Chapter 25: A Court of Ash and Teeth

London smelled of fog, horse piss, and power. It choked the senses, a blend of soot and clove that lingered even behind the closed windows of Nathaniel Wycliffe's carriage.

Nathaniel Wycliffe rode through the city's crowded thoroughfares like a shadow wrapped in mystery. His carriage bore no family crest, by choice. The streets were teeming with merchants, lords, and gutter filth alike, but Nathaniel barely spared them a glance. The only sign of his tension was the slow clenching of his gloved hand on his cane, leather creaking faintly in the otherwise silent carriage.

The wheels clattered over cobblestone as the Duke of Wycliffe leaned against the leather seat, silent as ever, his sharp profile shadowed by the early dusk.

Outside, the banners of the king's city hung heavy in the spring air gold-threaded lions dulled with grime. Soldiers lined the steps of Whitehall Palace, their silver buttons glinting like the edge of a blade. It was not ceremony that summoned them, but fear.

The king was dying.

The carriage stopped. Nathaniel stepped out with no fanfare. His coat was dark navy, his boots shined to a mirror. He had brought no entourage save his solicitor, Lucien Blackwell, who trailed him quietly like a shadow.

A steward bowed low, eyes darting with nerves. "Your Grace. The Council is expecting you in the Privy Chamber."

Nathaniel gave a single nod, not a word wasted. He didn't need to speak. He was Wycliffe cold, calculating, and long feared by the men who now awaited him inside.

The Privy Chamber

The room was warm with firelight and tension. Walnut panels and velvet drapes surrounded a group of grim-faced men gathered around a long table: dukes, earls, bishops, and the Lord Chancellor himself, whose rings gleamed as he pressed fingers to his temple.

The King's Seal lay untouched at the head of the table.

Nathaniel strode in without a word, his boots clicking sharply on the marble floor. Heads turned. Silence followed like a bowstring pulled taut.

"So," muttered the Lord Chancellor, "Wycliffe graces us with his silence."

Nathaniel remained standing. "I didn't come to exchange pleasantries."

A few smiles flickered uneasy ones.

Lucien took a place behind his master, hands folded. He knew this play well: Nathaniel's presence was a weapon, and he wielded silence like a sword.

"The King has taken a turn," said the Bishop of Norwich. "He may not last the week."

"And the heir?" Nathaniel asked, voice like a rasp of stone.

"Still missing," another lord muttered. "Off in the colonies, last we heard. No word for months."

"So no clear succession."

"Only factions," said the Lord Chancellor.

That was the truth of it. The court was dividing splintering along lines drawn in blood and ambition. The Queen's supporters whispered for a regency. Others, more ruthless, eyed the throne with open hunger.

Nathaniel remained impassive, though he noted every name that spoke too quickly, every glance exchanged between allies. His father had taught him once: you don't speak to win power. You watch.

"You've been absent from court, Wycliffe," the Chancellor said pointedly.

"I've been building the only fortune in this room not tied to the Crown's dying breath," Nathaniel replied coldly.

The Bishop made a faint sound of protest, but fell silent under Nathaniel's stare.

Lucien stepped forward. "His Grace has remained loyal to the King. As have his fleets, his ports, and his tax ledgers. That alone buys him a voice here."

The Chancellor scowled, but he knew better than to challenge the man whose ships fed half the empire's trade.

"What do you want, Wycliffe?" asked Lord Haversham, a younger lord with eyes too quick.

Nathaniel leaned forward. "Stability."

"Yours or the Crown's?"

"I am the Crown's stability."

A beat of silence. And then murmurs.

He had said what they feared. What they needed.

Lucien slid a sealed document across the table. "His Grace is prepared to offer naval support to secure the southern coast should unrest spread."

"And in return?" asked the Chancellor warily.

Nathaniel's gaze was steady. "I want my hands on the Privy Purse."

That was the treasury. The heart of royal funding.

Murmurs turned to outrage.

"Impossible!"

"Treasonous!"

