Chapter 15: Simultaneous Feeds
The confirmation slipped in through the consort lines, shrouded in cryptic layers of protocol and double-blind verification. Not a single alarm tripped. No hint of change rippled through the palace routine. Yet Helena, attuned to the undercurrents, sensed the shift the instant the final timestamp decrypted.
Connor had chosen his moment with the precision of a seasoned operative, every variable accounted for, every risk meticulously weighed.
“He’s scheduled the announcement,” Alex murmured, eyes flicking to the encrypted feed on her tablet. “Empire-wide. Prime hours. He wants everyone watching.” Her voice was low, cautious—each word measured as if the walls, too, might be listening.
Helena nodded slowly, her gaze flicking to the blank corner where surveillance mics sometimes hid. “He would be,” she replied, keeping her voice barely above a whisper, as if wary of unseen ears embedded in the palace walls.
The plan was already in motion—silent directives passed through coded channels, mission triggers set to activate at the faintest signal. Every participant operated on a need-to-know basis, their roles compartmentalized, their instructions encrypted. In the shadows of the palace, the real game had begun.
The King had approved it without hesitation—no speeches, no debate. Orders were relayed in cipher, routed through secure comms, leaving no trace to the untrained eye. The Crown would not interrupt Connor’s broadcast; instead, a shadow operation would run parallel. Separate channels. Independent routing. Signal jammers and decoy transmissions masked their digital footprints. Connor would speak, believing the Empire was his alone, unaware that another truth was unfolding in real time, hidden beneath layers of obfuscation and misdirection.
By the time he intercepted the anomaly in the data stream—trailing signatures of a covert breach—it would be too late. The operation had already unfolded beneath layers of false signals and stealth protocols, leaving Connor grasping for answers as the real target vanished into encrypted silence.
The first feed went live across Calgary’s official channels. Connor appeared before the banners of his city-state, immaculate and composed—a dark silhouette haloed by the imperial crest, eyes glinting with cold calculation. His voice, smooth and commanding, flooded every public square and private home, echoing with the certainty of someone accustomed to absolute power. Even the lighting seemed designed to cast long shadows behind him, as if the city itself bent to his will.
He could not see the second feed.
Across Chicago, and then outward through encrypted allied relays, a different image flickered to life—transmitted on frequencies reserved for covert operations, masked by decoy data bursts and rotating encryption keys. Only those with the right access codes could trace the broadcast’s true origin as it slipped past firewalls and counterintelligence scans, embedding itself across the Empire’s networks before anyone could intervene.
Helena and Alex.
They walked together into the shopping district beneath open daylight, the city alive around them—its vibrancy a perfect mask for secrets. No guards in frame. No palace walls. Just people moving past them, each absorbed in their own business, oblivious to the silent exchange of glances and code words. Beneath the surface, an invisible current of tension threaded the crowd, as if at any moment, a hidden hand might tip the balance. History was unfolding overhead, but the real game played out in shadows and half-smiles, where no one could be sure who was watching.
Helena’s injuries were still visible—subtle but unmistakable. A slower step. A faint stiffness in her posture. Alex walked close, instinctively matching her pace, their hands brushing as they moved. Every so often, Alex’s fingers lingered, offering silent reassurance, and Helena responded with a grateful, gentle squeeze. The world around them faded for a moment; in the midst of tension and subterfuge, they found small, precious ways to anchor themselves in each other—soft smiles, the press of shoulders, a quiet laugh shared between only them.
Connor began to speak.
“Citizens of the Empire,” his voice rang out, brimming with unshakeable confidence and a touch of imperious superiority. “Today, I bring you the truth about a fracture at the heart of power—a truth only I am bold enough to reveal.”
The shopping feed showed Alex and Helena pausing outside a storefront, their laughter mingling with the city’s bustle. Alex held up two outfits and made a theatrical gesture, prompting Helena to giggle and shake her head before pointing decisively to her choice. Alex grinned, flashing her a look of delighted affection, and swept an exaggerated bow before following her inside. Their hands found each other as they crossed the threshold, fingers entwined in a quiet display of happiness and ease that needed no words.
Connor continued, his posture exuding effortless superiority, barely glancing at the body double standing beside him as if she were merely a prop in his scheme.
“Consort Alex has seen what Princess Helena’s future rule would mean,” he declared, a faint, knowing smile crossing his lips. “She feared it—just as anyone who truly understands power would.”
