Chapter 20: The Price of a Father’s Trust

The rain had not ceased for three days. It drummed against the leaded glass of the Palatine Chapel, a relentless penitent at the altar of the sky. Drogo stood in the shadows of the ambulatory, watching Lothar kneel before the shrine of Saint Mary, his broad shoulders bowed in a semblance of devotion that Drogo knew to be as calculated as his own laziness.

Bernard shifted beside him, the leather of his sword belt creaking softly. “He has been there an hour. Waiting for you to make the first move.”

“No,” Drogo murmured. “He is waiting for me to make the *wrong* move. There is a difference.”

Lothar rose, crossing himself with the precision of a man who had learned the gesture at his mother’s knee and had never once meant it. He turned, and his eyes found Drogo immediately—as if he had known all along where the youngest prince lurked.

“Brother,” Lothar called, his voice echoing off the marble columns. “Come. Pray with me.”

Drogo stepped into the light, letting his shoulders slump, letting his smile drift lazily across his face. “I have already prayed, Lothar. For the harvest, for the souls of the departed, and for a warm bed with a warmer companion. God is surely tired of my petitions by now.”

Lothar’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “You mock the Almighty.”

“I mock myself. The Almighty needs no mockery from me; He has already given me enough material.”

They walked together along the chapel’s curved wall, Bernard trailing at a respectful distance. The candles guttered in the draught from the open doors, and the smell of incense clung to the stone like a memory of better days.

“You spoke with Father,” Lothar said. It was not a question.

“I did.”

“And what did the old man have to say? More tears? More penance? Another crowning and uncrowning of me, perhaps, to keep the bishops amused?”

Drogo stopped, placing a hand on a pillar carved with the likeness of an eagle. “He spoke of you, actually. He spoke of how proud he is of you. How he hopes you will forgive him for the humiliations he has heaped upon your head.”

Lothar’s jaw tightened. “Forgive him? He stripped me of my title, exiled me, and then—when it suited him—called me back like a dog that had run too far from the kennel.”

“Yes,” Drogo said softly. “And yet he still holds the crown. The bishops still bless his name. The nobles still bow. Tell me, brother—how long do you think a dog can run before the master decides to put it down?”

The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Lothar’s eyes searched Drogo’s face, looking for the trap, looking for the lie. Drogo let him look. Let him see nothing but a lazy, pleasure-seeking fool who happened to have overheard something useful.

“What are you saying, Drogo?”

“I am saying that Father is old. I am saying that his health is failing faster than he admits. I am saying that when he dies—and he will die, Lothar, for all his prayers and fasting—there will be a scramble for the crown. And the man who controls the succession will control the empire.”

Lothar stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You speak of treason.”

“I speak of *succession*,” Drogo corrected, his smile never wavering. “Treason is a word men use when they fear the truth. I am not afraid of the truth, brother. Are you?”

Lothar studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he laughed—a low, bitter sound that echoed off the chapel walls. “You are more dangerous than you look, little brother.”

“I am more *useful* than I look. That is the only thing that matters.”

Lothar’s hand shot out, gripping Drogo’s wrist with surprising strength. “If I am to trust you, I need something. Proof that you are not Judith’s creature, not Father’s spy, not some agent of chaos who will burn us all for sport.”

Drogo did not flinch. “Ask.”

“Father’s seal. The imperial seal he keeps on his person at all times. If you can bring it to me—even for a single hour—I will know you are mine. I will believe every word you have ever said.”

The request hung in the air like a blade. Drogo felt Bernard’s eyes on his back, felt the weight of the moment pressing down on his shoulders. The seal was not merely wax and gold; it was the symbol of the emperor’s will, the instrument by which every edict, every grant, every pardon was made legal. To take it—even briefly—was to commit a crime that could see him executed as a traitor.

And yet.

“I will bring it to you,” Drogo said calmly. “Tomorrow night, in the scriptorium, after Compline. You will have your hour.”

Lothar released his wrist, stepping back with a satisfied nod. “Then perhaps there is hope for this family after all.”

He walked away, his boots ringing on the stone, and Drogo watched him go with a face as blank as a winter sky.

Bernard moved to his side, his voice tight with barely contained fury. “You cannot be serious. That seal is the emperor’s lifeblood. If anyone discovers it missing, if Judith even *suspects*—”

“Judith will suspect,” Drogo interrupted. “That is the point. She will suspect, she will act, and she will reveal her hand. We are not giving Lothar the seal because we trust him. We are giving it to him because we need Judith to believe we do.”

Bernard stared at him. “You are playing with fire, Drogo.”

“I have been playing with fire since the day I was born,” Drogo said, turning away from the altar. “The trick is not to avoid the flames. The trick is to make sure everyone else burns first.”

The rain continued to fall, and in the distance, thunder rolled across the plains of Aachen like the drums of an army marching to war.

Drogo smiled, and the smile did not reach his eyes.

He had one night to steal his father’s seal.

And one night to decide whether he would give it to Lothar—or use it to destroy them all.