Chapter 12: under pressure (3)
THIRTY-ONE HOURS BEFORE THE DEATH OF DAMIAN ROSWALD
"—ur Highness, is it true—"
"—rince, what do—"
"Keep back, please—"
"—the king, people are—"
"—about the violence we've seen—"
"—some room, let's get some room here!"
"—ness—"
"—Highness—"
Dozens of voices assaulted Damian as he stood in the open lobby of Rossheim Palace.
Camera flashes bloomed, expending a blindingly bright Cinder to capture a photograph. A crowd of journalists jostled for position, pen and paper at the ready, hurling questions and comments at him with abandon. Dominic and two Flameguard shouted orders and tried to keep the mob back as they swarmed the marble-floored lobby.
Damian smiled the whole time, but he felt close to vomiting.
The cameras flashed incessantly, no doubt capturing the sweat dripping down his forehead, and the pale color in his cheeks.
The journalists pressed up against each other, taking notes even when he said nothing, all desperate for something—anything—to write in the nightly newspapers. If they were lucky, and quick with their pens, they could get onto the front pages with some catchy headline that painted the royal family in a bad light.
That's all these people want. To capture the people's attention for a handful of coins. Truth or lies, or a mixture of both—they don't care.
Damian took a deep, unsteady breath, pushing his fear and nerves down.
This is my responsibility. If I can't handle a few journalists as the prince, how will I fare as the king?
He raised a hand to halt the barrage of voices and comments.
"Please! Everyone, please, one at a time. I'll answer a single question from everyone, then no more comments. Please—you, in the green cap. You're first."
Damian singled out a reporter he knew by sight—a royalist who was sure to ask an easy question. As the noise subsided, the reporters readied themselves to jot down the questions and answers.
Dominic and the Flameguard eased up, stepping back to flank the Crown Prince on either side. Another camera flashed, then silence fell in the lobby, broken only by the clearing of throats and crinkling of paper.
The green-capped reporter nodded and asked his question.
"Your Highness, what light can you shed on the senseless violence we've seen carried out against good, law-abiding members of the Flame overnight?"
"As Crown Prince of Sidralis, I'm deeply saddened by the deaths of any citizens, and I wish for the perpetrators to be brought to justice as soon as possible."
Damian paused, triggering another wave of camera flashes. After his discussion with Leon, Gunther had brought him the afternoon papers, many of which had decided to focus on the murders.
The Chief Detective of the RMP—the Rosweiss Metropolitan Police—had paid the Palace a visit, but there was little evidence to progress a case. It seemed likely the murderers would escape with blood on their hands—but Damian couldn't tell the media that. He needed to instill confidence in the people and trust in the RMP.
"The Rosweiss Metropolitan Police are handling the case from here, and it's not appropriate for me to comment any further. Next question, please?"
Journalists scratched his words down on their notepads. Another person raised their hand, and Damian's heart sank.
The man was profusely rotund, his bald head glistening with sweat, and when he spoke, his words were punctuated by sharp pointing of his pen. He was a notoriously conservative reporter from Rose News—one of the royal family's greatest foes in the media.
"There are reports that His Majesty the King is on his deathbed, and Angel save us, we've got the 'playboy prince' waiting in the wings, standing down here this very evening ready for another party—the sixth in six months! What do you have to say to convince the average, honest, hard-working Sidralian that you actually understand their needs?"
The mood in the room changed quickly, amidst a flurry of murmurs and the flashing of cameras. Damian's mood soured even further, but he maintained that pleasant, deceptive smile.
"When they attack you, remember they're furthering their own career. You're not a person to them. You're a tool for them to make money. See through their words; never let them affect you."
When he was nine years old, his mother had imparted that advice on her young child, and following her death, those words had been his salvation.
Despite being barely ten years old, Gunther and Leon and the king could only do so much to keep the young Damian away from the media's vicious words and savage questions.
Damian let his late mother's words guide him as he gave a curt reply to the Rose News' reporter.
