The Counterfeit Crown
EPILOGUE
If you’re new to my Substack and you’d like to start from the beginning (and avoid a few spoilers), you can read the prologue here:
A mist of fine violet droplets splattered across the canvas, accentuating the blossoming jade and citrine pigments, radiating outwards in intricate patterns. Luminous trails captured against a star-studded backdrop, casting an ethereal glow on the faces of the three onlookers sprawled on a grassy knoll.
“Looking good.”
Kethryll the Brushmaster pulled his attention from the canvas to acknowledge Alaric leaning against the doorframe. Warm morning sun filtered through the large window, casting a golden glow that danced across the room, illuminating dust motes and bringing a soft warmth to the cluttered space.
Alaric drew in a deep breath. The air thickened with the scent of creativity. A sly smile tugged at his lips.
“What are you going to call this one?” Alaric stepped closer.
Kethryll took a step back, considering.
“The Essence of Twilight,” Kethryll waved his hands, “and the fleeting moments that follow. A dance between light and shadow. Between reality and the dreams we chase.”
Alaric leaned in close and squinted. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Of course, my friend,” Kethryll chuckled. “Art is about seeing the world differently. Finding beauty where others see nothing.”
A cough sounded at the door. Both men turned.
The sombre Chamberlain occupied the frame, his immaculate robe gently rippling without any breeze. A silver coin twisted between his ring-adorned fingers. The Controller’s sweaty, bulbous head peeked around the edge of the doorway, while a thick finger pressed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
“Ah,” the Chamberlain said, striding in. “I’m glad I found you two.”
Alaric rubbed his forehead to hide his rolling eyes.
The Controller ambled into the studio in the shadow of the Chamberlain. The Chamberlain’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, the coin twisting in his fingers. The Controller hovered in his shadow, face glistening in the morning light.
“Do come in, Chamberlain,” Kethryll bowed. “Controller.”
“I do hope I’m not interrupting another one of your... creative endeavours.” The Chamberlain stopped before the canvas, leaned in, and examined it closely. His eyebrows lifted. He rolled his eyes and began pacing the studio, casting sideways glances at half-finished works.
Meanwhile, the Controller discovered a lifelike sketch of the female form on an easel in the corner. He lifted it closer with both hands. His eyes bulged, threatening to knock his spectacles free. He flinched as the Chamberlain passed with a disapproving growl. In his haste to replace the sketch, he fumbled. The canvas crashed to the floor, setting off a cascade of clattering thuds as several other works followed.
“Something we can help you with, Chamberlain?” Alaric asked.
The Controller collected a handful of canvases and knocked over the easel. The canvases slipped from his grasp as he tried to save them. He winced and waited for the cacophony to subside.
The Chamberlain stilled the coin. He turned and glared at the Controller. The plump man retrieved a handkerchief from the sleeves of his official robe and wiped the glistening shine from his pate. He flicked the moisture away, folded the cloth, and returned it to his sleeve, entirely oblivious to the death stare boring into him.
“It’s been two weeks since you’ve both returned,” the Chamberlain turned his glare on Alaric. “And you’ve yet to give me an official report.”
“Was it an officially sanctioned mission?” Alaric raised an eyebrow.
Creases formed at the corners of the Chamberlain’s eyes. The skin along his cheekbones pulled tight as he held a thin smile. “Even so.”
Alaric shrugged, then recounted the finer points of rescuing the Brushmaster. The Controller yawned in the background. Alaric detailed his trail of clues and the disruption of the duke’s schemes, carefully downplaying Elara’s, or Marcia’s involvement. The Chamberlain scrutinised every word, every decision, every conclusion.
When Alaric finished, the Chamberlain’s expression darkened. Silence closed over the room. The Controller snapped his attention away from a small statue. Kethryll scurried closer.
“After all that,” the Chamberlain said, “you didn’t arrest the duke?”
“He escaped.” Alaric folded his arms. “His property’s destroyed, his network shattered, his reputation ruined, and Kethryll’s forgiven him for the kidnapping. I didn’t see the point in tearing up the countryside. Are you planning to let him go?
