The Fake Midnight Prince Part 2
1637 Words
Callan
Mother was waiting in my room.
She had locked the door.
Her face was pale with fury, but her hands were steady as she poured tea neither of us would drink.
“Well?” she asked.
I placed the ring on the table.
The silver band gave off a faint cold mist against the polished wood.
Mother stared at it.
“What is that?”
“Ashen dropped it.”
Her eyes snapped to mine.
“At the ball.”
Understanding moved across her face slowly.
Then horror.
Then rage.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“The masked wolf?”
“Ashen.”
Her hand tightened around the teacup until it cracked.
“That filthy little—”
“Careful,” I said. “Apparently the princess likes filthy little things.”
Mother threw the cup into the fireplace.
It shattered against the stone.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then her gaze moved back to the ring.
“She had this?”
“Yes.”
“And you are certain it belongs to him?”
“I have seen him touch it before.” My jaw tightened. “He was always hiding it. Like some precious little secret.”
Mother’s mouth curled. “Secrets are only useful until someone else holds them.”
The ring sat between us, cold and quiet.
I hated it.
I hated that something so small had made the princess chase him. I hated that it looked too noble for Ashen’s dirty hands. I hated that even lying on my table, it seemed to belong somewhere above me.
Mother leaned closer.
“If the princess connects this to him, we lose control.”
“She already suspects.”
“Then we remove the suspicion.”
“How?”
“The witch.”
I frowned. “The same one?”
“The dust worked, did it not?”
My pulse quickened.
The witch had been expensive. Powerful. Old enough that even Father did not like saying her name inside the packhouse.
She had sold me the powder with a smile full of black teeth and promised one thing:
No doctor would trace it.
No healer would smell it.
No machine would name it.
A sleep without fingerprints.
Mother tapped one nail against the table beside the ring, careful not to touch it.
“The princess must forget the night clearly enough to doubt herself. Not everything. That would be suspicious. Only the parts that matter.”
“The balcony.”
“The masked boy.”
“Ashen.”
Mother smiled.
“And if she remembers a boy?”
I looked at the ring.
Then understood.
“She remembers me.”
Mother’s smile sharpened.
“The witch can glamour you?”
“She can.”
“Face. Voice. Scent?”
“All of it.”
“Good.” Mother leaned back. “Then when the princess wakes, you will be close. Concerned. Helpful. The noble son who stayed by her side after an omega attacked her.”
“And the ring?”
“We return it to her.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“Because taking it makes us look guilty if she remembers having it.” Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Leaving it with her makes her question herself. If the witch blurs her memory enough, she may wake believing the ring was never proof of Ashen at all.”
I looked down at the silver band.
It misted cold against the table.
“Then what is it proof of?”
Mother smiled.
“Whatever we convince her it is.”
Princess Moona did not wake.
Not that night.
Not the next morning.
The pack hospital smelled of antiseptic herbs, metal, glass, and fear. They gave her the largest private room in the healing wing, the one meant for alphas and honored guests.
Machines hummed around her bed.
Heart monitor.
Breath reader.
Brainwave scanner.
An IV line glimmered faintly with healing fluid.
The pack doctor checked her pupils, her pulse, her blood, her magic levels, her oxygen, her wolf response.
Nothing.
No poison.
No curse.
No injury severe enough to explain it.
No trace.
The witch had been worth every coin.
Solan did not leave her side for hours.
Neither did Queen Selene once she arrived.
That was inconvenient.
The queen was terrifying when quiet.
She stood beside Moon’s bed, one hand resting lightly over her daughter’s, and asked questions that made even the doctor sweat.
“What caused the unconsciousness?”
“We do not know, Your Majesty.”
“Why has she not woken?”
“We do not know.”
“Was she poisoned?”
“No trace of poison.”
“Cursed?”
“No curse detected.”
“Drugged?”
“No detectable substance.”
The queen’s face did not change.
“That is not the same as no.”
The doctor swallowed.
Solan stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes on everyone.
Especially me.
I wore concern like a second skin.
