Chapter 57: The Architect

Luxury cars rolled through the palace gates as the council meeting finally came to an end, carrying ministers and council members back to their respective homes. Chauffeurs opened doors, council members exchanged brief farewells, and engines hummed to life beneath the fading afternoon sun as the vehicles pulled away from the palace grounds in a steady stream, disappearing down the long private drive beyond the main gates.

Near the sweeping grand fountain, Prime Minister Jonathan Ashcroft stood in quiet conversation with another council member. The two men spoke in low voices as the remaining members of the council moved around them, making their way toward their waiting vehicles.

"Prime Minister."

Jonathan turned at the sound of his title to see Field Marshal Lord Thompson approaching, his posture stiff and his expression grim. The Prime Minister offered him a polite nod. "Field Marshal."

"May I have a word with you?"

Jonathan glanced toward the council member he had been speaking with. "If you’ll excuse us."

The man inclined his head respectfully before taking his leave and heading toward his own vehicle. Ashcroft then turned his full attention to Thompson, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket. ℴℴ𝘮

"Field Marshal Thompson. What can I do for you?"

Thompson wasted no time, diving straight in. "I’ve been wondering something."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

​"Why are you defending Prince Basil so fiercely?"

​

The Prime Minister’s expression remained unchanged. Thompson continued. "Is it because he is engaged to your daughter? Is that what this is about, Jonathan?"

Before the Prime Minister could speak, Thompson pressed on, his expression hardening. "You have to know that I only have the interest of the crown and the throne at heart. I am not pointing fingers blindly. Everyone knows the circumstances are suspicious. Prince Basil is the only one who stands to gain from this, and he knows his claim to the throne is fragile now that the true heir has returned. He had every motive to remove Darius from the picture."

​A faint smile touched Jonathan’s lips. "I thought we were past these childish accusations."

​Thompson’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as irritation flared across his face. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Ashcroft cut him off smoothly.

"You’re a military man, Field Marshal. Tell me, when evidence seems too perfect, what do you call that?" Thompson opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, Jonathan answered for him. "A setup. That’s what I call it."

The Prime Minister’s voice was calm, entirely unbothered by the Field Marshal’s glare. "I am not defending Prince Basil. I am defending the stability of the throne. This is hardly the time for the council to tear itself apart with baseless infighting." He stepped closer, his demeanor shifting into something colder, more sharp.

"The kingdom is already unstable. The real Crown Prince lies unconscious. The royal family is grieving. The council is divided. The last thing we need is a witch hunt driven by assumptions. Any suspicions or allegations must wait until the investigation yields hard, undeniable proof of who set this in motion."

His eyes sharpened. "And do not bring my daughter into this. Her engagement is to the Crown Prince of this kingdom. Whoever holds that title holds that arrangement, whether it is Prince Basil or Prince Darius. My concern is preserving the institution, not choosing which prince occupies the title."

The Prime Minister took a step forward, leaning in slightly with a calm, almost mocking smile. "Instead of using council meetings to throw accusations at a grieving prince, perhaps you should put your position as the Field Marshal of the Royal Armed Forces to actual use. If anyone should be helping uncover the truth, it should be you." A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Surely a man entrusted with protecting the kingdom can do better than pointing fingers and playing detective in front of the King."

Thompson’s expression darkened.

Without waiting for a reply, Jonathan offered a tight, dismissive smile. "Have a nice day, Field Marshal." With that, he turned and walked away.

The Field Marshal stood rigid with restrained anger, watching Prime Minister Ashcroft glide toward his car. His chauffeur immediately opened the rear door of a waiting sedan, and he stepped inside. Moments later, the vehicle was pulling away from the palace grounds, disappearing beyond the gates. Slowly, a dark, cold smirk spread across Thompson’s face as the sedan disappeared from view.

"Everything is proceeding exactly as planned."

He muttered under his breath and turned, striding toward his own armored military sedan. One of his aides hurried over and quickly opened the rear door. "Field Marshal."