Inside the store, they stood before a mirror, trying on matching outfits—coordinated without effort, their movements practiced, intimate. Alex adjusted Helena’s collar with a playful grin, earning a soft laugh. Helena rested her forehead briefly against Alex’s, her eyes shining with happiness. They exchanged a quiet joke, their laughter mingling as they admired their reflection—two people utterly at ease, finding joy in the simple pleasure of being together. For a moment, the world outside faded, and all that mattered was the happiness they shared in each other's company.
Connor straightened, letting a faint, superior smile play at his lips. “She chose to leave,” he declared, his tone heavy with self-assurance. “To stand with those wise enough to protect the Empire from reckless ambition.” Every word was delivered with the poise of someone supremely confident in his own vision and the inevitability of his victory.
Across the Empire, confusion rippled as viewers began to notice the contradiction. Screens flickered in government buildings and private homes alike; whispers swept through market crowds and behind closed doors. Loyalists and dissenters paused, scanning for clarification, while palace aides scrambled to decipher conflicting broadcasts. Social feeds erupted with speculation—who was telling the truth, and who had outmaneuvered whom? For a split second, the balance of power teetered, and every citizen sensed that something unprecedented was unfolding in real time.
Connor pressed on, his voice sharpening and rising with unmistakable authority. He raised his chin, surveying his unseen audience with an air of absolute certainty, as if the Empire’s fate rested solely in his hands.
“And therefore, I formally call for the future heir designation to be—” His words rang with the finality of a ruler who expected no challenge, every syllable edged with the confidence of one who believed himself untouchable.
The second feed took prominence on allied networks.
Alex turned toward the camera, her expression calm, resolute—a hint of satisfaction flickering in her eyes.
“The woman you have is a body double, Connor.” Her words landed with undeniable finality, the subtle lift of her eyebrow and the faintest, knowing smile making the revelation feel almost like a checkmate. In that instant, the balance of power shifted, and for a heartbeat, the entire Empire could sense the unmistakable thrill of a masterstroke revealed.
Connor did not hear her.
But the Empire did.
“We suspected you might have been behind the mag-train attack,” Alex continued, her tone measured yet unmistakably triumphant. “Now, you’ve given us proof.” There was a glint in her eyes—a silent, victorious satisfaction—as if she’d just played the winning move and wanted the world, and Connor, to know it. The words hung in the air, the ultimate gotcha, leaving no room for denial or escape.
Helena stepped forward, her voice steady despite the weight of the moment. A slow, knowing smile played at her lips as she looked directly into the camera.
“You attempted to use tragedy to kidnap my beloved Alex and turn her against the Crown.” She let the words hang, her gaze unwavering, then continued, her tone edged with unmistakable satisfaction. “But instead, you exposed your own plot for all to see.”
For a beat, the room seemed to hold its breath—a moment of pure reversal, the triumph of having turned the tables unmistakable. It was the kind of reveal that left no doubt: the trap had been sprung, and Connor was caught.
Alex nodded once, her satisfaction unmistakable.
“Instead, you took a body double and a loyal guard.” Her words landed with a quiet, triumphant finality, like the last move in a well-played game.
The city moved around them—ordinary, uninterrupted—reinforcing the truth with every unbothered passerby. For a moment, it was as if the whole world paused to register the magnitude of the reversal—Connor’s scheme exposed, and the tables turned in full view of the Empire. The sense of 'gotcha' was undeniable, echoing in the silence that followed.
Helena’s tone was cool and unyielding, her gaze never wavering from the camera. “Expect punishment from the Crown,” she concluded, letting the moment stretch just long enough for the gravity to settle. “For treason.”
The words landed with the sharp satisfaction of a final, inescapable checkmate—a public 'gotcha' that left no doubt as to who truly held the upper hand. In that instant, the Empire saw not just justice served, but a masterstroke complete.
Connor finished his sentence alone, chin lifted in the posture of a man supremely assured of his own narrative—unaware that the Empire had already heard a different ending. He carried himself with the unshakable confidence of someone convinced his word was law, oblivious to the reversal unfolding beyond his control.
