I smiled. Waved. Said all the right things about reform and unity and hope for the future. Controlled the narrative the way I'd been trained to since childhood.
Viktor stood behind me, just off to my left. Close enough to move fast if needed. Far enough to stay out of the shots. I'd positioned him there deliberately. Wanted him visible enough to remind people I took security seriously, but not so close he'd be a distraction.
“Your Highness, what do you say to critics who claim the crown is out of touch with working-class struggles?”
I turned toward the journalist who asked, already knowing whichangle would play best. Humble acknowledgment, forward-looking promise, specific enough to sound real without committing to anything concrete.
“I would say they are not entirely wrong. I would also say we are listening. Real reform takes time. It takes partnerships with people on the ground, not just speeches in pretty rooms.”
Perfect. Give them the soundbite they wanted while maintaining control of the message.
Pens scratched. Flashes popped. More questions, more heat, more choreography I'd mastered years ago.
I caught Viktor's reflection in a camera lens. He hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. Just watched with that inhuman calm that most people found intimidating.
I found it useful. A bodyguard who looked like he could kill you with his pinky finger made certain types of journalists think twice about getting aggressive.
“Your Highness, a follow-up on reform,” another voice cut in. “Will the palace meet with the Reform Coalition leaders this week or is the crown still refusing dialogue?”
I'd been expecting this one. Had the answer prepared before the question finished.
“We meet with many groups. Some publicly, some privately. I support lawful protest. I do not support violence dressed up as progress. If a group's platform is jobs and safety, we will talk. If it is intimidation and blood, the conversation ends.”
Firm. Clear. The kind of line that would quote well and shut down follow-ups.
A ripple of raised hands. I selected the next question with a glance, pointing to a woman in the second row I recognized as generally sympathetic.
“Prince Sebastian, the docks,” she called. “There were multiple fatalities in Belmont last night. The Met says a vigilante interfered. Do you condemn that interference and do you have any knowledge of who this archer might be?”
My expression cooled by exactly one degree. Calculated. Practiced. The face of someone taking a serious question seriously.
“I saw the same reports you did this morning. I have no knowledge beyond the public briefings. I trust Detective Chief Inspector Akintola and his officers to do their jobs. As to vigilantism, I will be very clear. London's safety is not a game for amateurs. Anyone with information should take it to the police.”
The irony of condemning myself publicly wasn't lost on me. But this was how you controlled a narrative. Get ahead of it. Define the terms.
A murmur rolled through the pack. Someone pushed forward, trying to get closer for a better shot. I saw it coming before it happened. Saw the photographer's weight shift. Saw the gap closing.
I didn't flinch. Didn't step back. Just adjusted my stance slightly, opening the angle for Viktor to move if needed while maintaining my position.
Viktor moved exactly as I'd anticipated. One step. Smooth as water. His hand came up, palm open, blocking the aggressive lens without touching the photographer. His body angled between me and the surge.
I felt the heat of his arm brush my shoulder. Noted it. Filed it away. Stayed exactly where I was because retreating would look weak on camera.
“Your Highness,” a man called from the far end. “If the reformists are planning mass action next month, will the crown authorize harsher measures? Curfews? Riot control?”
I let the question hang for just a beat. Long enough to look thoughtful. Short enough to maintain momentum.
“The right to assemble is not the right to harm your neighbor. We will always protect the city first. That means dialogue where possible and firm action where necessary. I hope for the former. We are prepared for the latter.”
Another voice, sharper. An agitator trying to provoke. “Do you accept that the crown's policies helped create this anger? That the movement exists because people feel ignored?”
I'd been waiting for this one too. The accusation wrapped in a question. The attempt to make me defensive.
I didn't take the bait.
“I accept that anger does not appear in a vacuum. It is on leaders to hear what is real and answer it with more than slogans. It is also on leaders to draw lines. Guns on our streets are not policy. Pipe bombs are not debate. Anyone who brings that to London will face the full weight of the law.”
The response was perfect. Acknowledged the concern without accepting blame. Pivoted to law and order. Gave them nothing to twist.
