Sigislinde quietly reached over to hold Prince Rickardt's hand. Although he had been decidedly holding her at arm's length these past few years, he did not rebuff her. He did not doubt there was genuine affection from his childhood companion, but there was surely the influence of her father as well. If only Lord Sigismond would have the decency to shuffle off this mortal coil before Prince Rickardt succeeded his father, then he would not have to deal with that treacherous snake himself and irrevocably poison Sigislinde against him. He did not imagine life would unfold so conveniently for him and so it was best to let the affections between them grow cold rather than encourage a love that would only turn to that much bitterer a hate. If she were to seek vengeance for her father, then the Prince would have to deal with her as well and he would almost be tempted to see the whole of Milon burned to the ground before doing that.

He knew what he ought to do, but after his audience with Lord Shahazz'in in Neue Lewenfort, he could feel his resistance to Sigislinde's company weakening. Although he could not begin to imagine the reason for it, it was as if something had happened that shook him to his core and left him unable to stand properly on his own two feet. He needed the support of another and Sigislinde was the most natural pillar for him to lean on. He could not rely on his retainers. Not one of them was truly his man. They were all his father's men or the men of his father's advisors and hangers-on. Reinholdt was the most competent and reliable, but he was not the sort of person the Prince would take into his confidence.

Speaking of his retainers, his entourage was smaller now since Conrad and Hugo took ill and had to be left behind to recuperate. For some reason, when his thoughts turned to these missing members, the Prince's head would start to ache. Especially with the dull-witted Hugo, images would appear in his mind, of Piersgart in Paternus which he had only visited once or twice at most in his whole life, yet they felt as familiar as Pfalsdorf or even Milon itself. He would see old Lord Lodewic, hear his voice. Most of the time, it was not clear enough for him to understand the words, but now it seemed to be different.

This was like something that only Hugo would have been told, because Lord Lodewic would have never said these words in Prince Rickardt's presence. Why then did Prince Rickardt know this? Was it just some dream born of his distrust of his retainers and his father's vassals? Yet it seemed so clear, so vivid, and there was this bitter feeling in his gut of a lifetime of trying and failing to meet the standards of the man he called father. This was not him. It was not supposed to be him, so why?

The pain grew stronger and it felt like he needed to hold his skull together before it split apart. He barely noticed Sigislinde's hand on his shoulder as she asked him, "Highness, what is it?"

Prince Rickardt slowly lowered his hands and stared at them. These hands were not his hands.

Prince Rickardt was not Prince Rickardt. The moment he realized this, something burst forth from Lord Shahazz'in's compartment, something that was the stuff of nightmares. Its arms stretched out as it sprang at him and everything went black.

Alaira took hold of the woman by the jaw and in a moment, her eyes rolled back and she went limp and silent.

Lord Shahazz'in ignored Alaira's criticism and simply said, "Thank you. Now be quiet, the both of you. I must focus."

Lord Shahazz'in was gripping the man in the shape of Prince Rickardt by the head and drew in a slow breath, painful as it was in the open air, and reached deeper inside. The man's mind was like a shell split in two and splintered. Lord Shahazz'in had to draw the pieces in and mend the rift that had formed. Like a shell, this false persona was fragile and could not bear much stress before cracks would form. The man had had too much time to himself on the road. The mind turned inward, which was an exceedingly dangerous prospect with such a delicate edifice of falsehood.

Yet Lord Shahazz'in was strong and skillful. Repairing the damage was no great task for him, but had he been any slower to react, the work would have been all the more of a challenge. This did not need to be made any more difficult than it already was.

Slowly the pieces fell back into place and the simulacrum of the Prince's mind took shape once more. Lord Shahazz'in released his puppet and took a moment to appreciate his handiwork.

Alaira folded her arms and looked away as Lord Shahazz'in withdrew to the comfort of his tub. He motioned to the lid he had cast off to raise it with his power, and before he sealed himself in once more, he told Prince Reinolf, "Let our guests sleep. This will all be nothing more than a bad dream to them."

With that, he reclined in the water and shut himself away in the soothing embrace of the darkness. Unlike the false prince and his woman, Lord Shahazz'in expected to have sweet dreams in the comfort that this little imprudence would be forgiven by the Queen when he delivered what he had learned of Prince Rickardt's plot. If he could find anyone among the Queen's vassals who knew this so-called merchant Wilbrandt at the center of it all, more of late Prince's confederates could be brought to light. His reward could be great indeed.