By the time his aides realized something was wrong—by the time reports flooded in from panicked officials and frozen broadcasters—the damage was done. Connor felt it then: the cold, creeping edge of fear threading through his certainty, tightening his chest as the realization dawned that the narrative had slipped beyond his grasp. For the first time, the weight of consequences pressed in from all sides, and the familiar confidence that once held him steady faltered.
The feeds ended.
Across the Empire, silence shattered into outrage. City squares erupted with cries of disbelief; palace corridors buzzed with frantic whispers as officials scrambled to grasp the consequences. Families argued in their homes, merchants abandoned their stalls to cluster around public screens, and social networks overflowed with fury and speculation. The shockwave rippled outward, uniting the disparate provinces in a single, volatile moment.
And in Calgary, Prince Connor stood in his private broadcast chamber, shoulders squared and a self-satisfied smirk still lingering on his lips, believing he had just humiliated a grieving Princess. The gilded room around him hummed with the soft static of disconnected feeds, aides frozen in disbelief at their stations.
…not yet realizing he had condemned himself. Above, the city’s sky was suddenly alive with the wail of distant alarms and the flash of urgent messages. Connor’s victory, so recently assured, was already slipping from his grasp—reversed in a storm of public outrage he had never anticipated.
Connor finished his address to polite applause from the chamber before him. The sound was muted, almost perfunctory—a ripple of gloved hands meeting in the cavernous hall, echoing off marble and gold. Courtiers bowed their heads, careful not to meet his eyes, each wondering what they’d just witnessed. The air held a faint chill, the subtle tension of people waiting for permission to breathe again. Connor allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, projecting calm authority, as if the outcome had never been in doubt. Yet beneath the surface, something in the quality of the applause hinted that the room’s loyalty was already shifting.
The banners of Calgary hung motionless behind him, their rigid geometry framing a moment he had rehearsed a hundred times. Connor’s stance radiated authority—shoulders squared, chin lifted, meeting the cameras with the composure of someone accustomed to command. His expression was perfectly measured, tinged with the magnanimity of a ruler who believed himself above reproach, almost regretful at having to deliver what he framed as hard but necessary truths. He was every inch the prince: confident, superior, and in that instant, absolutely certain of the power he held over the chamber and the narrative itself.
The lights dimmed.
The feed ended.
Connor turned with the languid assurance of someone accustomed to command, already exhaling, already discarding the role. “That should be sufficient,” he said coolly, every syllable laced with the expectation of obedience. “Release the follow-up statement in one hour. I want the succession councils debating before nightfall.” His tone brooked no dissent; he spoke as if the outcome was already decided, radiating an air of unshakable confidence and superiority.
No one answered.
The silence behind him stretched unnaturally long.
Connor frowned, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through his usual composure, and turned back toward his aides. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with confusion and dread. The room felt heavier now, charged with the uneasy energy of people who had just witnessed something they couldn't explain. One of them—his senior media coordinator—looked like she might be sick, her hands trembling as if she were struggling to process what had just happened.
“What is it?” Connor snapped, his words edged with rising anger. “Speak. Now.” His tone cut through the tension like a blade, impatience and fury simmering just beneath the surface.
“Your Highness…” Her voice shook, thick with nervous tension. “There was another broadcast.” The words seemed to hang in the air, every aide holding their breath, uncertain whether to brace for anger or disbelief. Even the quiet hum of the monitors felt amplified, each second stretching with the anxious anticipation of what might follow.
Connor scoffed, irritation flashing across his face. “Of course there was,” he snapped, his words clipped with barely concealed anger. “There are always counter-narratives.” The dismissive tone was laced with frustration, as if the incompetence of others was a personal affront.
“No,” she said quickly, her words tumbling out, thick with nervous tension. “Not after. During.” Her eyes darted to Connor, then to the others, as if bracing for his reaction. The entire room seemed to hold its collective breath, the air charged with anxious uncertainty as the implications settled in.
That gave him pause. For a moment, Connor’s composure faltered, and a hush fell over the aides, nervous tension crackling in the air. Everyone seemed to be waiting, hearts pounding, for the next revelation—afraid of what it might mean for them all.
“What do you mean, during?”
The aide swallowed, her nerves plainly visible in the tightness of her jaw and the tremor in her voice. “A parallel feed went live across Chicago and the allied city-states. Separate channels. Separate routing. We couldn’t see it from here.” The words came out haltingly, as if she feared the consequences of each revelation. Nervous tension rippled through the room—every aide leaning ever so slightly forward, uncertain whether to expect Connor’s rage or disbelief, the silence thick with anxious anticipation.
