Chapter 2 The Pretender's Gambit

# Chapter 2: The Pretender's Gambit

Three days after my coronation, I sit on my throne watching the boy approach. He can't be more than twelve—all gangly limbs and uncertainty. His eyes remain downcast as Heinrich guides him forward by the shoulder. The throne room falls silent, nobles craning their necks for a better view of this child who dares challenge my claim.

"Your Majesty," Heinrich bows with practiced deference. "May I present the boy who has been brought to our attention."

I tap my fingers against the gilded armrest. "Does this child have a name, Lord Brandt?"

"He is called Thomas, Your Majesty. Thomas Habsburg."

A murmur ripples through the court. I raise my hand for silence.

"Look at me, child."

The boy lifts his gaze slowly. I feel the breath leave my body in a silent rush.

Those eyes. My father's eyes—hazel with flecks of gold around the pupil. A distinctive Habsburg trait that has marked our bloodline for generations. But it's impossible. I know it's impossible because...

"Where did you find him?" I ask Heinrich, keeping my voice level.

"A monastery in the northern provinces. The monks claim he was left there as an infant."

"With documentation, I presume?" I arch an eyebrow.

"A royal seal. Birth records. Testimony from a midwife who claims she attended the birth of a second child the night you were born."

I laugh—a sound of genuine amusement that echoes off the marble columns. "A twin? How wonderfully theatrical." I stand, descending the three steps from my throne. "And convenient timing, wouldn't you agree, Lord Brandt? Just as I take the crown, a male heir appears from the shadows."

The boy flinches as I circle him. Up close, the resemblance is even more striking—the same high cheekbones, the same Habsburg chin. A clever forgery of flesh and blood.

"Who taught you to mimic that posture?" I ask softly, for his ears alone.

Confusion flickers across his face. "I don't understand, Your Majesty."

"The way you hold your shoulders. It's distinctly Habsburg. Something taught, not inherited."

Before he can answer, the grand doors swing open. Elias strides in, his revolutionary's uniform exchanged for the simple black attire of a court tutor. My heart betrays me with a quickened beat.

"You're late," Heinrich calls out.

"Forgive me," Elias replies, his eyes finding mine. "I was reviewing the imperial education protocols. They're woefully outdated."

I return to my throne, settling my skirts around me. "Captain Elias Renard. Or do you prefer 'The People's Champion' these days?"

"I prefer 'citizen,' Your Majesty."

"Yet here you stand in my court, accepting my coin."

"I accepted a position to teach history," he counters. "Truth cannot be bought."

Several courtiers gasp at his insolence. I merely smile.

"Then you'll appreciate this historical curiosity." I gesture to the boy. "Meet your new pupil. Apparently, I have a twin brother."

Elias studies the child, his expression unreadable. "I wasn't aware the late Queen was blessed with two children."

"Neither was she," I reply dryly. "Lord Brandt, arrange suitable quarters for the boy. Captain Renard will oversee his education—daily lessons on royal protocol, history, and languages. If he is indeed Habsburg, he should have our natural aptitude."

Heinrich's eyes narrow slightly. "Is it wise to place him in the care of a known revolutionary?"

"Who better to recognize a false claim to power than one who questions all authority?" I stand, signaling the audience is over. "Besides, it keeps your enemy where you can see him, doesn't it, Lord Brandt?"

As the court disperses, I notice the boy staring at a portrait of my father. The resemblance is undeniable.

But I know it's a lie. It has to be.

Because I personally strangled the last Habsburg heir five years ago—a sickly cousin who stood between me and the throne. His death was quick, merciful even. I whispered apologies as the light faded from his eyes, promising to be the ruler he never could.

---

That evening, I summon Elias to my private study. He enters with the same defiant posture I remember from our youth, before politics and power tore us apart.

"Teaching suits you," I say, not looking up from the document I'm pretending to read. "Though I never took you for one who enjoys instructing children."

"The boy is bright. Asks good questions."

"About what?"

"About you, mostly." Elias moves to the window, staring out at the city lights. "He wants to know if his sister is as cold as they say."

I set down my quill. "And what did you tell him?"

"That you're colder." His gaze meets mine across the room. "Still poisoning anyone who loves you?"

The barb strikes its target. I rise slowly, walking to the cabinet where I keep my personal collection of poisons and antidotes. "Only those who stop," I fire back, selecting a bottle of wine.

I pour two glasses, taking a deliberate sip from one before offering him the other. A peace offering of sorts.

He accepts but doesn't drink. "What game are you playing with this child, Adelaide?"

"The same one Heinrich is playing with me." I move closer, close enough to smell the gunpowder that always seems to cling to his clothes. "Someone created this boy to challenge my rule. I want to know who and why."

"And my role in this charade?"

"You're the perfect tutor—suspicious of monarchy, immune to my influence. If the boy reveals anything, you'll catch it."

Elias finally drinks, his throat working as he swallows. "And if he's genuine?"

"He's not." My voice hardens. "I am the last Habsburg."

Something flickers in his eyes—doubt? Pity? "You sound very certain."

"I am."

We stand in silence, the ghosts of our past hovering between us. I remember stolen kisses in the palace gardens, whispered promises of revolution that seemed romantic until they became real.

"Why did you come back, Elias? Why accept this position?"

He sets down his glass. "To remind myself."

"Of what?"

"Of what I'm fighting against." His eyes travel over me—not as a lover, but as an adversary assessing a target. "The crown changes people."

"I changed long before the crown," I say softly. "You just never noticed."

A knock interrupts us. Heinrich enters without waiting for permission—a liberty he's always taken.

"Your Majesty, forgive the intrusion." His eyes dart suspiciously to Elias. "There's been an incident. The royal archives were breached."

"By whom?" I demand.

"Unknown. The night guards were drugged."

I look pointedly at Elias, who raises his hands in mock surrender. "Don't look at me. I've been entertaining your poisoned hospitality."

"Nothing appears stolen," Heinrich continues, "but someone was searching for something."

"Increase security," I order. "And move the boy to the east wing—closer to my chambers."

After they leave, I return to the window, watching Elias cross the courtyard below. Something in his stride—a purpose, a certainty—unsettles me.

That night, I dream of my father's eyes—not on the boy's face, but staring at me from behind iron bars, very much alive.