Chapter 4 - The Midnight Archive
Night fell over Charlottesville, but Wycliffe Manor was ablaze with lights.
The sprawling colonial estate, situated on three thousand acres of rolling Virginia hills, looked like a fortress under siege. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter walls, news helicopters hovered in the distant sky, and black luxury sedans lined the long, winding driveway as powerful family allies arrived for emergency meetings.
Inside the manor’s eastern wing, far from the chaotic gatherings of executives, Nathaniel sat at a massive mahogany table inside the Private Archive. Stacked around him were hundreds of leather-bound ledgers, digital tablets, and land deeds spanning decades.
Clara moved swiftly through the shelves, pulling down specific velvet-covered boxes that had been hidden away behind the official legal records.
"Alaric thinks he set a trap for you," Clara said, setting a heavy metal box on the table. "He assumes that because you didn't attend prep schools or Ivy League universities, you can't read complex financial structures."
"I can read basic math," Nathaniel said, rubbing his tired eyes. "But these holding companies have layers inside layers. Offshore shell accounts in the Caymans, maritime trusts in London... it's designed to confuse anyone who looks at it."
"It's designed to hide theft," Clara corrected, unlocking the metal box with a brass key she took from around her neck. "Look at this."
She pulled out a series of old ledger pages dated fifteen years ago. Nathaniel leaned in to look.
"When Charles took over the family holdings, Alaric created a secondary, secret trust called the 'Aurelius Foundation,'" Clara explained, pointing to the faded signatures at the bottom of the parchment. "On paper, it was meant to provide funding for local orphanages, public libraries, and regional hospitals in Virginia. In reality, Alaric used it as a siphoning channel. Millions of dollars meant for public care were routed into private accounts controlled exclusively by the Stewardship."
Nathaniel’s eyes darkened as he recognized the name of an institution listed under the expenses: Saint Matthew’s Home for Boys.
"Saint Matthew’s was receiving fifty thousand dollars a month from this trust," Nathaniel said, his fingers tracing the numbers. "But we were sleeping on rusted cots and eating watered-down cabbage soup. Where did the money go?"
"It went to keep the administrators silent," Clara said softly. "And to pay for Alaric’s private political influence network. He didn't just steal your life, Nathaniel—he built his entire power base on the money that was supposed to take care of you."
The heavy oak doors of the archive opened, and Queen Eleanor stepped inside. She had changed into a simple dark dress, her crown removed, leaving her silver hair resting softly on her shoulders. She looked tired, aged by decades of hidden grief.
She carried a tray with two warm mugs of tea and set it gently on the corner of the table.
"I thought you might be thirsty," Eleanor said quietly.
Clara respectfully stepped back, giving them space. Nathaniel looked at the tea, then up at Eleanor.
"Why didn't you look for me?" Nathaniel asked, the question escaping his lips before he could stop it. "When I was a baby... when they told you I was dead... didn't you ever feel that something was wrong?"
Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears as she sat down across from him. "Every single day of my life, Nathaniel. After I gave birth, I was very ill. The doctors gave me medicine that made my mind hazy for weeks. When I woke up, your father was sitting by my bed holding an urn of ashes. He was heartbroken. Alaric had presented official medical certificates from the hospital. There was no reason for us to suspect that the man who had served our family for forty years had committed such a monstrous crime."
She reached across the table, her hand resting inches from his. "I looked at Everett every day and tried to love him as best as I could, but every time I held him, my heart felt empty because I felt the phantom weight of the child I was told had vanished into dust. I dreamed of a boy with flames on his shoulder. I thought I was losing my mind."
Nathaniel looked down at his arm, where the faint outline of the birthmark rested beneath his sleeve.
"I don't know how to be a prince, Eleanor," Nathaniel admitted, his voice cracking slightly.
"You don't have to be a prince," Eleanor said gently, taking his hand. He didn't pull away this time. "You just have to be yourself. The Wycliffes have had enough princes. What we need now is a man with a conscience."
Before Nathaniel could respond, a sudden commotion rattled the hallway outside. Shouting erupted near the main entrance of the manor, followed by the heavy, distinct sound of dragon wings beating against the night air.
Nathaniel stood up immediately. "Aurelius."
They rushed out of the archive and onto the upper balcony overlooking the grand courtyard. Below, under the blinding floodlights of the security team, Aurelius had landed on the manicured lawn. But the dragon was not alone.
Standing near the edge of the woods bordering the estate were three heavy, unmarked black armored vehicles. Dozens of men in tactical gear, bearing the crest of the High Steward’s private security firm, were deploying heavy steel cables and sound-cannon equipment around the dragon.
High Steward Alaric Voss stood near the lead vehicle, holding a heavy electronic control transmitter.
"Secure the beast!" Alaric yelled to his men. "The council has authorized the temporary containment of Aurelius under emergency public safety statutes! Move in!"
"Alaric! Stop!" Charles Wycliffe’s voice thundered as he stepped out onto the front porch, accompanied by security guards loyal to the patriarch. "You have no authority to mobilize private tactical units on my property!"
"I have every authority under the Board’s emergency decree!" Alaric shouted back, a cold sneer on his face. "The dragon is a threat to civil order! Once he is restrained and sedated, the blood-judgment is rendered void!"
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Aurelius roared, a sound that shattered the glass windows along the eastern facade of the manor. The dragon swung his massive tail, smashing one of the armored vehicles into a twisted heap of metal. But the tactical teams fired heavy acoustic cannons, emitting high-frequency soundwaves that caused the dragon to writhe in agony, his golden eyes clouding over.
Nathaniel didn't hesitate. He vaulted over the balcony railing, dropping twenty feet onto the courtyard grass below, landing in a low stance before sprinting directly toward the circle of armed men.
