The crown began begging before anyone touched it. From her place on the floor, the scullery girl heard it whisper, “Please. Don’t put me on his head.”

The heavy iron door slammed shut behind Lucy with a seismic boom, cutting off the roaring fury of the stone king. She scrambled up the winding stone staircase, her lungs burning, her bare feet slipping on the slick, damp steps. The three glowing keys in her hand pulsed with a rhythmic, erratic heartbeat, guiding her way through the pitch-black labyrinth.

She burst out through a hidden service panel behind the royal kitchens, collapsing onto the flagstone floor in a heap of gasps and ragged breaths.

The kitchens were empty, bathed in the pale, cool light of the approaching dawn. Across the room, the massive hearth still held a few glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the copper pots hanging from the ceiling.

Lucy clutched the glowing keys to her chest, trying to quiet the wild thumping of her heart. The information she carried was a death sentence. If the Chancellor found out she possessed the Vault Keys—the very items that bound his immortality to the throne—she wouldn't just be whipped; she would be erased from history entirely.

“He’s coming,” a soft, urgent voice whispered from above.

Lucy whipped her head around. It was the large copper soup cauldron sitting on the central table. Its metal surface was dull, dented, and trembling slightly.

“Who?” Lucy whispered back, scrambling to her feet.

“The prince. He couldn't sleep. He’s wandering the eastern corridor. And he’s bleeding.”

Without thinking twice, Lucy tucked the keys deep into the pocket of her oversized apron, grabbed a clean cloth and a bowl of fresh water from the basin, and hurried out of the kitchen.

The eastern corridor was quiet, flanked by towering marble pillars and tall arched windows that looked out over the mist-shrouded palace gardens. The morning fog clung to the glass like ghostly fingers.

A few yards ahead, slumped against the base of a marble pillar, sat King William.

Gone was the immaculate, composed facade he had worn during the coronation ceremony. His heavy velvet tunic was unbuttoned at the collar, his golden hair disheveled, and his face deathly pale. With one hand, he pressed a linen handkerchief against the side of his head. When he pulled it away, the fabric was stained with a dark, alarming circle of blood.

He was staring blankly at the floor when footsteps approached.

“I told the guards I wanted to be alone,” William said, his voice raspy and exhausted, not even bothering to look up.

“The guards are asleep by the south gate, Your Highness,” Lucy said softly, stopping a few paces away.

William slowly raised his head. Recognition flickered in his bloodshot eyes. “Ah. The scullery girl. The one who dropped the bucket.”

“I didn't drop it on purpose,” Lucy said quietly, stepping closer. “And you’re bleeding.”

William let out a bitter, humorless laugh that ended in a sharp wince. “It’s the crown. It has teeth, girl. Tiny, invisible teeth made of cursed gold. No matter how you tilt your head, it finds a way to bite into your skull. My father wore bandages under his circlet for twenty years. I thought... I thought it was just a royal affliction. A heavy burden.”

“It’s not a burden,” Lucy said firmly, kneeling down beside him. She dipped her cloth into the bowl of water and gently reached toward his head.

William flinched, his hand shooting out to catch her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, his blue eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion. “What did you say?”

“It’s not a burden, Your Highness. It’s a cage.” Lucy didn't pull away. She looked straight into his eyes, her gaze steady and unyielding. “The crown isn't meant to honor you. It’s meant to drain you.”

William stared at her, the silence stretching between them like a taut bowstring. For a second, he looked ready to call for the guards, to denounce her as a madwoman. But then he looked down at the blood on his fingers, and then back at the fierce, unshakeable determination in a twelve-year-old scullery girl’s eyes.

“Explain,” William whispered, his voice barely audible.

“The Chancellor,” Lucy said, leaning in close so her words wouldn't echo down the empty hall. “He’s not an old man because of good health. He’s draining the kings. Six kings before you, Your Highness. All dead before their time. Their life force was channeled through the crown directly into him, keeping him immortal while the realm rots.”

William’s face drained of what little color it had left. He opened his mouth to deny it, to call it treason, but the words died in his throat. He remembered the Chancellor’s cold, unblinking stare during the ceremony. He remembered the strange, pulsing warmth that had flooded the room when the crown first touched his hair—a warmth that felt less like life and more like a siphon.

“You’re speaking treason,” William whispered, though his voice lacked any conviction.

“I’m speaking survival,” Lucy replied, pulling the three glowing iron keys from her apron pocket and laying them gently on the stone floor between them.

The keys pulsed with a brilliant blue light, casting dancing reflections across the prince’s astonished face.

“The Vault Keys,” William breathed, recognizing the ancient royal insignia etched into the iron. “How did you... where did you get these?”

“From the foundation,” Lucy said grimly. “And if we don't use them to break the seal beneath the throne before midnight tonight, you won't live to see the end of the week.”

Before William could answer, a sharp, metallic clank echoed from the far end of the corridor.