Chapter 1

The hall was a place of power, where banners of gold and crimson hung heavy with history, their edges fraying under the weight of years. King Albert sat on his carved oak throne, crowned with the heads of roaring lions. Though his hair was as white as a winter field, his eyes had not dulled; they burned with the intensity of a man who had lived through rebellion, famine, and war.

Below him knelt five men, hands bound with thick ropes, faces pale as ash. The accused, dressed in the faded finery of minor lords, seemed to shrink beneath the weight of the king’s gaze.

Lord Wetherby, the eldest and most brazen of the conspirators, raised his head. His jowls quivered as he spoke, his voice thin and desperate. “Your Grace,” he began, his words faltering, “our intent was not to harm the prince but to safeguard the realm. His… reforms threaten all we have built. The nobility—”

“Are no more sacred than the dirt beneath my boots,” King Albert interrupted, his voice like the cracking of old ice. “You sought to murder Harrold, the last of my blood, the future of this kingdom, merely months after the death of his beloved sister, Princess Charlotte. Tell me, Lord Wetherby, where is the justice in treachery?”

Wetherby faltered, his lips trembling. The other conspirators made no attempt to defend themselves.

Prince Harrold stood beside his grandfather, his broad frame clad in simple yet elegant black. The prince had grown into a figure of legend: taller than most men, with shoulders wide as a yoke. His hands rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, the image of a warrior tempered by wisdom. But there was no triumph in his expression as he watched the men who had plotted his death.

“This kingdom has bled for centuries under the weight of your greed,” Harrold said, his voice calm but cutting. “The peasants starve while your coffers overflow. I will not apologize for returning to them what is theirs by right.”

The hall murmured. The nobles who had gathered to witness the sentencing exchanged uneasy glances.

King Albert raised a hand, silencing the crowd. “The sentence for treason is death. Take them to the block. Let their blood be a lesson to those who would betray the crown.”

As the guards dragged the condemned men from the hall, Harrold turned to his grandfather. “This will not end with their deaths,” he said quietly.

King Albert nodded, his expression grim. “No, it will not. That is why you must have someone you can trust at your side.”

Arthur’s Summons

The training yard smelled of sweat and earth, the sharp tang of iron in the cold air. Arthur Winfield was practicing drills with his fellow squires, his wooden blade moving with precision. At five feet ten, he was neither the tallest nor the strongest, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in speed.

“Arthur!”

He turned to see Ser Gareth, his father, striding across the yard. The elder knight wore his age like a badge of honor—his face lined, his armor battered but meticulously clean.

“Father,” Arthur said, lowering his sword.

Ser Gareth’s expression was unreadable as he approached. “Come with me. The king has summoned you.”

Arthur froze. “The king?”

Ser Gareth nodded. “It is an honor, but also a great responsibility. Do not shame me, boy.”

The journey to the royal chambers felt like a dream. Arthur’s mind raced with possibilities, none of them comforting. When they reached the heavy oak doors, Ser Gareth placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll do well,” his father said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Remember your training. And speak only when spoken to.”

Arthur nodded, though his stomach churned with nerves.

The Prince and the Food Tester

The royal dining hall was unlike anything Arthur had ever seen. Its vaulted ceilings soared like the heavens, adorned with frescoes of battles long won. Chandeliers of wrought iron held dozens of flickering candles, casting golden light over the vast room. The scent of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread made his mouth water, though he dared not show it.

Prince Harrold was already seated at the high table, a goblet of wine in one hand and a half-eaten leg of lamb in the other. He looked every bit the warrior prince: his tunic strained against his broad chest, his dark hair fell in loose waves, and his eyes—cold and calculating—fixed on Arthur the moment he entered.

“This is the boy?” Harrold asked, his voice carrying across the hall.

Arthur swallowed hard and stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace. I am Arthur Winfield, son of Ser Gareth.”

Harrold’s gaze swept over him, lingering on his slender frame. “You’re smaller than I expected.”

Arthur’s cheeks flushed, but he stood tall. “I may be small, Your Grace, but I am quick.”

Harrold barked a laugh, the sound deep and genuine. “Quick, eh? Let’s hope so. I’d hate to lose a food tester on his first day.”

The assembled nobles chuckled, but Arthur felt no relief.

“Come closer,” Harrold said, gesturing to the seat beside him.

Arthur obeyed, his heart pounding. Before him was a table laden with food: steaming pies, roasted pheasants, platters of fruit glistening with honey. It was enough to feed a village, yet Harrold was already reaching for another helping.

“You’ll taste everything before I do,” Harrold said, his tone casual. “The lords of the court have developed an unfortunate habit of lacing my meals with poison. You’ll make sure I survive the night.”

Arthur stared at the table, his stomach twisting. He was not afraid of poison—he trusted the king’s guard to ensure his safety. No, it was the sheer volume of food that terrified him. How was he supposed to eat even half of it?

The prince leaned closer, his voice dropping. “If you fail, Arthur, I’ll be forced to find another tester. And I’d rather not have to explain to my betrothed why I arrived at the altar looking like a corpse.”

Arthur blinked. “Your betrothed, Your Grace?”

Harrold smirked. “Princess Caroline of Bouvier. A beauty with fair and soft skin, gold hair and welcoming green eyes. A delicate flower, they call her. Though I suspect she has thorns.”

The prince’s words hung in the air as Arthur reached for the first dish, his hands trembling. The weight of his task was suddenly very real—and very heavy.