“The Reform Coalition has announced three public gatherings. Two benign on schedule, one not yet filed with proper permits. We will not forbid lawful assembly. Democracy still means something inthis country, at least in daylight.” His jaw tightened. “We will not allow weapons in crowds. I will not have another Wapping.”
He didn't raise his voice. The room tightened anyway. Memory lived in those words. Blood on cobblestones. Funerals that made international news.
“We are revising our press choreography,” he continued, and something in his tone shifted. Softer now. The father bleeding through the king. “Shorter scrums. More controlled questions. My son is very good at disarming a room. Smiles like his mother did, makes people want to trust him even when they shouldn't.” A pause. “He is less good at respecting barricades. Or common sense. Or basic self-preservation instincts that most mammals develop by age three.”
The affection in his voice was unmistakable. Exasperation mixed with love mixed with fear.
“I noticed,” I said.
“You will keep him behind those barricades,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Gently, where possible. Firmly, if not. He responds better to reason than force, but he'll test both to see which one breaks first. Fair warning: neither has held yet.”
The King reached for a pencil and drew an X on a floor plan of the east wing, then a second X on the long west corridor. He marked a camera angle and circled a blind spot I had already clocked on my way in. His hand moved with the confidence of a man who knew his own house, who'd walked these halls in darkness and grief and probably wouldn't trust anyone else to protect them properly.
“Head of security will comply with your changes,” he said. “If he argues, send him to me. If staff resist, send them to me. If anyone gives you bureaucratic nonsense about tradition or protocol or any other excuse for incompetence, send them directly to me and I will explain exactly how much I care about their feelings.” He looked up. “I want your protocols in place by nightfall.”
The competent man sat in front of me. But the worried father stood behind his eyes, visible in the way his shoulders carried weight they couldn't put down.
“I have buried one love because of politics and pride,” he saidquietly. “Because I thought security was enough and love would keep her safe and that being king meant something when men with guns decided it didn't.” His voice roughened. “I do not intend to bury my son. I am not asking for miracles, Mr. Volkov. I am asking for discipline. For vigilance. For the thing I couldn't give her because I didn't know how much I'd need it until it was too late.”
Something in my chest twisted. Recognition. The shape of guilt that never quite fit back into the spaces it carved out.
“You will have it,” I said.
He stood, and I matched him. He led me out of the study without another word, through a run of corridors where marble did its trick of turning footsteps into ceremony. We passed a security console. He stopped long enough to sign an authorization and pressed his ring into the page, leaving a seal in red wax that looked medieval and somehow perfectly suited to a man trying to protect his son in a world that had forgotten how to be gentle.
My access level changed with one line.
“You are cleared for all service routes, roof access, mechanical rooms, and the family wing,” he said. “There are only four keys like this. My wife carried one. I carry one. Sebastian has one he doesn't know I know about.” A slight smile. “See that yours does not go walking.”
“I do not lose keys.”
He didn't smile that time, but the air between us eased by a degree. Shifted from monarch and employee to something closer to partnership. Two men with the same goal and different methods of reaching it.
We took a stair to a long gallery of portraits and glass cases. Men in medals looked down like they expected answers from the living. Dead kings judging living ones. The King didn't linger.
“We do not have time for history today,” he said. “I intend to make some instead.”
We turned through another arch and reached a set of tall doors that opened to a roofed terrace. Rain blurred the garden beyond into a watercolor of hedges and gravel. The terrace gave us a dry ledge witha good view of the courtyard below, sheltered enough to watch without being seen.
Movement cut across the square of lawn. Sebastian. No tuxedo. No cameras. No performance. He had a sweater thrown on, dark enough to make his eyes look ridiculous from this distance, green against charcoal like something out of a painting. Apollo ran circles around him with a rope in his mouth, pausing to present it to whoever would be charmed next.
The palace gardener had taken the bait. The gardener tugged once, nearly fell, laughed like he couldn't help himself. Two housemaids laughed with him. A footman tried to look stern and failed spectacularly when Apollo dropped the rope at his feet and sat with perfect posture, tail wagging hard enough to blur.
Sebastian thanked each of them like thanks cost something and he enjoyed paying. He accepted a dripping sprig of rosemary from the gardener and tucked it behind a maid's ear with a flourish that turned her face pink, made her giggle like she'd forgotten she was supposed to be working. He knelt to show a boy from the maintenance crew how to coax Apollo into a bow with a flat palm and a treat. Apollo obeyed with the enthusiasm of a dog who knew he was the star of the show. Treat vanished. Tail went mad. Everyone clapped.
“You see it,” the King said, voice low and rough with something that sounded like pride mixed with grief.
“I do.”
“Most people never do,” he said, watching his son charm the air out of a courtyard full of staff who should've been working but weren't because Sebastian had made them forget why they'd ever want to. “They get blinded by the title or the eyes or the headlines and miss the actual boy underneath. Miss the fact that he's kind when he doesn't have to be. That he remembers names. That he tips the kitchen staff at Christmas with money from his own account because he thinks I don't notice.”
The King's voice carried weight I recognized. The sound of a father who'd looked at his son and seen his wife's smile looking back.
“He is exactly like her,” he said quietly. “My wife. She could walkinto a room full of enemies and leave with allies. Could make you believe the world was better than it was just by existing in it.” A pause. “It got her killed.”
I stayed silent. Gave him space to finish.
“He will test your lines,” the King said, pulling himself back from wherever memory had taken him. “He does not test them to be cruel. He tests them to be sure they are real. That you mean what you say. That you won't break the first time he pushes.” He turned to look at me directly. “Establish your perimeter on day one and make it humane. If you humiliate him, you lose him. If you indulge him, you lose him. Find the middle ground and hold it like your life depends on it. Because his does.”
