Page 2 of Throne Off Course

But a boy could not rule. Not yet.

Until he came of age, and married a noblewoman, as the law required, his mother would hold the throne in trust. The papers called it a smooth transition. The analysts praised Eleanor’s strength.

But Alexander had been his father’s son. He had watched. He had listened.

And while Eleanor moved to shape him in her image, Alexander already knew that while he had his mother’s intelligence and reserve, he had his father’s heart.

He also knew that one day, the story of Caledonia would be his to write. And when that day came, he would not merely inherit his father’s kingdom.

He would decide what kind of king he would be, regardless of his mother’s wishes.

2

History, Hot Takes, and Highly Questionable Career Decisions

Emilia Carter strode into the café wearing a faded Clash t-shirt under an impeccably tailored navy blazer, dark skinny jeans that had seen better days, and pristine white sneakers. An ensemble that somehow managed to look both effortlessly cool and deliberately curated. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands framing her face as she set down her battered leather messenger bag and spotted Harper waving from their usual corner table.

The contradictions in her style were no accident. They were the living embodiment of her upbringing, caught somewhere between her French mother’s artistic sensibilities and her father’s philosophical intensity. Dr. Josephine Beaumont-Carter, a renowned art historian whose accent remained defiantly French despite nearly thirty years in Caledonia, had taught her daughter to see beyond surface appearances, to recognize beauty in unexpected places. Meanwhile, Professor Richard Carter had instilled in her a relentless questioning of established narratives, frequently reminding her that “comfort is the enemy of truth.”

She was the kind of lecturer who made department heads nervous and students rearrange their entire schedules just to take her class, all at just twenty-six. Her history podcast,The Past Imperfect, had been steadily climbing the charts, lauded for its in-depth interviews and fearlessexcavations of forgotten or deliberately buried histories. The same unflinching curiosity that electrified her lectures fueled Emilia’s talent for uncovering untold stories, the inconvenient truths that had been smoothed over by time and rewritten by those who had emerged victorious.

“You’re overthinking it,” Harper announced immediately as Emilia slid into the seat across from her, blonde hair catching the afternoon light, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Emilia sighed, accepting the tea Harper had already ordered for her. “It’s a big decision.”

“You’re right. I give it a week.” Harper took a thoughtful sip of her latte. “No—three days. That’s how long you’ll last before you offend the future king of Caledonia.”

Emilia barely glanced up from her tea, stirring it with deliberate patience. “I am a professional, Harper.”

“You are a menace,” Harper corrected smoothly, one eyebrow arching upward.

As a rising journalist specializing in political scandals, Harper thrived in the world of public spectacle and cultivated chaos. Unlike Emilia, who preferred to battle over dusty archives, Harper had built her reputation on cutting through public facades with ruthless precision. Drama wasn’t just her profession; it was her oxygen.

“There is an entire online forum dedicated to your unfiltered takes on historical revisionism,” Harper reminded her, sipping her latte. “The monarchy is built on revisionism. You are a powder keg about to walk into a match factory.”

Emilia scoffed, tucking a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Harper, I am perfectly capable of keeping my opinions to myself.”

Harper snorted. “Really? Because last month, you got intoa public debate with a visiting professor over the historical inaccuracies in his latest book.”

“He called Anne Boleyn a glorified mistress!” Emilia shot back, scandalized.

“And you told him he was right at the top of the bell curve,” Harper replied, raising an eyebrow. “Calling someone perfectly average in academia is practically a declaration of war.”

Emilia took a sip of her tea, entirely unrepentant. “It was worth it, just to wipe the smirk off his face.”

Harper’s eyes gleamed. “You’re telling me you won’t do the same when Prince Alexander inevitably suggests that the monarchy has always been a beacon of unshakable virtue?”

Emilia hesitated, drumming her fingers against her teacup. “I will… attempt restraint.”

Harper smiled, tapping a manicured nail against the table. “Mm-hmm. And does your attempt at restraint include telling him that one of his ancestors was, in fact, a two-faced usurper with a god complex?”

Emilia muttered into her tea. “Well, he was.”

Harper leaned back in her chair, looking downright gleeful. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Emilia groaned. “This is serious, Harper.”

“You love history, Emmy,” Harper continued, softer this time. “You love the stories, the artifacts, the tangled mess of it all. And now, you’re stepping into the actual royal archives, their history, untouched and unpublished. Don’t pretend that it doesn’t thrill you.”