Page 85 of Throne Off Course

“Yes, and you’re Emilia Carter,” her mother replied with unexpected firmness. “Brilliant, stubborn, and too honest for your own good—just like your father. If this prince has finally recognized that, well, perhaps he’s smarter than the average royal.”

Her father’s voice came through more clearly, suggesting he’d moved closer to the phone. “Emilia, I must ask—have you considered the existential implications? A prince choosing authentic connection over prescribed duty represents a fundamental shift in how we understand the nature of power and choice.”

“We’re not—” Emilia started, then sighed. “Nothing has been decided.”

“But something has happened,” her mother observed shrewdly, her art historian’s eye for detail evident even in her voice. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t sound so conflicted.”

Emilia was silent, which was answer enough.

“Ma chérie,” her mother said gently, “You’ve never been afraid to challenge what others accept without question. Don’t startnow.”

“Even if it means challenging an entire monarchy?” Emilia asked, half-joking.

“Especially then,” her father interjected. “Institutions only evolve when forced to confront their contradictions. It’s the fundamental principle of social progress.”

“Your father’s philosophical melodrama aside,” her mother said with affectionate exasperation, “what he means is that we support you. However complicated this becomes.”

Something tight in Emilia’s chest eased slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Besides,” her mother added with renewed mischief, “I’m enjoying the thought of becoming the mother-in-law to a future king. Think of all the royal art collections I could finally access!”

“Maman!” Emilia exclaimed, but she was laughing now—a genuine, relieved sound that cut through the tension of the morning.

“Just imagine—I could finally correct the lighting on that dreadful coronation portrait in the main hall.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Emilia said, still chuckling.

“We love you, ma fille,” her mother said warmly. “Courage.”

As Emilia ended the call, she felt oddly lighter. The newspapers still existed, the photographs were still circulating, and the consequences of that dance were still unfolding—but somehow, her parents’ peculiar blend of academic analysis and unwavering support had made it all seem more manageable.

Her phone buzzed again—another notification, another headline—but this time, she didn’t immediately ignore it. Instead, she found herself wondering what Alexander wasfacing at the palace this morning, and hoping that somewhere in that gilded cage, he had someone offering him the same kind of steadfast support her parents had just shown her.

40

A Gala & Goodbyes

The grand hall of the Royal Museum was alive with conversation, dignitaries and journalists mingling with scholars and the public alike. The unveiling of the exhibition had been a spectacle in itself—but no one had expected this.

Gone were the empty platitudes and carefully curated narratives. Instead, this exhibit did something no royal exhibition had done before: it told the truth.

Not just the triumphs, but the failures. Not just the glory, but the cost.

A gilded plaque outlined the reign of King Philip II, his economic and artistic renaissance on full display—yet, just beside it, an interactive map detailed the dissenters who had been exiled under his rule.

A room dedicated to Queen Marguerite’s modernization efforts showcased sweeping reforms, but a newly unveiled collection of pamphlets and letters revealed the deep unrest that had simmered beneath them, culminating in revolts that had rewritten the power structure of Caledonia.

And then, at the very heart of the exhibit—King James Philip.

His portrait commanded the space, painted with bold, sweeping strokes that seemed to capture not just his image but his essence. The oils caught the light in a way that made him appear almost illuminated from within, a man frozen in time—forever young, strong, and arrestingly handsome. The artist had captured something ineffable in his eyes—a spark of mischief, a glint of wisdom beyond his years. His slight smileheld secrets, as if he knew something the viewer did not, a reminder of the man who had once been larger than life—the man they’d called The Golden King. The warm amber tones of the background created a halo effect around him, a poignant contrast to how cancer had later dimmed that light.

But the real heart of his display was not the official portrait, it was the newly unveiled letters—private correspondences, never before seen.

A timeline traced the latter years of his reign, showing his gradual withdrawal from public life in his last year. At first, the shift was subtle—decisions delegated to advisors, speeches shortened. Then came the longer absences, missed state functions, moments where the weight of leadership had visibly worn him down.

His letters filled in the gaps. Some were to his advisors, revealing the depth of his political struggles. Others were to his closest confidants, speaking of the loneliness that came with the crown, the choices that haunted him.

One letter, carefully displayed under glass, held just one line in his unmistakable handwriting: “History will remember the king. No one will remember the man.”