Alexander scrolled through the trending page, bemused. “People are calling me the Meme King of Caledonia.”
Sebastian lounged on the windowsill, sipping his third coffee like a man who’d just survived—and enjoyed—combat. “Betterthan the Hypocrite King.”
“You think it worked?”
“Sort of. We didn’t win,” Sebastian said. “But we made them look stupid. Which means we bought time.”
Alexander exhaled, some tension leaving his shoulders. “So we live to meme another day.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The monarchy, he thought, was no longer a matter of bloodlines and duty. It was hashtags and headlines. And he was still learning how to survive it.
Sebastian raised his cup. “Long live the petty monarchy.”
24
Burn the Bridge, Salt the Earth, Block the Number
There was a specific kind of quiet at the Hawthorne Estate.
Not the soft, pastoral kind with birdsong and rustling trees. No, this was curated silence. A stillness designed to sharpen the mind and unsettle the nerves. The sort of quiet you only heard in rooms filled with expensive secrets and decades of unspoken power.
Lord Charles Hawthorne, Earl of Avondale, stood at the tall windows of his study, watching fog roll in over the northern gardens like an accusation. His posture was straight, hands clasped behind his back, whiskey untouched on the sideboard.
Behind him, his assistant Miles hovered awkwardly, holding a tablet like it might bite him.
“They’re calling him the ‘Meme King of Caledonia,’” Miles said.
“Are they,” Hawthorne murmured.
“#RoyalRizz is trending. Apparently it started as a joke, but it’s taken off. There are shirts.”
“Shirts.”
“With crown emojis.”
Hawthorne didn’t turn. “And the story?”
“Dead in the water. Everyone’s laughing about it.Deux-Luxecalled it ‘thefirst time palace comms didn’t feel like a funeral.’The Gilded Mirrorran a follow-up piece accusing themselves of overreacting.”
Hawthorne was silent for a beat.
Then, very softly, “That meme.”
Miles shifted. “It was Sebastian. Had to be. The tone was pure Sebastian.”
At that, Hawthorne finally turned. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp as cut obsidian.
“He’s supposed to be feeding us intel,” Hawthorne said. “Not running digital defense for the king.”
Miles cleared his throat. “But sir, there’s something else. About his recent activities…we’ve had… reports.”
“What kind of reports?”
“He’s been spending more time at the palace. Not just official visits. Late nights. Private access.” Miles paused. “—he’s also been in touch with his uncle in Paris.”
Hawthorne’s expression didn’t change. But something colder crept into the room.
“Jérôme,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”