"You would ask to control..."

"I would keep the King's realm intact while the rest of you slit it open for scraps," Nathaniel said flatly. "You can fight over his bones. I'll make sure there's still a crown left to fight for."

The Chancellor stood. "You presume much."

"I never presume." Nathaniel's voice was cool as ever. "I act."

Outside, the wind smelled of smoke and coal. The city's heart beat loud and lawless beyond the palace walls. Nathaniel stood by the carriage, gloves tight over his fingers.

Lucien, his solicitor, stepped out from the shadows.

"You heard?" Nathaniel asked.

"Everything," Lucien said.

"Then prepare for war," Nathaniel said quietly. "One way or another."

He climbed into the carriage and shut the door.

Later, in his London townhouse

Night had fallen. Outside, the city still roared.

Nathaniel sat in his study, coat removed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Lord Gideon Vale poured him a glass of brandy and said nothing for a long while.

"The Queen's supporters will not take your proposal kindly," Lord Vale finally said.

"They will, when they realize I'm their only shield against what's coming."

Gideon studied his friend. "You intend to take the throne's coffers."

"I intend to ensure my name outlasts this reign. And my wife's."

Gideon blinked. "You think of her now?"

Nathaniel didn't answer. His gaze drifted toward the dark window. For a moment, something softened.

"Make arrangements," he said quietly. "I may need to bring her to court sooner than planned."

The Queen's Chambers - Whitehall Palace

The Queen's private chambers were a sanctuary of power masquerading as grace.

High ceilings trimmed in gold. Walls of muted rose silk. A fire burned low beneath a carved marble mantel, casting the heavy air in amber light. In the center, draped in sapphire velvet and pearls, sat Queen Isolde of Ashmere - wife to a dying king, mother to a vanishing heir, and, to many, the true architect of the court's remaining sanity.

She was in her early forties, though she wore time like it feared her. Sharp-cheeked, ageless, and cold-eyed, her beauty was the kind that did not invite affection but demanded obedience.

Before her knelt Lord Mallory, her chief informant. He was lean, mouse-boned, and forever slick with nerves. Still, she kept him close. Vermin had their uses.

"What did you say?" Her voice was velvet and steel.

Mallory swallowed. "Wycliffe arrived yesterday, Your Majesty. He attended the Privy Council this morning. The Lord Chancellor received him… cordially."

"Cordiality," she echoed. "How quaint."

She rose slowly and walked to the windows, the silk of her gown whispering over the rug. Outside, dusk rolled over London like a bruise.

"And?"

"He… offered support. Ships. Control of certain trade routes. In exchange for oversight of the Privy Purse."

Queen Isolde's back stiffened.

"So," she said softly, "he wants the Crown's throat under his boot."

Mallory hesitated. "Some say he wants to preserve stability."

She turned, eyes flashing. "Nathaniel Wycliffe doesn't preserve. He claims. What he cannot rule, he razes. I should've had him strangled years ago."

Mallory chose silence.

The Queen exhaled. "And the boy? Any word?"

Mallory's eyes dropped. "None, Your Majesty. The prince was last confirmed disembarked in the Caribbean territories. No sign since."

Her hand flexed. Rings glinted.

"He is not dead," she said, voice tightening. "They would celebrate if he were. They would dance on the ashes."

Mallory dared a question. "Do you believe the Duke is involved in his disappearance?"

A pause. Then...

"No," she said slowly. "If Nathaniel had taken my son, I would already have a box of ashes and a message carved in bone."

She walked back to her seat and lowered herself with precision.

"He did not take the prince," she said. "But he means to take everything else."

Her fingers laced beneath her chin. "Summon the Lord Chancellor. Tonight. And send for Beatrice Hartmoor. I want eyes on Wycliffe's little bride. Let's see if she cracks."

"And the Council?"

"Let them play nice for now. But if they give him what he wants…" Her voice fell to a murmur, almost gentle but ruthlessly cold.

"...I will burn them with their own wax seals."