The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic

Martina's brows furrowed. "Why?"

Kael hesitated for only a second before replying, his voice calm but serious.

"They acted too well. Their performance... it was like they were pulling from my memories. I know it sounds strange, but... I have a past—painful and buried—that matches what they showed. I just want to talk with them and appreciate them... Please."

Martina didn't answer immediately. Her eyes searched his face, reading between the lines. But before she could say anything, Adonis scoffed.

"That's a waste of time," he muttered. "You're chasing ghosts over a silly play."

Freya crossed her arms, lips curling with irritation. "We already wasted enough time because of that fool's blunder," she said, casting a sharp look at Sol.

Sol snapped his head toward her, glaring. "What do you mean by that?"

Freya arched an eyebrow. "It's because of you that we got distracted watching this entire thing. You were the one who insisted we stop."

"Oh, don't act like you weren't interested," Sol fired back. "I saw your eyes practically glowing. Stop pretending you are bored!"

"Ugh, are you seriously trying to pin this on me now?" Freya huffed.

Linda stepped forward with a shrug. "Both of you are hopeless."

Adonis clicked his tongue. "Can we not do this now?"

The bickering continued for a few moments, rising like a wildfire, until—

"Enough."

Martina's voice cracked through the tension like a whip. She raised a hand, commanding silence.

All heads turned toward her.

She exhaled softly, then looked back at Kael with more composure.

"I believe I understand your urgency," she said quietly. "But remember, you're not here for sentiment. We don't have the luxury of wasting time."

Kael stood straight, eyes determined.

"I'll make it quick. Twenty minutes. No more."

Martina narrowed her eyes once more, thinking—then nodded.

"You have half an hour. Not a minute more. Meet us at the Guilver Restaurant before that. If you're late…"

"I won't be." Kael gave a sharp salute, his hand clenched tightly against his chest. "Thank you, Your Highness."

Martina gave a soft wave. "Then go."

Without another word, Kael turned on his heel and sprinted through the narrow passageways behind the theatre, his cloak billowing behind him, his heart pounding not just with adrenaline—but with questions he could no longer ignore.

'Who are those actors? How much do they know? And who the hell permitted them to play my life?'

...…..

Kael pushed through the thickening crowd, his eyes sharp, scanning past cloaks, lanterns, and velvet stage curtains. The scent of grease paint, warm wax, and burnt wood lingered in the air. He ignored the clamor of the onlookers and nobles murmuring about the earlier incident. His boots crunched over gravel as he slipped around the side of the tent toward the backstage.

The canvas flaps of the performers' quarters rustled gently in the breeze. Inside, Kael found a bustling scene—chaotic yet strangely familiar. Costumes hung on wooden pegs. Stage props were being packed away. A few performers sat groaning in pain while assistants and healers hovered over them, dabbing ointments and checking bandages.

At the center of it all stood a middle-aged man with a cigar clenched between his teeth, waving a clipboard and barking orders like a seasoned general.

"No, no, dammit! The spear props go in that crate. The green one. Not the red! You'll crack the illusion stones if you stack them like that!"

His voice thundered over the rattle of crates and scraping of wheels. Then, his sharp eyes caught Kael—an unfamiliar presence amidst the hustle.

"Oi," he barked, taking the cigar out of his mouth and pointing it at Kael. "Who the hell are you?"

Kael stepped forward, his posture firm but non-threatening. "Just someone who watched your drama... and was quite moved by it."

The man blinked, surprised by the formal tone. "Well... alright. What do you want?"

"I want to meet the actors," Kael said, eyes scanning the tent.

The man chewed on the end of his cigar and replied, "You're a little late for that. Most of 'em are off getting treatment. That monocle stunt did a number on 'em. Scared the stagehands half to death."

"Fucking idiot…He always wears it in his right eye during practice. Only god knows what shit he had taken to put in the left."

Kael exhaled slowly. "Then... what about the scriptwriter? Who wrote the story?"

"Scriptwriter?" The man squinted, his expression tightening with confusion.

"Yes." Kael stepped closer. "Whoever wrote that script... I need to speak with them."

The man scratched the back of his neck with a sigh. "Why're you so interested, huh?"

Kael hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Let's just say... the script hit close to home. Too close. It's personal."

The old man drew in a long breath through his cigar and then sighed again. "Sorry, boy. You can't meet the writer."

"Why not?" Kael pressed, his voice rising slightly in urgency.

"Because she ain't from here." The man took the cigar out of his mouth, flicked the ash off to the side. "We met her haphazardly in the Kingdom of Dawna. She showed us that script, and said it was a one-time deal. We bought it. That's all there is to it."

Kael's eyes widened slightly. "She...? The writer's a woman?"

The man nodded. "Yeah. Tall lady. Bluish long hair. Pretty as a flower in spring. Bubbly personality. Real sunshine kind of gal."

"Do you know her name? Her address?"

"Nope." The man shrugged. "She came and went like the wind. Said she didn't want to be credited. We thought it was weird, but we liked the story too much to say no."

Kael's face darkened with frustration. His thoughts tangled in confusion and suspicion. Who was this woman? How did she know so much?

The old man gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Sorry, lad. I can't help you more than that."

Kael looked down, then slowly turned around. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"...Dawna."

The name rolled off his tongue, sharp and fateful. As he stepped back into the shadows of the crowd, his mind churned.

Who was she?

And how much more did she know?