To heal a Rogue

JOHANN

The moment Willow left, my mother turned to me with the particular look she used to wear when I was small and about to be given a task she had already decided I would not refuse.

"It’s time for your first move," she said.

"And what would that be?"

"There are retainers currently jailed," she said, settling herself into the chair beside my window. "The men who were supposed to protect your father when it happened and the ones who let that fraud healer in as a retainer because of their sheer incompetence. A little bird tells me Lysander has no intention of having them hanged."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning your father was loved by a great many people in this kingdom," she said. "And those people are going to still want someone to blame."

"They already have someone to blame. The girl and the rogue that disappeared."

"Do they?" Her mouth curved faintly. "Since the girl that was supposed to take it all is now a healer, the brunt of those sins now fall on those retainers. The rogue who actually did it is dead or rather the safe thing to say is that he eloped. Those two cannot be dragged into a square and made to answer for what they did. What the people have instead are the men and women who are left.."

"But.... they weren’t responsible for his death."

"No," she agreed, far too easily. "But they were responsible for protecting him."

I stared at her.

She crossed one leg over the other, smoothing an invisible crease from her skirt and I nearly knew where she was headed. "There is a difference between being guilty and being useful."

"That sounds like something you’ve rehearsed."

"I have had years to learn that grief makes people impatient for justice, and impatience rarely cares whether justice is deserved." She leaned back in the chair. "Your father’s death has left a wound in this kingdom. People will want to see blood poured into it. If Lysander refuses to give them that, they will begin asking why."

"Because he knows they didn’t kill him. Neither were they the reason for what happened."

"Does that matter?"

The question was soft, almost curious, but I knew that tone. It was the same one she had used when I was a child and had pointed out some obvious flaw in an instruction she had given me, only to discover that the flaw had never mattered to her.

"They were present," she continued. "They failed to protect the king. They allowed whoever came for him to reach him just as they allowed that healer into their circle. Whether they intended his death is beside the point. To the people who loved your father, their failure will look like betrayal."

"And you think I should encourage that."

"I think you should understand what it gives you."

I said nothing.

My mother’s gaze settled on me, calm and unwavering.

"If Lysander keeps them imprisoned, he owns the decision. If you call for their punishment, you become the son demanding justice for his murdered father. Those are two very different positions for a man who intends to rule."

"That would be treason," I said. "Executing prisoners the sitting regent has already decided to spare."

"I’ve looked into the law," she said, waving a hand like the concern was beneath her. "As the King’s son, you retain certain rights regardless of who currently occupies the throne. One of those rights is the sole authority to punish those responsible for harm done to your father. It’s an old provision. Rarely used. But it still stands."

"Stop being weak about this, Johann," she said, sharper now. "This is the first step. Divide the court. Show them Lysander is soft where it counts, unwilling to give the people what they actually want. If it comes to war for that throne eventually, you need cracks already showing in his foundation."

She coughed then, hard, doubling forward slightly, and when she straightened, a thin line of blood traced down from the corner of her mouth before she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

Something in my chest tightened at the sight of it. A reminder of exactly what waited for me too, given enough time.

"Of course," I said. "I’ll do it."

"Good boy," she said, some of the sharpness melting out of her voice, replaced by something warmer, more familiar. "Make me proud."

I dressed in my royal regalia, the deep blue jacket, the gold pin catching the morning light, and stepped out into the corridor with my spine straight and my expression set into something I hoped read as righteous rather than desperate.

I made my way down to the cells, my boots striking hard against the stone, and called for the sentinels stationed there the moment I arrived.

They straightened at the sight of me, wary, exchanging glances before one finally spoke.

"Prince Johann. What brings you down here?"

"I want the retainers jailed for my father’s death rounded up," I said. "For hanging. Today."

The sentinel’s expression shifted immediately, uncertain. "My Prince, the current regent hasn’t authorized—"

"I’m not asking for his authorization," I said, cutting him off cleanly. "As the King’s son, I retain the sole right to punish those responsible for harm done to my father. That right predates Lysander’s regency and supersedes it in this specific matter. Check the old statutes yourself if you doubt me."

Another sentinel shifted uneasily. "We’d need to confirm that with someone higher up."

"Then go get my cousin," I said, spreading my hands. "Let’s see if he can actually dispel what I’m telling you. I’m certain he’d love the opportunity to publicly contradict established law in front of witnesses, especially so soon after inheriting a throne everyone already whispers he barely deserves."

Silence followed that, several of them exchanging glances again, weighing exactly how much trouble either choice might bring down on their heads.

"So," I said, letting my voice harden. "Unless you actually want to be the ones who broke centuries-old law by refusing a legitimate royal order, I’d suggest you get to work."

One of the older sentinels muttered something low to the man beside him, something I caught only the tail end of. "He isn’t wrong about the statute."

That seemed to settle it. Reluctantly, one of them moved toward the wall where the keys hung, lifting the heavy iron ring free with hands that weren’t entirely steady.

"Bring them out," I said. "All of them."

I stood there in the dim corridor, watching the cell doors creak open one by one, watching frightened, exhausted men and women shuffle forward under the weight of chains they’d been wearing since the night my father died, and I felt something cold and satisfied settle into my chest.

My mother would be pleased.