Chapter 3 Burning Bridges

# Chapter 3: Burning Bridges

I wake to the sound of distant thunder. Not thunder—cannon fire. The rebels testing their range against the outer walls again. Their attacks have grown more frequent since my coronation, more desperate.

Dawn spills across my bedchamber as my handmaiden, Greta, draws back the curtains.

"They're earlier today," I observe, accepting the cup of tea she offers. I sniff it discreetly—a habit that has kept me alive.

"Captain Renard has requested an audience," Greta says, laying out my gown for the day. "He waits in the antechamber with the boy."

I pause mid-sip. "Both of them? At this hour?"

"He says it concerns the child's education."

I dress quickly, choosing a simpler gown than court protocol demands. The weight of formality feels suffocating these days.

Elias stands when I enter, but doesn't bow. The boy—Thomas—attempts an awkward combination of both. Neither speaks until I give permission with a slight nod.

"Your Majesty," Elias begins, "the boy has shown exceptional aptitude for Habsburg history. I thought it might benefit his education to view the royal archives directly."

"The same archives that were breached three nights ago?" I keep my voice light, but my eyes narrow. "How convenient."

"Knowledge is never convenient for those who hoard it," Elias counters.

The boy watches our exchange with that unnervingly familiar gaze. He's been here two weeks now, and every day I search for the flaw in his performance—the tell that will expose him as the fraud I know he must be.

"You may have access," I decide, "but under supervision. Lord Brandt will accompany you."

"Lord Brandt makes the boy nervous," Elias says.

"Lord Brandt makes everyone nervous. That's why he's effective." I turn to Thomas. "How are you finding palace life, child?"

He hesitates before answering. "Different from the monastery, Your Majesty."

"I imagine so. Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes." His voice grows softer. "The monks were kind."

Something in his tone strikes me—genuine longing, not the calculated response of a trained impostor. I find myself momentarily disarmed.

"The archives contain personal journals," I say, redirecting my thoughts. "Family correspondence. Things not meant for public consumption."

"History is written by the survivors," Elias says. "The boy deserves to know his heritage—if it truly is his heritage."

I catch the subtle challenge in his words. "Very well. You have until midday."

As they turn to leave, I add: "And Thomas? Pay special attention to our family's history with pretenders. It's quite... illuminating."

---

I spend the morning in council meetings, half my mind still on Elias and the boy. What are they really searching for? The documentation that supposedly proves Thomas's claim was conveniently vague—enough to raise questions but not enough to verify.

Just before noon, an aide bursts into the council chamber.

"Your Majesty! Fire in the archives!"

I'm running before conscious thought takes hold, my guards struggling to keep pace. The acrid smell of smoke fills the corridor leading to the eastern wing. Palace staff form a bucket chain, passing water from hand to hand.

"Where are they?" I demand, grabbing a guard's arm.

"Still inside, Your Majesty! Lord Brandt ordered the doors sealed when the fire broke out."

"Sealed?" Horror floods through me. "Open them! Now!"

"But Lord Brandt—"

"I am your Queen!" I shout, snatching a wet cloth from a servant and pressing it to my face. "Open the doors or I'll have your head!"

The guards hesitate only a moment before obeying. Black smoke billows out as the heavy oak doors swing open. I start forward, but my guards hold me back.

"It's too dangerous, Your Majesty!"

I struggle against their grip. "Elias! Thomas!"

The smoke parts briefly, revealing Heinrich supervising men who are gathering documents into metal cases—not fighting the fire at all. Our eyes meet across the burning room. His expression doesn't change, even as flames lick at priceless manuscripts around him.

Then I see movement deeper in the archives—a figure hunched low, dragging something. No, someone.

"There!" I point. "Help them!"

Guards push past me into the inferno. Moments later, Elias emerges, his face blackened with soot, carrying the limp form of Thomas. The boy's eyes are closed, his small chest barely moving.

"Get the physician!" I order, kneeling beside them as Elias lays the boy on the cool marble floor. "What happened?"

Elias coughs violently, his lungs fighting for clean air. "Ask your spymaster," he manages between gasps. "We found—" Another coughing fit overtakes him.

"Found what?" I demand, gripping his shoulder.

His eyes meet mine, filled with a fury I haven't seen since the day he left the palace to join the revolution. "Ask him why he's burning evidence instead of saving it."

I look up toward the balcony overlooking the corridor and see Heinrich watching us, his face impassive as always. Even from this distance, I can read his slight smile of satisfaction.

The royal physician arrives, attending to Thomas. The boy's eyes flutter open, panic filling them as he remembers where he is. He clutches at Elias's sleeve.

"The portrait," he gasps. "Did you see it?"

"Quiet now," Elias soothes. "You need to breathe."

I lean closer. "What portrait, Thomas?"

The boy's eyes find mine, wide with confusion and something else—recognition? "The man and woman. In the hidden room. They looked like—"

"He's delirious from the smoke," Heinrich interrupts, suddenly beside us. "The archives contain no hidden rooms, Your Majesty."

"Then why were your men removing documents instead of fighting the fire?" I challenge.

"Preserving historical records is my duty," he replies smoothly. "The fire began near the genealogical section—quite coincidentally where Captain Renard was searching."

Elias struggles to his feet, facing Heinrich. "The fire began after your men arrived."

"Are you accusing the royal guard of arson, revolutionary?" Heinrich's hand moves to his sword.

"Enough!" I interpose myself between them. "The boy needs air. Clear this corridor."

As Thomas is carried away on a stretcher, I notice Elias's hand—closed tightly around something. Our eyes meet, and the slightest shake of his head warns me to silence.

That evening, I visit Thomas in the physician's quarters. He sleeps fitfully, his breathing still labored. Elias sits beside him, his own bandaged hands resting on the coverlet.

"He saved my life," Elias says without looking up. "The beam was falling—he pushed me aside."

I study the boy's face, peaceful in sleep. "That was brave."

"Or foolish."

"Sometimes they're the same." I move to the window, watching flames still flickering in the distance as guards contain the last of the fire. "What did he mean about a portrait?"

Elias finally looks at me, his expression guarded. "When the fire started, he ran deeper into the archives instead of toward the exit. I followed him to a section behind the historical treaties. There was a small room—more of a closet really."

"And?"

"He screamed when the flames reached it. That's all I know."

I know he's lying—the tension in his shoulders betrays him. We were lovers once; I learned to read his body like a familiar text.

"Heinrich is hiding something," I say. "This fire was too convenient."

"On that, we agree." Elias stands, wincing slightly. "I should let you rest."

As he passes me, his bandaged hand brushes mine—deliberately. I feel something press into my palm. I close my fingers around it instinctively.

"Goodnight, Your Majesty," he says formally.

I wait until the door closes behind him before opening my hand. It's a small, charred corner of a painting—just large enough to show part of a woman's face and a distinctive emerald necklace.

My mother's necklace. The one she was supposedly buried in.

I stare at the fragment, my heart thundering in my chest. The portrait was recent—painted within the last few years, not before her death.

From his bed, the boy suddenly screams, thrashing against unseen terrors. I rush to his side, gripping his shoulders.

"Thomas! Wake up! You're safe!"

His eyes fly open, filled with terror. "The fire! They're burning! Help them!"

"Who?" I ask, though something in me already knows—dreads—the answer.

He grabs my wrist with surprising strength. "Your parents! They're alive!"