George Johnson, the second abbot of Peace Temple, had been an orphan left abandoned until a compassionate monk from the temple discovered him. As he grew, Master Martin, a wise and esteemed member of the temple, recognized his potential and personally tutored him in literacy and the teachings of Buddhism.

Master Martin was none other than the duke who had renounced his noble titles. George studied under him for decades, becoming well-acquainted with the royal family—including Brandon Smith, who was once a prince and now served as president.

On this particular morning, like every other, George concluded his dawn prayers and joined his disciples for breakfast. Returning to his quarters, he was surprised to find the president waiting.

"Why has Your Excellency returned?" George asked, alarm etched on his features.

"I barely escaped an assassination attempt yesterday," Brandon replied. "Were you aware of this?"

With a deep breath, George gravely intoned a Buddhist chant. "Though informed, I am puzzled. Yesterday, was it not the young master from the Wisconsin family who coincidentally saved Your Excellency and escorted you back?"

Brandon's expression darkened. "No, I was chased to the rear of the mountains and saved by a lady. This morning, when I aimed to return home, I found the city gates sealed, barring entry."

Peace Temple maintained close ties with the state, providing George with a keen political acumen. "If you have truly been followed, someone must be impersonating Your Excellency.”

Brandon felt a chill creep down his spine. “Are you suggesting someone has taken my place?”

George's gaze bore into his. “You’re saying the man yesterday wasn’t our president?”

Brandon nodded, a glimmer of realization dawning in his eyes. “The First Lady!”

If someone incited the pretense, it wasn’t an enemy acting recklessly. His death would merely seat another ally in power. Who else would orchestrate this if not someone close by, capable of such meticulous planning? It had to be someone who would benefit from his downfall—perhaps a relative.

With siblings either incapacitated or youthful, the machinations were clear. The First Lady must have conspired, ensuring her own child’s ascension with legal legitimacy.

Concluding these complexities quelled any desire Brandon had to return home, knowing that a premeditated trap likely awaited him there, with everything orchestrated by the First Lady.

Cautiously, he proposed, “I must see Lord Armand.”

Before the former president’s passing, he had aligned several capable statesmen around Brandon. As a noble, Lord Armand had forged bonds with Brandon early on, unyielding in loyalty and trustworthy.

Aware of these connections, George raised no opposition. “Lady Johns once commissioned candles here at the temple; I could send a message.”

Brandon assented, composing a clandestine letter which George took to dispatch. Yet, just as George opened the door, a silent silver needle penetrated his forehead, causing him to collapse in instant death.

Brandon, stunned, caught sight of blood trickling from every orifice of George's face, indicating rapid poisoning.

Reacting instinctively as another needle was dispatched his way, Brandon dodged to safety, the weapon imbedding itself benignly in the door.

With the weight of George's body impeding closing the door, Brandon desperately resolved to escape through the window instead.

The back of George’s room featured a sparse vegetable garden; as Brandon landed among the frostbitten greens, he thankfully avoided any mishaps.

Meanwhile, an assassin entered, clad not in a telltale disguise but light armor—an appearance befitting the guards of any high-ranking official. Peace Temple’s prominent guests carried countless guards, ready to report pursuit among the masses, making them unassuming yet cunning.

With no means to match the assassin in combat, Brandon resolved to seek safety where crowds gathered.

Fortune favored him, for within moments, he collided with Emma returning from the western wing.

Without hesitation, Emma intercepted an incoming needle by hurling her half-eaten pastry, yanking on Brandon’s arm. “Let’s move!”

Driven by instinct and urgency, a curious warmth surged from her core, allowing her to leap impressive distances with minimal effort.

Brandon, though taller with longer strides, struggled to keep pace, nudging him to rely on her guidance.

As they reached the rear mountains, Brandon, breathless, gasped, “We can stop.”

Emma finally ceased their escape with not a hint of fatigue, questioning calmly, “So, what’s this all about now? Care to explain?”

Brandon, glancing back to George's fate darkened, confessed, “The ambush was carefully planted. It’s my fault for not predicting it earlier."

Emma, having already scoured the women's courtyard and pide the kitchen for clues only to find no absences, couldn't harbor disappointment at the temple's involvement, querying, “What’s your next step?”

Brandon weighed his options, feeling constrained by his limited martial skills, and recognized Emma as his lone unexpected ally.

In a gesture of deference, he clasped his hands, bowing deeply, “Though compelled, I’ve misled you. Please accept my apologies and aid me with your wisdom.”

Emma consented, pushing for answers, “Go on, explain.”

Brandon recounted the narrative, “...With George’s murder, we cannot return. A new path must be forged.”

Emma posed two questions shortly, “First, why does the First Lady seek your end? A quest for unchecked power?”

Brandon offered a weary smile, “The motive derives more personally than mere governance. Why else would I be alone in the rear mountains?”

Emma speculated, “To travel incognito?”

“Hardly," Brandon bluntly clarified how his birth history intertwined with those machinations.

During his predecessor’s reign, aspirations lay in appointing his favorite's son, overshadowing an heirless First Lady. Lizbeth bore the ambition to shatter precedence, seizing an opportunity by nurturing the servant’s son, Brandon, which initiated elongated conflicts.

Though the favorite’s son achieved nominal claims, skepticism embroiled discussions around witchcraft, toppling his stature and securing Brandon’s execution, pairing him with Lizbeth’s niece to consolidate power.

Upon assuming the presidency at seventeen, Brandon endured years of manipulation, viewing Lizbeth’s natural son from the weak middle court besmirched with conjecture. 

Emma’s clarity interjected, “You defy acknowledging blood of Lizbeth within heir presumptive.”

“Indeed," Brandon affirmed, “my aim to fracture her leverage met with unforeseen sagacity.”

Lizbeth’s domineering lineage spanned two generations, marshaling vast military influence under her tactical father. She aspired to a presidential scion nestled within.

Averting treachery against the monarchy left no choice but to act preemptively.

Emma synthesized these insights briskly, querying her second question, “The presidency’s tradition dictates succession by death. Why employ double interference?”

Brandon speculated on rationale, “Preservation of propriety influences theory one, circumventing hereditary whims—and two, fears culminated with instructing envoy figures to counterbalance outsider rule.”

Emma surmised Lizbeth’s tapestry aligned shrewdly, "No progeny? Initiate adoption. Resistant childlessness? Forge legitimacy."

Brutal as such tactics, irony loomed in her mulling portrayal.

No longer undecided, Emma pledged, “I’ll assist. What’s your roadmap?”

Brandon, cautious from hard lessons, deliberated thoroughly. “Contact with Lord Armand remains paramount.”

The political constellation orbited four luminaries: Speaker Johnson, Minister Carlton, Duke Jones, and Lord Armand. Despite discourse, the pretender’s salvation by Jones’s offspring dissuaded confidence among loyalists, leaving Armand’s place promising.

“Rather than Washington’s bustle, we turn to Ontario.”