The King is dead.
The doctor speaks of unclear cause, of uncertainty fuelling suspicion. He will soon share my belief that Father’s death was painfully natural. I’ve found a blade will clear the foggiest of minds.
“Do not mourn, son,” Mother says. A strategically released tear does not go unnoticed.
My subjects, too long given their ruler’s ear, must be reminded of the order of things; they’re to be ruled, not consorted with. Father lost track of this.
A reminder is needed.
So, my first duty: take care of the alchemist. Publicly. A lifeless tongue cannot slip.
Long live the King.