“Her Majesty is requesting your presence for breakfast.“

…What? 

Yves stares at the fidgeting maid who stood outside his door when he tried to leave for breakfast. It’s yet another unfamiliar face. Did the last one resign as he thought? How many did that make? Good riddance, either way. He has no use for sniveling fools here. 

He’d already made it a habit of heading to the kitchens himself to grab some food for his meals, instead of relying on unfamiliar maids to bring them to him. While this wouldn’t truly eradicate the risk of poisonings, it’d help ease his paranoia a bit. It’s also the reason why he dresses himself. He’d never trust anyone to get that close to him. 

“Did she, now?”

This would be the first time he’s taken his meals with anyone since waking up with his memories. 

She lowers her eyes even more, avoiding his gaze, like all the other servants did. They do their best to hide it, but it’s clear to see how skittish the servants became around him, especially after he’d…taken care of that first assassin. Good. The more people are afraid of him, the less likely for them to dare think about crossing his path. “Er, I apologize for the short notice. I came as quickly as I could, and—”

Yves raises a hand, she falls silent. “I’ll come. After I get ready.”

Regardless, the stuttering he could do without.

With that, he closes the door once more, ignoring the maid’s frantic protests that this was a very urgent summon. He was already ready for the day, but just for this... Yves walks over to a small nook in the corner of his room, where a couple of fruits were stashed away. They were meant as a snack while reading his textbooks, but now Yves picks an apple up and crunches down. 

Chewing leisurely on the crisp sweetness, Yves begins to think.

Her Majesty, the servant had said. Not His.

It’s not as if he’d been expecting a summons from the king, far from it. He just hadn’t thought there’d be one from the queen instead.

He had never paid much attention to the second wife the king had taken not long after his birth, not when he had more pressing things to think about, such as his mother’s frail health. All he knows of her is that she came from a highly prestigious noble background unlike his own mother. What was it again? House Fox? Faux? Foil?

Whatever it is, the only things he vaguely remembers are calculating eyes and a wary expression on the rare occasions he’s managed to catch a glimpse of her. The… very rare occasions. Their meetings were few and far in between, especially given the fact that they lived in completely different buildings in ridiculously large palace grounds. 

What could she be calling him for, he wonders as he makes his way down the hallways. What could warrant this out of character behavior, for her to call for him when she has always ignored his existence? It’s not another attempt on his life, this he is sure of. That’d be far too obvious, and blame would fall squarely on her should anything adverse happen to him en route.

Certainly not a sudden change of heart either. The thought of her deciding to welcome his presence with open arms is a frighteningly chilling prospect. Yves doubts she would do something so uncharacteristic even if she were given a second chance at life like he had. 

So then, what could it be?

Was the assassin sent by her? If so, could this be an attempt to gauge his well being after the obvious failure? Except…something about it nags at him.

Yves is no stranger to people wanting to kill him, not with the number of enemies he’s made in the past life alone. Picking out someone’s murderous intentions has become something of a sixth sense to him, and… he has never quite gotten that feeling from the queen. Wariness and dislike, certainly. 

But not outright murder. 

Of course, the lack of killing intent didn’t strictly exclude her from the long, long list of suspects. Simply makes it less likely. 

As the eldest of the king’s two sons, Yves does technically have a claim to the throne, even if he has zero intention in doing so. Despite his mother’s lack of noble background(or…any background, really), it still doesn’t erase the fact that the king heavily favored her. His marriage to his second wife was nothing more than a political alliance, something widely gossiped about.

Really, it’s only due to his own withdrawal from the public eye and his…less than stellar behavior that there is not more support behind Yves. While traditionalists favor those of a noble lineage, there are still others who cry about the fact that despite it all, Yves remains the eldest child. 

(For if birth order did not matter, what would that mean for those who have nothing else supporting their own successorship?)

The queen hails from an influential noble family, with as many supporters as there are adversaries. A boon and bane all in one. People would do anything to tear such a powerhouse down, if it meant they could swallow up some of it for themselves. Supporting a frail prince’s claim to the throne, especially one that could be a puppet ruler, is the least they would do.

Of course the queen would consider Yves a threat to her precious son.

…This does not narrow the list of possible suspects at all.

Haah, there’s no use in overthinking this. All this politicking is enough to give him another headache. He’ll die from a brain aneurysm long before his throat is slit at this rate. No, the best way to ascertain her intentions would be to meet with the woman herself.

By the time he steps out from his bedroom, he is precisely 20 minutes late. It’ll take about 10 minutes of brisk walking to get to where the queen awaits him, but he decides to continue at a sedate pace. It’s good to take in the scenery sometimes, Yves thinks. To stop and smell the roses. Each and every single one. 

If it makes him tardier than he already is, then…what an unfortunate side effect.

The maid wrings her hands at his unhurried speed, but ultimately stays silent. Few are willing or suicidal enough to rush a prince, even one as powerless as him.

Stepping out to one of the numerous gardens in the western wing, Yves smiles at the sight. Sitting at a table laden with a spread of breakfast items such as pork sausages, buckwheat porridge with fresh fruit, and buttered rolls, the queen meets his arrival with a frown. 

The food must be long cold by now, he thinks smugly as he dips into a shallow bow, just barely enough to not be considered outright impolite. It’s still not quite enough to be reprimanded for, not without seeming unnecessarily nit picky, a fact that the queen is well aware of. The fact that the food remains untouched is further evidence of her obsession with her public image. One couldn’t eat until their guest, one who they personally invited, arrives. Similarly, the guest could not partake in the food until the host ate first. It’d be poor form. 

Court rules dictate for the lower ranked to remain silent after their greetings until they are acknowledged by those of higher status. For her to remain silent for so long is a clear sign of her desire to shame him for his tardiness. A show of power in making him bend for as long as it takes for him to squirm with nerves. 

A pity, then, that he is not the sort to feel shame.

He’d thought about trying to pretend to be the child he is supposed to be, but soon dismissed that idea. It has been far too long since his childhood days for him to put up a convincing act without seeming even more suspicious. More importantly, playing nice has never been his strong suit. 

How to play this out, how best to twist this unexpected situation to his advantage?

So many options, all depending on what exactly the reason for this invitation is. How familiar it is, this dancing around of topics, attempting to pry out information from another whilst keeping his own cards to himself. A frustrating endeavor to be sure, but there are times when he relishes in the sweet rush of victory whenever he manages to trip someone up with nothing but words. 

How will this verbal spar end, he wonders. Well, only one way to find out.

Yves smiles, sharp as any blade he’s ever wielded. 

“My greetings to Her Majesty, mother of this nation.”