“Oh gods, no,” the Chamberlain said, confusion flickering into bemusement. “He’ll be hunted down and executed.”
“Is that really necessary?” Kethryll snatched a statue from the Controller’s hands.
The Chamberlain laughed. The Controller joined in. Alaric frowned. The laughter faded, and the Chamberlain wiped a tear from his eye before tossing the silver coin to Alaric.
Alaric caught it. One face bore the duke’s likeness. He flipped it. The word Republic was stamped on the reverse.
“He was minting his own coins?” Alaric glanced at Kethryll.
“Oh,” Kethryll slapped his forehead. “I forgot I made those dies.”
“Could you imagine,” the Controller picked up an artist’s palette, looked through the thumb hole, then set it down. “Commoners voting for their leaders?”
They shuddered.
“Besides,” the Chamberlain waved a dismissive hand, “there’s the matter of the counterfeit coins.”
“And the deeds of transfer that have been executed,” the Controller cleaned the paint off his fingers with the hem of his robe.
“Yes, there’s that.”
“And the Magenta Hand.”
“Yes. They need to be dealt with.”
“And the Purple Shadow.”
“Yes,” the Chamberlain snapped. “That will do, Controller.”
The Controller shrank into his robe like a turtle in its shell.
“Alaric,” the Chamberlain rubbed his temples. “What are you going to do about that?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Unblinking. Alaric finally blinked.
“Chamberlain,” Alaric sighed. “Life isn’t a book that needs every plot hole tied up.”
“Is that right?”
“If I’m going to have to right all the wrongs done,” Alaric rubbed his chin. “That would mean that both you and the Controller would have to return the land you bought to the rightful owner.”
“We would?” the Controller blubbered.
The Chamberlain’s throat undulated. He raised an eyebrow. Tension thickened in the air. For several heartbeats, silence hung between them, and he noted the Chamberlain’s face flush a deep crimson. With a swift turn on his heels, the Chamberlain growled at the Controller, barking an order for him to follow.
They froze.
The Chancellor stood in the doorway.
“Chamberlain,” the Chancellor said.
“Chancellor,” the Chamberlain replied. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“I will,” said the Chancellor, “in a moment.” His gaze slid to Alaric. “Alaric, you have something for me?”
Alaric reached into his magical pouch. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” He drew out the Scepter of the Frostwarden, a strip of paper wrapped around its frosted haft, and offered it to the Chancellor.
“Ah,” said the Chamberlain, trying for a smile. “How exciting. That’s the second time you’ve retrieved it. You’re making a career of it, Alaric.”
“That’s not the exciting part,” the Chancellor said. He balanced the sceptre in one hand and unrolled the paper with the other. “A letter to Duke Fairshield. From you, Chamberlain.”
The Chamberlain’s eye twitched. The first time Alaric saw his facade crack.
“Before you read that, Chancellor,” the Chamberlain said, composing himself. “You might be interested in some information about our mutual friend here.”
The Chancellor raised an eyebrow as he lowered the letter in his hand. A weight fell on Alaric’s heart as all his decisions, good and bad, came back to haunt him.
“That I’m a screw up?” Alaric said. “That I wasn’t really the lone survivor of the battle of Iron Keep? That I’ve let people, and my friend, down? That I let you manipulate me?”
Alaric let out a breath, and the imagined chains around his heart loosened, fell away.
The Chamberlain’s eyes widened. He lunged for the door—only to find a pair of guards already there.
“Take them,” the Chancellor said.
The Chamberlain and the Controller were escorted away, protest swallowed by the corridor’s echo.
“Good work, Alaric,” the Chancellor said, passing the scepter and the letter to another guard. He produced a sealed envelope from his pocket and held it out. “It takes courage to admit when you’re wrong. And I admit I was wrong about you. Here.”
“What’s this?” Alaric turned the envelope. The royal seal of the king caught the light.
“I’m a man of my word.”
