Chapter 29: The Bloodline and the Stowaway

The private chambers of the Royal Princesses were designed to be a sanctuary, but to Princess Aurelia, they felt like a beautifully gilded cage.

The room was suffocatingly opulent. Heavy, crimson silk drapes blocked out the night sky, and thick, woven Mycenian rugs muffled every footstep. The air was thick with the scent of burning lavender and polished mahogany.

At the center of the room sat Eldest Princess Seraphina, twenty-two years old and the picture of royal elegance. She was quietly working a needle through an intricate embroidery hoop, her golden hair perfectly pinned. Beside her on a velvet chaise lounge lay Middle Princess Elara. At twenty, Elara was the scholar of the family, her nose buried deep in a heavy leather-bound tome on ancient agricultural yields, her spectacles sliding down her nose.

Aurelia, nineteen, was doing none of those things. Still wearing her muddy leather riding trousers and tunic, she was pacing the length of the room like a trapped leopard.

“You are going to wear a hole through the carpet, Aurelia,” Seraphina said gently, not looking up from her needlework.

“I cannot stand it,” Aurelia groaned, throwing her hands up. “The whole kingdom is fracturing, the treasury is empty, and what are we doing? Sewing flowers and reading dead men’s thoughts! Father treats us like we are made of spun glass. He treats Julian even worse.”

Elara flipped a page in her book. “Julian is the Crown Prince. He is seventeen. Father is merely ensuring the heir reaches his majority safely. You know why he is like this, Aurelia. We all do.”

The room fell completely silent. The mention of their father’s overprotectiveness always led back to the same dark, unspeakable tragedy.

Ten years ago, the Cynthia Kingdom was struck not by armies, but by the “Crimson Fever”—a brutal, highly contagious airborne plague. The Royal Physicians, relying on primitive bloodletting, leeches, and burning herbal smoke, were completely powerless against it. Within a week, the fever claimed Queen Eleanor and their eldest brother, the original Crown Prince Arthur.

King Regis had watched his wife and heir drown in their own fluids while the greatest doctors in the land guessed at remedies. That catastrophic failure of medicine had shattered the King. From that day on, he locked the remaining children behind the castle walls, terrified that the outside world would take them too.

“I know,” Aurelia said, her voice softening with grief. “I miss Mother and Arthur every day. But locking us away doesn’t honor them. And I am not going to rot in this tower any longer.”

Aurelia stopped pacing and looked at her sisters, her green eyes flashing with rebellious fire. “I am leaving the capital tonight.”

Seraphina stabbed her finger with her needle. “Ouch! Aurelia, what are you talking about?”

“Uncle Balmarrat brought a weapon to the garden today,” Aurelia whispered, leaning in. “A bow that folds in half, made of laminated wood. It punched through a steel-plate dummy like it was parchment. He said it was made by three brothers in Dian Village. Geniuses who are industrializing the eastern border.”

“Industrializing?” Elara asked, finally closing her book. “That requires massive capital and resource management. Commoners don’t have that.”

“That is exactly what I want to see,” Aurelia grinned. “Uncle Balmarrat’s caravan leaves for the East at midnight. I am going to sneak aboard. I want to see this evolution with my own eyes.”

“Are you insane?” Seraphina gasped, standing up. “Father will have the Royal Guard tear the province apart! You cannot just stow away in a supply cart!”

“I have to, Sera,” Aurelia said fiercely. “If we are to rule and support Julian one day, we need to know what the real world looks like. I am going.”

✽✽✽✽✽✽

Three floors below, in the King’s private guest chamber, the atmosphere was vastly different.

The guest chamber was stripped of all royal pretense. It was a cozy, wood-paneled room heated by a roaring hearth. Two worn, overstuffed leather armchairs sat before the fire. Between them rested a low mahogany table bearing a crystal decanter of aged amber wine and two half-empty goblets.

King Regis and Duke Balmarrat Matthew sat across from each other. Without their crowns and armor, they were just two tired men feeling the ache in their bones.

Balmarrat took a deep sip of his wine, laughing a deep, rumbling laugh. “Do you remember the tavern in Oakhaven? Before the crown, before the wars. You tried to write a poem for Eleanor, and the tavern keeper threatened to throw us out because your rhyming was so offensive to his ears!”

