Fatality ━━ Matt vs Chris Sturniolo²

𝖝𝖎𝖎. Certain Kinds of Feeling

[ tw: (small mention) of self-harm ]

𝖝𝖎𝖎. Certain Kinds of Feeling

Maeve

MONTHS AGO, when the Silvers fled the Hall of the Sun, frightened by a Scarlet Guard attack on their precious hall, it was a united act. They left together, as one, heading downriver in succession to regroup in the capital. This is not the same.

Chris' dismissals come in packs. Maeve's not privy to them, but she notices as the numbers dwindle. A few older advisers missing. The royal treasurer, some generals, members of various councils. Relieved of their posts, the rumors say. But she knows better. They were close to Matt, close to his father. Chris is smart not to trust them, and ruthless in their removal. He doesn't kill them or make them disappear. He's not stupid enough to trigger another house war. But it's a decisive move, to say the least. Sweeping away obstacles like pieces from a chess board. The results are feasts that look like mouths of missing teeth. Gaps appear, more with every passing day. Most of those asked to leave are older, men and women with ancient allegiances, who remember more and trust their new king less.

Some start to call it the Court of Children.

Many lords and ladies are gone, sent away by the king, but their sons and daughters are left behind. A request. A warning. A threat.

Hostages.

Not even House Silvius escapes Chris' growing paranoia. Only House Vesper remains in their entirety, not one of them falling prey to his tempestuous dismissals.

Those still here are devout in their loyalty. Or at least they make it look like it.

That's probably why he summons Maeve more now. Why she sees so much of him. She's the only one with loyalties he can trust. The only one he really knows.

He reads reports over their breakfast, eyes skimming back and forth with blistering speed. It's useless to try to see what they are. He's careful to keep them to his side of the table, turned over when finished, and well out of Maeve's reach. Instead of reading the reports, she has to read him. He doesn't bother to surround himself with Silent Stone, not here in his private dining room. Even the Sentinels wait outside, posted at every door and on the other side of the tall windows. Maeve sees them, but they can't hear her and Chris, as is the boy king's design. His uniform jacket is unbuttoned, his hair unkempt, and he doesn't put on his crown this early in the morning. She thinks this is his little sanctuary, a place where he can trick himself into feeling safe.

He almost looks like the boy she imagined. A second prince, content with his place, unburdened by a crown that was never his.

Over the rim of her water glass, Maeve watches every tick and flash across his face. Narrowed eyes, a tightening jaw. Bad news. The dark circles have returned, and while he eats enough for two people, tearing through the plates before them, he seems thinned by the days. Maeve wonders if he has nightmares of the assassination attempt. Nightmares of Astraea, dead by the Deuveux's hand. His father, dead by his action. His brothers, in exile but a constant threat. Funny, Chris called himself Matt's shadow, but Matt is the shadow now, haunting every corner of Chris' fragile kingdom.