“Is this…?”
“Congratulations,” said the Chancellor. “Marshal of the Sword.”
The letter trembled in Alaric’s hand. He exhaled, then offered it back.
Kethryll’s eyebrows shot up. “But this was what you wanted.”
Duke Fairshield’s words came back to him. Cured meats and haberdashery, those were the aspects passed down to Alaric. It wasn’t until the duke questioned him about it that Alaric reflected on what it meant and why he was.
Alaric closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “It was.”
“This is career suicide,” the Chancellor said. “You will not see another opportunity like this.”
“He’s right,” Kethryll added. “If you don’t take it now, any dream of a career is over.”
Alaric looked past them to the open window, where dust motes drifted like slow snow in the morning light.
“I quit.”
A weight fell from his shoulders.
The Chancellor held Alaric’s gaze for a long beat, then nodded once and stepped aside.
Kethryll studied Alaric for a long moment, head tilted. “You know, for a man who’s just walked away from power, you look… lighter.”
Alaric shrugged.
“Then, what now?” Kethryll asked. “You can’t honestly plan to stay here. Not after all this.”
Alaric looked back toward the open window. The city beyond felt smaller than it had an hour ago.
“I think I’m done solving other people’s problems,” he said. “At least the ones close to home.”
Kethryll’s brow creased. “That sounds suspiciously like a man about to go looking for trouble elsewhere.”
“Not trouble,” Alaric said. “Answers.”
“Dangerous things, answers.”
Alaric smiled faintly. “So I’ve heard.”
Kethryll hesitated, then reached beneath the cluttered workbench and produced a narrow folio bound in cracked blue leather. He turned it over once before handing it across.
“I never showed you this,” he said. “Sketches. Fragments. Stories I picked up from traders and pilgrims. Old ones. All about the gods leaving.”
Alaric took the folio. It felt heavier than it should have. “Any mention of one with a fondness for cured meats and questionable fashion sense?”
Kethryll sniffed. “More than you’d think. Mostly rumours. Mostly contradictions. But they all agree on one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That the gods didn’t vanish,” Kethryll said. “They fled.”
Alaric closed the folio. Decision settled in his chest, quiet and certain.
“Then I suppose,” he said, “I should go find out where. But before I do, you still owe me a portrait.”
“A portrait? Of you?” Kethryll bit his bottom lip. “I suppose I could manage that, but only if you promise to pose looking out the window. It’ll add a touch of mystery.”
“Looking out the window?”
“Yes, and close your eyes,” Kethryll set a blank canvas on an easel. “The light right now is perfect to mask some imperfections.”
“How poetic,” Alaric laughed. “Fine, I’ll humour you.”
As Alaric moved to the window, Kethryll grabbed his brushes and palette, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Just hold that pose, will you?”
Alaric closed his eyes and heard the soft padding of Kethryll slipping out of the room, leaving him standing there, half-amused and half-exasperated.
He opened his eyes to gaze out. On the street below, Kethryll, Brushmaster of the Realm, shoved a young couple to the side as he fled up the street.
“Artists,” Alaric muttered.
Then something caught his eye. It wasn’t the flicker of movement, quite the opposite. In the middle of the road was a lone shape. Traffic flowed around it like an island in a delta. Alaric squinted at it, then winced. It was Horse, glaring back at him.
Judging.
“Right,” Alaric drew a sharp breath. “Forgot Horse.”
End
Thanks for reading.
This one took more out of me than I expected—turns out following Alaric around isn’t always the easiest path. I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did bringing it to life.
If you’ve made it this far, I’d genuinely like to hear what you thought—what worked, what didn’t, and what stuck with you.
As for what comes next… I’ll be looking for an editor, and while that’s underway, I’ll be continuing work on Alaric’s next adventure.
Turns out some problems don’t stay dead.
For now, thanks for being part of the journey.
Andrew
Who can forget the horse named Horse!?! Fun read what is the word count for the completed book?
Great story! I look forward to Alaric's next misadventure.