A Royal Conspiracy #9: Christian

I sat in the library with Lola, watching afternoon light dust the leather-bound volumes with golden warmth. She'd found a first edition of Lycan poetry – a collection my great-grandmother had annotated with elegant script in the margins – and was reading passages aloud in that melodious voice that still made Leon purr with contentment. This quiet moment, stolen between meetings and responsibilities, felt like a small rebellion against the constant demands of governing in my brother's absence. I should have known better. Peace never lasts in this palace; it merely catches its breath before the next crisis arrives.

The library doors burst open without a warning knock – already unusual enough to make me straighten in my chair. My security chief stood in the doorway, his face ashen beneath his professional composure, his breathing slightly elevated. In twenty years of service, I had never seen Aleksander look anything but unflappable.

"Your Grace," he said,