"Actually," she said, pulling out a rolled parchment, "I brought a map."
Elliott blinked. "A map to what?"
Marlow grinned. "To where he went. And what he's planning next."
A Brief History of Bad Ideas
Back in the palace's war chamber, the group hovered over the unrolled parchment. It smelled faintly of ink, mildew, and conspiracy.
"This is the Veil Path," Marlow said. "A hidden passage through the Shadowmere Mountains. It connects the ruins of Thornwatch to Grottenvast."
Seraphine frowned. "Those ruins are cursed. No one's returned from them in two decades."
"Except one," Marlow said. "My father."
"Of course," Elliott muttered. "Because normal evil overlords just send letters."
"Thornwatch was where the Cabal held its council. A place of secrets, illusions, and politically motivated sword fights. They say the walls themselves whisper lies."
Dorian looked up. "Isn't that just the council chamber?"
Marlow smiled faintly. "Worse. The castle sings opera at night. Badly."
A Cupcake of Uncertain Intent
Later that day, Elliott received a cupcake.
It arrived in a small satin box on his throne with a note: "Eat this if you wish to unlock your destiny. Also, it's lemon poppyseed."
Dorian poked it with a spoon. "It might be poisoned."
Seraphine poked Dorian. "You might be poisoned."
"Uncalled for."
Elliott stared at the cupcake. "It's probably just a symbolic gesture."
"You said that last time," Seraphine reminded him. "And the symbolic gesture turned out to be hallucinogenic mushroom tea."
"That talking owl was very convincing."
"The owl was real. You hallucinated the accordion duel."
Elliott frowned. "I still think I won."
Ultimately, he threw the cupcake out the window. It hit a passing scribe, who later claimed to have had a vision about a flying pastry and declared himself "Pie Prophet." He would be arrested within the hour.
Subtlety is for Cowards
"I vote we go to Thornwatch," Elliott said in the war room.
Seraphine raised an eyebrow. "That's not how votes work, Your Majesty."
"I'm the king. I'm allowed to make dramatic executive decisions."
Dorian nodded. "Can I wear a dramatic cloak?"
"No."
Marlow tapped the map. "We'll need disguises. The Cabal has eyes in every town. We can't go as royalty."
"You mean I can't wear the crown?" Elliott asked.
"You never wear the crown," Seraphine said. "It's mostly a paperweight."
"Not true. I once used it to squish a spider."
Marlow rolled her eyes. "We'll need forged identities. Travel by dusk. And possibly fake mustaches."
"I have fake mustaches," Dorian said proudly.
Everyone stared.
He shrugged. "You never know."
Three Spies and a Disastrous Play
To reach Thornwatch, they'd need to pass through Biddleford, a small town known primarily for its overly dramatic community theater.
Marlow suggested they go undercover as traveling performers.
"I can juggle," Elliott offered.
"Can you juggle without knocking yourself unconscious?" Seraphine asked.
"That's a very specific requirement."
Their plan: blend in with the troupe putting on "The Tragic Tailor of Tatterveil", a surprisingly violent three-act musical about sentient thread.
Elliott played "Villager #3," who only had one line: "The stitches! They're ALIVE!"
He delivered it with so much intensity he knocked over a prop cow.
The crowd gave a standing ovation. Elliott preened. Dorian wept with laughter. Seraphine pretended not to know them.
Backstage, Marlow handed Elliott a folded note.
"One of the townsfolk slipped this to me mid-scene," she whispered.
He opened it.
It read:
"He's watching. The mirror sees. Do not trust the flame."
Elliott looked up. "Do you think that's poetic or threatening?"
Seraphine snatched the note. "In this kingdom? Always assume both."
The Assassin in Seat 12B
As they prepared to leave town, Dorian spotted a suspicious figure in the inn's taproom—a man in a hooded cloak sipping tea far too dramatically.
Dorian casually sat beside him.
"Nice tea?" he asked.
The man grunted.
"I'm a traveling poet," Dorian said, lying smoothly. "May I recite one?"
The man shrugged.
"Here lies a man, with secrets and shade,
Drinks his tea slowly, not smartly made.
Follows a king, with murder in mind,
But finds instead… his tea's been spiced."
The man froze.
"I poisoned your sugar," Dorian said cheerfully.
"Liar."
Dorian grinned. "Am I?"
The man stood. So did Seraphine. Her sword was already at his neck.
He sneered. "You don't understand what you're chasing."
Elliott appeared behind him. "That's funny. We don't even understand our map."
The man dropped a smoke pellet and vanished in a puff of sulfur and poor decision-making. He left behind a coin.
Same rose. Same spider.
But this time?
Burned into the metal was a single word:
"Awaken."
End of Chapter Eight