Regis threw his head back and genuinely laughed, a sound the castle rarely heard. “I rhymed ‘beauty’ with ‘duty.’ It was a tactical error! But it worked, didn’t it? She married me anyway.”

“She married you because I broke a mercenary’s nose when he insulted her,” Balmarrat corrected with a grin. “You owe me your bloodline, Regis.”

The King smiled, staring into the flickering flames. “I do, old friend. I miss those days. We were reckless, but the world seemed so much simpler.” His smile faded, replaced by the heavy burden of the present. “Now, I am drowning in ledgers and starving peasants.”

Balmarrat set his goblet down, his demeanor shifting from nostalgic friend to military governor. “That is exactly what I need to discuss with you, Regis. The three brothers in Dian Village. The weapons are just the beginning. The eldest brother, Takuya… he is doing things with my territory’s economy that terrify me.”

Regis leaned forward, intrigued. “How so?”

“He told me to abolish all internal road tolls in my province,” Balmarrat explained.

“Abolish tolls?” the King frowned. “That is how the local lords generate revenue to maintain the roads.”

“That is what I said,” Balmarrat nodded. “But Takuya proved it mathematically. A merchant traveling from the mines to the port gets taxed five times by five different lords. To afford the tolls, the merchant raises the price of iron, making it too expensive to buy. Trade slows to a crawl. By abolishing the tolls, trade volume skyrocketed in days. The merchants are moving goods ten times faster.”

“But how does the province make money?” the King asked, his mind struggling to grasp the macroeconomics.

“A concept Takuya calls the ‘Value-Added Tax,’ or VAT,” the Duke said smoothly, relaying the lessons he had learned in the village office. “Instead of taxing the poor farmer just for existing, or the merchant just for walking on a road, Takuya taxes the profit margin. When a lumberjack sells wood to a carpenter, there is no tax. But when the carpenter turns that wood into a high-quality chair and sells it for a massive profit, the province takes a small, standardized percentage of the added value. It shifts the tax burden off the starving poor and onto the localized commercial profits.”

The King sat back, his mind racing. It was brilliant. It was so logical it almost seemed like a trick.

“And to ensure the nobles don’t hide their profits,” the Duke continued, his eyes darkening, “Takuya is building an ‘External Audit Commission.’ He uses a method called Double-Entry Bookkeeping. Every copper has to be recorded twice—once where it came from, and once where it went. If a corrupt lord tries to pocket the tax, the ledgers will not balance to absolute zero. Takuya can find embezzlement just by reading a piece of paper.”

King Regis rubbed his temples, astounded. “Balmarrat… if this man can fix your province, he could fix the entire kingdom. We need these men in the capital. We need to secure their loyalty before the Frisia Empire or the Elves try to buy them.”

The Duke took another sip of wine, a sly smile crossing his scarred face. “Well, you have three beautiful daughters, Regis. I have three genius brothers. Perhaps we should lock them in a room and see if diplomacy takes its natural course?”

The King laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Balmarrat, stop trying to play matchmaker. My daughters are royalty; these boys are commoners from the mud.”

“They will not be commoners for long,” the Duke said, his voice dropping into dead seriousness. “Regis, listen to me. These brothers are a geopolitical monopoly. The one who makes the medicine could cure the Crimson Fever. The one who makes the steel could conquer the continent. And Takuya could buy the world. If you do not tie them to your bloodline, they will eventually outgrow us.”

The King fell silent, the political reality settling over him like a heavy cloak. If the Kazuha Syndicate grew too powerful, they could simply overthrow the monarchy through sheer economic leverage. Having them as advisors, and eventually royal consorts, would secure the kingdom’s future.

A timid knock echoed on the heavy oak door.

“Enter,” the King commanded.

The door opened, and Crown Prince Julian stepped inside. At seventeen, Julian was tall but incredibly slender, his face pale from spending his entire life indoors. He wore a pristine, gold-embroidered doublet that looked like it had never seen a speck of dust.

“You summoned me, Father? Uncle Balmarrat,” Julian bowed respectfully.

The Duke looked at the boy. He loved Julian, but the Prince was painfully soft. He had never seen a starving peasant, never held a bloody sword, and never counted copper coins to buy bread.

The King looked at Balmarrat, and a silent, profound understanding passed between the two old friends.