Connor’s irritation sharpened, eyes narrowing with unmistakable anger. “So they ran damage control,” he snapped, his voice carrying a hard edge that left no doubt about his fury. “Expected.” The words landed with enough force to make the nearby aides flinch, as if each syllable was a blow of barely contained rage.
Another aide stepped forward, hands trembling as he held out a tablet. His face was drawn, eyes darting nervously between Connor and the other aides. A bead of sweat traced down his temple, betraying the tension in the room. “It wasn’t damage control, sir.” His voice was tight, barely above a whisper, as if he feared his own words might spark disaster. The nervous tension was palpable—every movement, every breath, weighed down by the uncertainty of what Connor might do next.
Connor took the device, his fingers betraying a faint tremor as he accepted the tablet. The room seemed to shrink around him, aides silent and tense, eyes darting between the screen and his face, afraid of what they might see next.
The video was already cued, its thumbnail frozen on an unfamiliar scene. Even the soft whir of the ventilation felt amplified in the nervous silence. Connor hesitated for a split second before pressing play, aware that every breath, every glance, was being measured by those around him.
He watched.
At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing—sunlight, storefronts, crowds moving freely. Confusion rippled through his mind as he blinked, trying to make sense of the ordinary scene that felt so out of place. For a moment, nothing aligned with his expectations: the faces were half-familiar, the context all wrong. Then, slowly, the figures resolved. Two women walking side by side. One dark-haired. One golden. His confusion deepened, an uneasy suspicion creeping in as he realized the impossible was unfolding before his eyes.
Alive.
Together.
A low, electric tension built in the room as realization began to dawn. The aides watched in stunned silence, breaths shallow, eyes darting from the video to Connor and back again, waiting for his reaction. Each second seemed to stretch, heavy with the knowledge that everything was about to change.
Connor’s fingers tightened around the tablet.
“No,” he muttered, frustration cutting through his disbelief. “That’s not—” His jaw clenched, voice thickening with anger. The words ground out of him, edged with helpless fury as he grasped for an explanation that refused to come.
The feed continued. Laughter—soft, genuine, the kind that belonged to people who had learned each other’s rhythms and secrets. Their hands brushed as they walked, fingers intertwining for a moment before returning to their sides. Intimacy lingered in the way Helena leaned in to whisper something only Alex could hear, and the answering smile that spread across Alex’s face was private and unguarded. Familiarity so casual it couldn’t be staged. They weren’t hiding; they weren’t afraid. For a heartbeat, the world around them seemed to fall away, leaving only the warm, unspoken language that existed between them.
They were real.
Connor’s breath slowed as something cold settled into his chest—a creeping sense of dread that numbed his thoughts and made the edges of the room blur. Each inhale felt heavier, as if the air itself carried the weight of impending disaster. The certainty he’d clung to only moments before seemed to slip away, replaced by the chilling realization that everything was about to unravel.
Then Alex turned to the camera.
“The woman you have is a body double, Connor.”
For a moment, disbelief rippled through Connor—he stared at the screen, mind scrambling for another explanation as the impossible truth unfolded. He looked up at the woman, unresponsive, who was supposed to be Alex, his eyes wide with shock, unable to comprehend how thoroughly he’d been deceived.
The room seemed to tilt.
Connor watched himself being dismantled in real time—word by word, accusation by accusation—spoken calmly, decisively, without flourish. A sense of dread curled in his stomach, growing with each line as the evidence stacked up. Every calmly delivered accusation felt like another bar slamming shut on a cage he hadn’t seen until now. Helena beside her. Injured. Standing. Unbroken. The realization struck him with icy clarity—his defeat was unfolding for the entire Empire to see, and he was powerless to stop it.
Punishment from the Crown.
For treason.
A wave of fear surged through Connor, sudden and absolute, as the words echoed in the chamber. His hand went numb, the tablet slipping from his grasp and striking the marble floor with a sharp crack that seemed to ring out like a verdict. For a heartbeat, he could only stare, chest tight, dread crawling up his spine as the reality of his fate closed in.
“No,” Connor said softly, his voice faltering as denial warred with reason. “That’s impossible.” For a moment he clung to disbelief, mind scrambling for any explanation other than the one unfolding before him. But the truth pressed in from all sides—inescapable, undeniable—leaving him suspended between refusal and the cold edge of reality.
