The Shadow Under the Throne

The heavy oak doors groaned open. Sera lay flat on the cold stone floor, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she was sure the Prime Minister could hear it. Through the narrow gap under the bed’s silk fringe, she saw a pair of black, pointed leather boots—the kind worn by someone who enjoyed stepping on others.

"Your Majesty," a voice like dry parchment scraped the air. This was Prime Minister Malphas, a man whose smile never reached his cold, calculating eyes. "You seem... agitated. And the room... it smells of burnt lightning."

Alaric stood tall, his shadow stretching across the floor and partially covering Sera’s hiding spot. He adjusted his robe, pointedly stepping on the tip of Sera’s modern sneaker to shove it further under the shadows.

"I was testing an old alchemical scroll, Malphas," Alaric said, his voice as cold as ice. "I didn't realize I needed your permission to read in my own chambers."

"Of course not, Sire," Malphas said, but he didn't leave. He began to pace. Step. Click. Step. Click.

Under the bed, Sera squeezed her eyes shut. She was inches away from the Prime Minister’s boots. She could see the dust on his heels. Then, he stopped.

"And this?" Malphas leaned down. His hand reached toward the floor.

Sera stopped breathing. He had spotted something. Just as his fingers touched a stray glint of metal—a bobby pin that had fallen from Sera's hair—Alaric let out a violent, hacking cough.

He didn't just cough; he collapsed onto the edge of the bed, the weight of his body making the wooden frame groan above Sera.

"Your Majesty!" Malphas pulled back, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't worried; he was observing. Like a vulture waiting for a lion to die.

"Out," Alaric gasped, clutching his chest. "Call the Royal Physician if you must... but get out of my sight."

Malphas bowed low, but his eyes lingered on the bed one last time. "As you wish. But remember, Sire... a King who cannot breathe cannot speak. And a King who cannot speak cannot rule."

The doors finally slammed shut.

Sera scrambled out from under the bed, gasping for air. She found Alaric slumped on the floor, his face ghostly pale. She reached for her medical bag, but he grabbed her arm, his grip weak but desperate.

"He knows," Alaric whispered. "He doesn't know about you... but he knows I am failing."

Sera looked at the King. In the modern world, she was just an intern getting coffee for senior doctors. Here, she was the only thing standing between a King and a coup.

"He doesn't know about me yet," Sera said, her voice firm. "But he’s going to be very confused when his 'dying' King suddenly starts looking a lot healthier."

Alaric looked up at her, a faint, dark smirk touching his lips. "You are a strange creature, Ghost Girl. Tell me... how do we begin this 'magic'?"

Sera pulled out a bottle of high-strength vitamins and an inhaler. "First, we fix your breathing. Then, we find you a place to hide me where vultures don't pace."

Alaric’s eyes darkened with a new kind of intensity. "There is a wing of this palace that has been sealed for a hundred years. They say it is haunted by the 'White Lady.' Starting tonight, you shall be the ghost that keeps it that way."

[Cliffhanger]

As Alaric leads her through a secret passage behind a tapestry, Sera looks back and sees Malphas’s spy—a small, black raven—perched on the window sill, watching her every move.

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