“Julian,” the King said slowly. “Duke Matthew is returning to the Eastern Province tonight. And you are going with him.”

Julian’s eyes widened in absolute shock. “Father? Truly? But… my tutors—”

“Your tutors cannot teach you what you need to know to be a King,” Regis interrupted gently. “You are going to Dian Village. You are going to meet these three brothers. But you will not go as the Crown Prince.”

Balmarrat grinned, catching the King’s drift. “Of course not. A Crown Prince traveling the roads would attract assassins. You will travel incognito. From this moment on, your name is ‘Jules.’ You are a lowly, orphaned apprentice scribe assigned to my assistant, Alistair.”

Alistair, who was standing quietly in the corner of the room, suddenly choked on his own saliva. “M-My Lord? I am to supervise His Royal Highness?”

“You are to supervise Jules,” the Duke corrected. “And Jules needs to look the part. Alistair, go find the boy some coarse wool and a pair of worn boots. We leave at midnight.”

Julian’s face flushed with an intoxicating mix of terror and absolute thrill. “Yes, Uncle! I will not fail you, Father!”

✽✽✽✽✽✽

The midnight air was biting cold as Duke Balmarrat’s reinforced carriage rumbled out of the capital’s iron gates, its suspension creaking under the weight of the supply trunks strapped to the roof.

Inside the dimly lit cabin, the atmosphere was tense.

Julian—now “Jules”—was squirming uncomfortably on the padded bench. He was dressed in a scratchy, oversized wool tunic and scuffed leather boots.

“Stop fidgeting, Jules,” the Duke commanded gently. “Commoners do not squirm; they endure.”

“It itches terribly, Uncle,” Julian whispered, scratching his neck. “Are you certain these clothes were washed?”

“Probably not,” Alistair muttered from the opposite seat, clutching his ledger like a shield. The poor assistant looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, terrified that the heir to the kingdom might catch a cold under his watch.

As the carriage navigated the dark, forested roads toward the east, the Duke began explaining the harsh realities of the territory to Julian. He talked about the iron quotas, the fear of the Dwarven tunnels, and the desperate need for Kaguya’s hospital. Julian listened with rapt attention, his sheltered mind expanding with every mile.

Three hours into the journey, the carriage slowed to a halt.

“We are stopping at the Boar & Barrel Inn,” the Duke announced, peering out the window at a large, fortified tavern on the roadside. “It is owned by Baron Harford, one of my most trusted bannermen. We will change the horses quickly and grab hot tea. Do not speak to anyone, Jules.”

As the Duke and Alistair reached for the door handle, a strange sound echoed inside the carriage.

Grooooaaan.

The Duke froze, his hand on his sword hilt. He looked at Julian. “Did you make that noise, boy?”

“No, Uncle,” Julian whispered, his eyes wide.

Above them, strapped tightly to the interior upper luggage rack—a wooden shelf designed for holding heavy winter cloaks and backup leather horse leashes—a large, red canvas sack began to writhe.

Alistair shrieked, backing into the carriage door.

The red sack shifted violently to the edge of the rack. With a heavy thud, the sack tumbled off the shelf, hitting the carriage floor in a heap of canvas and leather straps.

The Duke drew his dagger, ready to impale whatever assassin had sneaked aboard.

The top of the sack loosened, and a head of messy, auburn hair poked out. Princess Aurelia, her face smeared with dust and smelling strongly of horse sweat and old leather, dragged herself out of the canvas. She rubbed her bruised shoulder, blinking in the dim lantern light.

“By the Gods, my spine is shattered,” Aurelia groaned, rubbing her lower back. She looked up. “Are we there yet, Uncle?”

Duke Balmarrat’s jaw hit the floor. Alistair looked like he was going to faint.

Aurelia finally opened her eyes fully. She froze. Sitting directly across from her, wearing an incredibly itchy, oversized peasant tunic, was her younger brother.

Julian stared at her in absolute shock.

Aurelia stared back.

“Julian?” Aurelia whispered, thoroughly confused. “Why are you dressed like a potato farmer?”

“Aurelia?!” Julian yelped. “Why were you in a sack of horse leashes?!”

The Duke slowly lowered his dagger, pinching the bridge of his nose as a massive headache began to form behind his eyes. He had left the capital to escape the royal family, and somehow, he had accidentally stolen half of the bloodline.