One of the aides whispered, “The Empire believes them.”
The words seemed to echo in the chamber, carrying a sense of mounting horror. Connor’s skin prickled, his heart pounding in his chest as if each syllable were a nail sealing his fate. The realization that the narrative was out of his control—irreversibly so—spread like icy dread through the room, turning the air thick and stifling. For a moment, even the light seemed to recede, as if the world itself recoiled from the scale of what had just happened.
Connor rounded on him, fury flashing dangerously in his eyes. “Of course they do. They always believe Chicago,” he spat, voice raw with anger and humiliation. The words echoed off the walls, sharp and venomous, as if he could wound with sound alone.
He paced once, then again, boots striking stone harder with every step, his movements jerky and restless. The air around him crackled with anger, every muscle tensed as frustration built. His mind raced, assembling timelines, contingencies, lies he could still tell—
—and then it hit him.
A dawning sense of realization flooded through Connor, sharp and undeniable. He replayed every moment, every hesitation from his adversaries, seeing now what he had missed in the heat of ambition.
They hadn’t reacted.
They had waited.
With a cold clarity, Connor understood: the patience, the calculated calm, the subtle shifts had all been part of a strategy he’d failed to recognize. The trap had been set long before he ever made his move.
“They knew,” Connor said slowly, the weight of comprehension settling on his shoulders. “They traveled with doubles before the attack. This wasn’t recovery. This was preparation.”
The aide nodded weakly, fear flickering in his eyes as he delivered the news. “Public sentiment is shifting rapidly, sir. The Crown has ordered an immediate inquiry. Assets are being frozen.” His voice was barely above a whisper, as if afraid that even speaking the words aloud might make the consequences real. The tension in the room sharpened—every aide sensing that the walls were closing in, the ground shifting beneath their feet.
Connor stopped pacing, his brow furrowing as uncertainty crept into his expression.
“Check the woman we took?” he asked quietly, the question trailing off with a note of speculation, as if he was already piecing together new possibilities. Was there still a chance to salvage the plan? Had he missed something subtle, some clue in their ruse?
A pause—every aide in the room seemed to be turning over theories, searching for answers in the mounting confusion.
“She’s… still unresponsive,” someone said, voice uncertain. “We believed the conditioning was—” The rest of the sentence hung in the air, unspoken questions multiplying. Was she really who they thought? Had they all been deceived from the start?
Connor raised a hand.
Silence fell instantly.
He stared ahead, eyes unfocused now, no longer seeing the room—only the shape of the trap closing around him. Rage simmered beneath his skin, building with every heartbeat as the enormity of his failure became undeniable. He had wanted a spectacle. Had wanted humiliation. Had wanted Helena stripped of authority before the Empire. Instead, every expectation had been turned against him, and the fury he felt grew—hot, relentless, searching for a target. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening as he fought to keep his composure, but the building rage threatened to spill over, demanding retribution for his humiliation.
Instead, she had let him speak.
Let him confess.
“They didn’t even need to accuse me directly,” Connor murmured, but now there was a rawness in his tone—a flicker of rage threading every syllable. “They let the Empire do it for them.”
His jaw tightened, the muscles in his face straining with the effort to stay in control. His voice remained controlled, but a dangerous heat simmered beneath the surface, just barely contained.
“Very well,” he said, barely above a growl. “If they believe they’ve won… then they’ll stop watching for a moment.” His words spat out like an oath, anger and humiliation fueling a new, relentless resolve.
The aides exchanged uneasy glances.
Connor turned back toward the banners of Calgary, his expression smoothing into something cold and resolute, but inside, rage boiled, barely held in check by a thin veneer of control. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching as his mind replayed every humiliating reversal, every trap sprung by his adversaries.
“This is not over,” he said softly—each word trembling with fury, the promise of retribution burning beneath the calm exterior. “But I misjudged them.”
For the first time since the crash, since the lie, since the illusion he thought he controlled, realization crashed through him with brutal force—he was not the master of this game. The truth sliced through his anger, leaving a raw, stinging awareness: everything he believed about his dominance was an illusion, and he had been played for a fool.
He had never been the hunter.
He had always been the reveal.
And now, the Empire was coming.