Thompson nodded once before sliding into the back seat, the door shutting with a solid thud.

The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. "Where to, sir?"

Thompson settled comfortably into the leather seat with a satisfied sigh. "Take me to my private residence."

"Yes, Field Marshal." The engine rumbled to life, and the sedan sped out of the palace courtyard.

*****

The armored sedan rolled through the private roads leading away from the city center, its dark frame cutting through the afternoon traffic with ease. As the vehicle approached the outskirts of the capital, the scenery gradually changed. Towering government buildings and crowded streets gave way to sprawling estates hidden behind high walls and dense rows of carefully maintained trees. Several minutes later, the sedan turned onto a long, winding driveway paved with polished black stone.

Ahead stood Thompson’s private residence.

The mansion rose from the center of the vast estate like a fortress disguised as a nobleman’s home. Built from pale gray stone and dark granite, the structure stretched across several wings, its towering columns supporting balconies lined with ornate iron railings. Massive arched windows reflected the afternoon sunlight, while fountains carved into the shapes of rearing lions sent streams of crystal-clear water into the air. Manicured gardens spread across the grounds in perfect symmetry, their hedges trimmed with military precision. Rows of sculpted topiaries and ornamental shrubs bordered the walkways, giving the estate a polished, meticulously controlled appearance.

As the sedan approached the front courtyard, the large iron gates were already open.

The vehicle passed through without slowing.

The distant chirping of birds mixed with the steady splashing of fountains. Security personnel stationed throughout the property immediately straightened to attention as the sedan passed, their polished boots clicking together. The car finally came to a smooth stop beneath the grand portico at the front entrance. A soldier dressed in crisp tactical fatigues hurried down the marble steps and opened the rear door.

"Field Marshal."

Thompson stepped out without a word.

The soles of his polished shoes clicked sharply against the stone pavement. Almost immediately, the guards stationed around the entrance snapped into formal salutes.

"Field Marshal."

Their voices echoed as one across the courtyard.

Thompson acknowledged them with a brief nod and continued forward. The enormous double doors at the entrance swung open before he reached them. Warm light spilled from the mansion’s interior, illuminating gleaming marble floors and towering crystal chandeliers hanging from ceilings several stories high. Expensive paintings lined the walls between gold-trimmed pillars, while thick crimson carpets stretched through the halls.

As soon as he stepped inside, a middle-aged butler waiting near the entrance bowed deeply.

"Welcome back, Field Marshal."

Thompson removed his gloves as he walked.

The butler quickly fell into step behind him.

"Field Marshal," he said respectfully, "he’s been waiting in your study."

"I see." A faint smile touched Thompson’s lips, but he didn’t slow his stride.

The butler lowered his head. "Shall I inform him that you’ve arrived?"

"No." Thompson handed over his gloves without breaking stride. "I’ll see him myself."

"Understood, Field Marshal."

Leaving the butler behind, Thompson continued deeper into the mansion. His footsteps echoed softly through the vast corridors as he made his way toward the east wing, where his private study was located. The faint smile remained on his face, growing ever so slightly as he approached the large mahogany doors waiting at the end of the hallway.

Without hesitation, he reached for the brass handle and pushed one of the doors open.

The study beyond was spacious and dimly lit, its walls lined with towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk of dark polished wood dominated the center of the room, while floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the estate grounds beyond.

A figure was already waiting.

Seated comfortably in one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, the man sat with one leg crossed over the other, a glass of amber liquid resting loosely in his hand. He looked completely at ease, as though he owned the room rather than being a guest in it.

The moment the door opened, his gaze lifted.

A crooked smile spread across his face.

"Took you long enough," he drawled, swirling the drink in his glass before taking a leisurely sip.

Thompson closed the heavy door behind him, the latch catching with a soft click. He stepped farther into the study, taking his time to unbutton his dress coat before draping it over the high back of a leather armchair.

"You’ll forgive the delay," he replied smoothly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Manipulating fools requires a certain amount of patience."