A Prince Tried to Expel His Half-Brother from a Royal Arts Competition, Not Knowing the Medallion Proved His True Bloodline
News of my unexpected progress in the Grand Starlight Exhibition rippled through the Court, reaching Alaric’s ears like a discordant note in his carefully composed symphony. I could feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the sudden scrutiny in the eyes of minor officials. My modest success, which should have been celebrated as a triumph of skill, was instead being twisted into a threat.
I was in the Exhibition Hall, carefully arranging my finished piece, a sculpted rendition of the celestial dragon, when Lord Percival approached. He was a minor court official, a man whose vanity was as meticulously groomed as his mustache. He gave me a thin, practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Master Finch,” Percival said, his voice oozing false cordiality. “Your work shows… promise. For a commoner, of course.”
His casual dismissal of my talent, framing it as an exception rather than a rule, was a familiar sting. It was a small, everyday cruelty, designed to remind me of my “place.” This was Alaric’s hand at work, I knew, seeding doubt and undermining my achievements.
Percival leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Prince has expressed… certain concerns. Whispers, you understand. About your… origins.”
He gestured vaguely with a manicured hand. “Some are saying your sudden appearance is quite convenient. That your mother, Elara Finch, was perhaps… overly ambitious. That she may have used improper means to secure your place in the Exhibition.”
The rumors were specific, calculated. They painted my mother as manipulative, an opportunist who had somehow cheated the system. The image they conjured of her was a stark contrast to the loving, honorable woman I remembered, and the thought that her good name was being slandered by Alaric’s machinations filled me with a cold fury. This attempt to twist her memory into something ugly was a deep, personal cruelty.
“My mother was an honorable woman,” I stated, my voice steady despite the rising anger. “My entry was judged on its merit, under the Old King’s Edict.”
Percival chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “Oh, the Old King’s Edict. A quaint decree, rarely invoked. Some suggest your knowledge of it is… suspicious. As if you were prepped, perhaps. Given insider information.”
He was directly attacking my integrity, questioning my right to even be there. It wasn’t just about my skill anymore; it was about my very legitimacy as a competitor. The whispers were meant to isolate me, to make me an outsider even within the supposed meritocracy of the Exhibition.
“And your ‘commoner blood’,” Percival added, his tone disdainful. “Some feel it’s an affront to the noble houses. To have someone of such… unsullied lineage competing alongside true aristocrats.”
His words, while intended to wound, only strengthened my resolve. The snobbery, the blatant class prejudice, solidified my understanding of Alaric’s deeper fear. This wasn’t about my lack of noble blood; it was about the very specific, powerful royal blood that flowed through my veins, a truth he desperately wanted to keep buried.
“The Exhibition is open to all skilled citizens,” I reminded him, my gaze unwavering. “As the Edict states.”
Percival merely shrugged, a dismissive gesture. “Laws are open to interpretation, Master Finch. Especially when powerful figures have… other interests.”
He paused, then continued, his voice laced with mock sympathy. “There are also rumors about your workshop. Unfortunate accidents, perhaps. Tools gone missing. Materials spoiled. Such a shame, when one is trying to make a good impression.”
The veiled threat was unmistakable. Alaric wasn’t just spreading rumors; he was attempting to sabotage my work, to physically impede my progress. It was a cowardly act, a confirmation of his true character, resorting to petty destruction because he couldn’t compete on merit. The thought of my workshop, my sanctuary, being violated by his agents was a deep personal affront.
“The Prince, you see,” Percival said, leaning even closer, his breath smelling of sweet wine, “prefers a certain… aesthetic in the Court. And your brand of ‘rustic charm’ is not quite… it.”
He made a subtle, disparaging gesture towards my simple artisan’s tunic, as if it were an embarrassing stain. This personal jab, aimed at my appearance and my craft, was a calculated attempt to make me feel small, out of place, and unworthy. It was a petty, yet effective, form of psychological warfare.
“The judges of this Exhibition, however, value craft and originality,” I countered, refusing to rise to his bait. “Not simply noble birth.”
Percival’s smile faltered for a moment, then quickly reappeared, even more strained than before. “Indeed. But public opinion, Master Finch, can be a fickle thing. And the noble houses… they hold considerable sway.”
He straightened up, his brief performance concluded. “Just a friendly warning, of course. For your own good. Perhaps a quiet withdrawal would save you much… embarrassment.”
He gave a final, condescending nod and then glided away, melting back into the bustling crowd of courtiers and artisans. The whispers he had planted, however, lingered in the air, insidious and unsettling. They were designed to eat away at my confidence, to make me question my place, to tempt me to give up.
But instead, they stoked a quiet fire within me. Alaric’s desperation was palpable. His fear was real. The truth I carried, the Declaration of Lineage, was a weapon against his lies, a testament to my mother’s honor and my rightful place. I would not withdraw. I would not allow my mother’s memory to be slandered, nor my own identity to be denied. The subtle cruelty of their whispers would only fuel my resolve. The path ahead was fraught with obstacles, but the truth, I knew, was on my side.
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