A Prince Tried to Expel His Half-Brother from a Royal Arts Competition, Not Knowing the Medallion Proved His True Bloodline
Lord Percival’s self-congratulatory smirk deepened as Lord Eldrin, the lead judge, hesitated, clearly unnerved by the “ancient” decree. Alaric watched from his seat, a viperous gleam in his eyes, basking in the havoc he had wrought. The other guild masters were shouting protests, their anger a rising tide against Percival’s smug pronouncements. It was a moment of profound injustice, a calculated destruction of reputations and livelihoods.
“This cannot stand!” Master Borin roared, pounding his fist on the table. “This decree is a fabrication! An insult to centuries of honest work!”
Percival merely raised a hand, attempting to silence the room. “Order, gentlemen! The law is the law, however inconvenient it may be.”
Just as Lord Eldrin seemed on the verge of accepting the fraudulent decree, a clear, authoritative voice cut through the chaos.
“Perhaps,” the voice said, “Lord Percival could enlighten us as to which specific register holds this decree’s original entry.”
Lady Seraphina stepped forward from the back of the room, her presence radiating a quiet, formidable intelligence. She held a scroll of her own, significantly smaller and less ornate than Percival’s, but handled with a confidence that spoke of undeniable truth. Her arrival felt like a sudden shift in the wind, a beacon of hope in a storm of lies.
“And perhaps,” Seraphina continued, her eyes fixed on Percival, “he could explain why this decree, supposedly so devastating, remains absent from every known official compilation of royal edicts and prohibitions, ancient and modern.”
Percival’s face, which had been flushed with triumph, now drained of color. He visibly swallowed, his gaze darting to Alaric, who now looked as startled as everyone else. The sudden challenge had caught them completely off guard. This was a specific, public humiliation, designed to dismantle their carefully constructed lie in real time.
“Lady Seraphina,” Percival stammered, “this is not your concern. This is a matter of judicial review.”
“It is entirely my concern, Lord Percival,” Seraphina countered, her voice unwavering. “As Royal Chronicler, it is my duty to ensure the accurate recording and interpretation of the realm’s history and its laws. And the Royal Edicts, sir, are my particular specialty.”
She unrolled her own, smaller scroll with a flourish. “The ancient charter of the Stonehaven Guild, dating to the founding of the Court of Starlight, explicitly outlines its rights and privileges. It also details any and all historical prohibitions levied against it. And nowhere, in its original text, nor in any subsequent amendment, is there any mention of an ‘unredressed slight’ or a ban from royal exhibitions.”
She held up her scroll, its parchment clearly bearing the official seals of verification. “Indeed, the only specific prohibition ever placed upon the Stonehaven Guild,” Seraphina stated, her voice ringing with authority, “was a minor restriction on the use of imported dyes during wartime, which was lifted over two centuries ago. An entirely different matter, I assure you.”
Her words were precise, her knowledge undeniable. She had not only exposed the falsity of Percival’s decree but had also provided the genuine historical context, making his lie all the more blatant. The other guild masters began to murmur, not in anger now, but in relieved understanding.
“Furthermore,” Seraphina pressed on, stepping closer to Percival, “this specific decree you present, Lord Percival, bears a peculiar anachronism. The seal, while appearing ancient, is of a design discontinued after the reign of King Theron’s father. A subtle, yet undeniable, inconsistency for those familiar with the true chronology of royal seals.”
She pointed to a minute detail on the wax seal of Percival’s parchment. Her astute observation, drawing on obscure historical details, demolished any lingering doubt. The forgery was exposed, not just as a lie, but as a clumsy, ill-conceived one. This was a public unmasking, a complete and utter professional disgrace for Percival.
Percival’s face was now a mask of horror. He stammered, unable to form a coherent response. He cast another desperate, pleading look at Alaric, but the Prince remained stone-faced, his earlier triumph replaced by cold, simmering rage. Alaric had been outmaneuvered, his scheme undone by a historian’s meticulous knowledge. The visible crack in Alaric’s composure was deeply satisfying, a moment of justice against his casual cruelty.
“It would appear, Lord Percival,” Lord Eldrin said, his voice now laced with stern disapproval, “that this decree is not only unsubstantiated by official records, but is in fact, a crude forgery.”
He fixed Percival with a scathing look. “To present such a fabrication to the Royal Exhibition, and to attempt to invalidate the rights of honest artisans, is a grave offense. One that carries severe penalties.”
Percival began to hyperventilate, his carefully cultivated facade crumbling completely. He was exposed, ruined. His pathetic attempt to gain Alaric’s favor had backfired spectacularly, costing him far more than he had gained. The look of sheer terror on his face was almost pitiable, if not for the widespread damage he had been willing to inflict.
“As for the Silverpine Artisans Guild,” Lord Eldrin announced, turning to me, his voice now firm and clear, “your participation in the Grand Starlight Exhibition remains entirely valid. Master Finch, your craft, and that of your guild, are hereby reinstated, with our apologies for this… unpleasantness.”
A wave of relief washed over me. Seraphina’s intervention had saved not only my place in the competition but also the reputations and livelihoods of countless others. It was a powerful demonstration of the truth’s ability to prevail, even against the machinations of power. Her quick thinking and deep knowledge were invaluable.
Alaric, his face contorted with suppressed fury, pushed back from his chair and stormed out of the chambers without a word, his royal privilege allowing him to avoid public accountability for the moment. But his defeat was undeniable. The physical act of him storming out, unable to face the consequences, spoke volumes.
Seraphina offered me a small, knowing smile. “It seems, Master Finch,” she said, her voice quiet, “that some stories are harder to suppress than others.”
Her words carried a double meaning, acknowledging not only the immediate victory against Percival’s forgery but also hinting at the larger, deeper truth about my own lineage. She had defended me, saved my guild, and in doing so, had proven herself a formidable ally. The weight of the medallion beneath my tunic felt lighter now, buoyed by the prospect of truth prevailing.
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