I was very good at wearing things that were not mine.
By the second night, the queen was forced into a private call with the palace council. Solan went to speak with her. Two royal guards remained outside Moon’s room.
Mother handled that.
A tray of tea.
A distraction.
A servant girl crying about a disturbance near the south hall.
Small things.
Enough to shift eyes.
Enough to open a crack.
The witch slipped through it.
She entered Moon’s room wearing the face of an elderly healer and the scent of boiled mint. Her real face flickered only when she smiled at me.
“You are impatient,” she whispered.
“You are late.”
“Power is never late. Only expensive.”
“Do it.”
She stood over the princess.
Moon looked smaller asleep.
Not weak.
Never weak.
But still.
Too still.
Her dark hair spilled across the pillow. Her lashes cast shadows over her cheeks. Even unconscious, she looked royal enough to make the room behave.
The witch’s gaze landed on the ring beside Moon’s bed.
She paused.
“What is that?”
“A ring,” I said.
Her black eyes slid toward me. “Do not be dull with me, boy.”
“It belongs to him.”
“The servant?”
“Ashen.”
The witch leaned closer, sniffing once.
For the first time, amusement left her face.
“Old blood.”
Mother had not told me that.
I kept my expression still. “Can you use it?”
“Use it?” She laughed softly. “No. Objects like that do not like being used.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means leave it near her. Let her mind make its own cage.” The witch’s smile returned. “Confused hearts are very good at lying to themselves.”
I did not like the way she looked at the ring.
Like it knew something I did not.
Still, I placed it carefully on the table beside Moon’s bed, close enough for her to see when she woke.
Just near her.
A clue turned into a trap.
The witch circled me, sprinkling crushed frostvine, dead moonmoth wings, and powdered silverleaf.
“Scent,” I said.
“Yes, yes. You nobles always rush the art.”
The air changed.
Frost.
Winter roses.
Old magic.
Fake.
But close.
Close enough.
I looked into the mirror.
Ashen’s face stared back.
His hair.
His mouth.
His winter-blue eyes.
His stolen softness.
For one second, I understood why the princess had followed him into the dark.
Then I shoved the thought away.
When she woke, she would see me.
And if the witch did her work properly, that would be enough.
I followed her gaze to the door.
An omega servant waited there, trembling, holding a small vial of pale gold liquid.
The wake-up potion.
“After I leave,” the witch said, “wait one hour. Then have the girl put it into the IV line. Slowly. Too fast, and the princess’s heart may race itself into silence.”
“Will she wake?”
“Yes.”
“With the false memories?”
The witch smiled.
“With confusion. That is better. Confused people reach for the nearest answer.”
I looked into the mirror again.
Ashen’s face looked back.
Beautiful.
Hateful.
Mine.
“For a day,” the witch said. “Maybe two. Longer if she wants to believe it.”
“She will.”
“Careful, pretty prince.” The witch’s voice lowered. “Girls like that do not love lies forever.”
Then she vanished.
Not through the door.
Just gone.
I hated witches.
The omega servant stood frozen.
I turned to her.
“You know what to do.”
She nodded, shaking.
“If anyone asks, the doctor ordered it.”
Another nod.
“If you speak of this, your family joins Ashen below.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, my lord.”
I sat beside Moon’s bed and waited.
One hour.
Then the servant slipped the potion into the IV line.
Drop by drop, gold moved through clear tubing and into the princess’s vein.
Nothing happened at first.
Then the machines changed.
A soft beep.
Another.
Then faster.
The brainwave monitor flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then erupted in jagged silver lines.
The heart monitor spiked.
Moon’s fingers twitched.
The servant gasped and ran to the door.
“Doctor!” she cried, voice cracking. “The princess is waking!”
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
I stood beside the bed in Ashen’s face, wearing Ashen’s scent, with Ashen’s ring resting near her hand.
Moon’s lashes fluttered.
Her lips parted.
For one perfect second, I thought she would look at me and believe.
Then she breathed one name.
Soft.
Broken.
Certain.
“Ashen.”
- Writer