"The press are free to label me however they wish. My father's condition is stable, and I—along with everyone in Sidralis—pray for his continued good health. When that terrible day comes, I shall join Sidralians in their grief, and I shall accept the heavy responsibility of the Crown. Until then, I ask that the media not presume anything unexpectedly."
Cameras flashed and there was more fierce scribbling.
His answer had been evasive—a roundabout redirect that didn't truly address the heart of the question. The awful moniker of the "playboy prince" had stuck with Damian since his teenaged years, and although he didn't deny that he might've earned the title, he knew the media would've found some other way to disparage him eventually. Such was their predatory, bloodthirsty nature.
After that, the journalists continued asking their questions in turn. Some were simple, nothing more than basic headliners to address comments about trade disputes, or his thoughts on the ongoing Rastian Civil War.
Other reporters from the Rose News' sibling papers had more barbed questions, criticizing Damian for hosting another party while Sidralian farmers settled in for a bitter winter.
Those questions he redirected, or outright avoided answering entirely.
Then, at last, when the final question had been asked, Damian sent a meaningful look to Dominic. Damian gave a cheery smile—accompanied by the loudest and brightest flurry of camera flashes yet—while his bodyguard stepped forward like a human wall.
"No further questions for His Highness, make way!"
Dominic and the two Flameguard stepped forward, ushering the crowd out the main doors. The Flameguard continued all the way down the road to the gates of the residence, where they joined the security checkpoint screening the guests arriving for the ball.
Dominic returned to Damian's side, and not a moment later, Gunther approached with a strained smile on his lips.
"You did well, Your Highness."
Gunther passed Damian a flute of champagne from the silver tray resting on his arm.
"They get more invasive every time. They're damned sharks, looking for blood."
Damian downed half the champagne in a single gulp. His throat was parched.
"Such is their nature, young master. Come, now, your cousins have already arrived, and the festivities are underway upstairs."
Damian glanced at the large clock hanging in the lobby. It was just past seven o'clock now, and he'd worked up quite the appetite—and thirst—from the media frenzy.
He followed Gunther into a nearby elevator, while Dominic stayed behind to assist the Flameguard in ensuring the Palace's security. With dozens of guests arriving from all over the kingdom, the last thing they needed was an opportunistic gatecrasher.
Damian grumbled to himself as he stepped into the elevator cage.
"Where do they get off, criticizing me so? Isn't it the right of royalty to enjoy ourselves? Angel knows we've worked for it."
Gunther inclined his head, offering no particular comment on the matter. The Priest inside the elevator was silent—as expected—as the metal contraption rattled its way up to the tenth floor.
After a moment's pause, the old butler cleared his throat.
"Perhaps, young master, the people simply expect their ruler to understand what it's like to live as they do. Myself and the other staff in the Palace do not sup nor party like yourself. Think how a farmhand breaking the cold ground would feel upon seeing such splendor."
"And would that farmhand take responsibility for running the whole kingdom? He need only care for his family. I must bear the weight of my legacy, and the future of the kingdom on my shoulders. There are ten million souls looking to me."
Gunther did not seem offended by Damian's retort—the pair had been master-and-servant for so long, Gunther was practically family to Damian.
Yet, as Gunther had admitted, the butler existed in another world—a hidden, reverse side of Rossheim Palace. Damian did not question where his wine and dinner and breakfast came from; they simply appeared, along with whatever new maids, bodyguards, or aides were required for his duties.
Damian knew this.
He knew, too, that many Sidralians went to bed hungry; such was the cruel hand that fate dealt. Nobody could choose where to be born, or into which family, or with what wealth or opportunities.
He knew all those things to be true.
Yet, he was but a boy of twenty, without a mother, his father dying, and the expectations of a nation chipping away at the walls around his heart.
I will not regret my actions, nor feel ashamed for how I live my life. Let someone else take my position, and see if they do any better in my place.
The elevator stopped at the tenth floor, and the Priest pulled back the metal grill.
Damian entered the brightly lit hall beyond, the spacious room filled with the overlapping conversations of lords and ladies, of dukes and princes and Damian's extended family.
And if Gunther melted away into the shadows, joining the dozens of staff required to water and feed this gathering of high society, the Crown Prince paid it no mind.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone