Chapter Text
Malachi learned early in his life that the palace had moods.
Most days it was cold in a way that felt deliberate, it always seemed as if the walls themselves were disappointed by something he had done. Other days it was so quiet it felt like the building was holding its breath, waiting for him to make a mistake. Today, it was warm with hope. That made him more nervous than if it had been freezing.
He stood in the sitting room just outside his mother’s study, staring at a painting he had looked at his entire life. A landscape. Mountains. A river cutting through the center like a thought interrupted by something so beautiful that nobody minded losing their train.
The door was open. That was intentional. Nothing in the palace was accidental.
“You can come in,” his mother called.
He stepped inside.
The Queen was seated at her desk, posture perfect, expression unreadable. She looked the same way she always did when she was preparing to hear something she knew might not like. Calm. Ready. Armored.
Malachi stopped a few feet from the desk and folded his hands behind his back. It was muscle memory at this point. He had been trained into stillness the way other children were trained into confidence.
“Yes?” she said, glancing up from a document.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
This was ridiculous. He had spoken in front of world leaders, cameras, crowds of people chanting his name like it belonged to them. This was just his mother.
His mother, who was also the Queen. The woman who had taken over a country while grieving a murdered husband and raising a child who was not allowed to be one.
“I have something I want to ask you,” he said.
Her pen paused. That alone told him she was paying full attention.
“All right,” she said. “Ask.”
He took a breath. Then another.
“I want to go to college.”
The silence that followed was not dramatic. It was controlled. The kind of silence that happened when someone was choosing their reaction carefully.
“College,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“You already receive the highest level of private education available.”
“I know.”
“You are taught by people who would be happily received by heads of state.”
“I know.”
She set the pen down slowly. “Then what exactly are you asking for?”
He swallowed. “I want to attend college as a student. In person.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Here?”
“No.”
That got her full attention.
“Where, then?”
He had rehearsed this part. He still felt his stomach drop.
“America,” he said. “Los Angeles.”
Her expression did not change, but something in the air did. A tightening. A shift.
“Los Angeles,” she said again.
“Yes.”
“And why,” she asked calmly, “does my son believe Los Angeles is an appropriate place for him to disappear to?”
“I would not disappear,” Malachi said quickly. “I would be more… unknown.”
She leaned back slightly in her chair. “Those are not the same thing.”
“I know,” he said. “But that is kind of the point.”
The Queen studied him. When she looked at him like this, it felt like being examined by someone who knew every possible version of him and was trying to figure out which one he was about to become.
“You are eighteen,” she said. “You are not required to make life-altering decisions today.”
“No,” he agreed. “But in three years, I will be required to make decisions that affect everyone but me.”
Her lips pressed together.
He pushed forward before he could lose his nerve.
“I turn twenty-one and I ascend,” he said. “After that, everything I do is public. Every choice is weighed, analyzed, turned into a statement. I will never again be able to make a mistake quietly.”
“You have already made mistakes,” she said gently.
“None that mattered,” he replied. “Not really. They were all managed.”
That was the truth. The palace managed everything. His friendships. His schedule. His exposure to the world. Even his grief had been managed, packaged into something acceptable and dignified.
“You are asking me to put you in danger,” she said.
“I am asking you to let me live,” he said.
The words came out softer than he intended. Not dramatic. Just tired. He was so tired.
Her gaze did not waver. “Do you understand why we have protected you the way we have?”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
“Do you understand why privacy is not a luxury for you, but a necessity?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what happened to your father?”
The room felt smaller.
“Yes,” he said again, quieter. He tried his best to school his expression now, he knew that this moment could make or break his argument.
She watched his face closely. This was not a test. It was concern. Real and sharp and frightening in its sincerity.
“Then why,” she asked, “would you ask me to let you walk into a world where people do not know who you are, but might still decide they want to hurt you?”
Malachi hesitated. He had an answer. He just did not know how to say it without sounding ungrateful.
“Because I am tired of being who I am all the time,” he said finally. “I want to know who I can be. I can only discover this when no one is watching.”
Her expression softened in a way he did not often see.
“You believe college will give you that…privacy?” she said.
“I believe it might give me something,” he replied. “I am not asking to be careless. I would still have security. Quietly. I would still check in. I just want… space.”
She was silent for a long moment.
“What would you study?” she asked.
“Art,” he said.
That surprised her. He could tell.
“Art,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why art?”
He considered the question. He could have said something noble. Something about culture and expression and diplomacy. Instead, he chose honesty.
“Because what I create, it does not belong to anyone else,” he said. “Because I am allowed to fail at it. Because no one expects me to be good.”
Her gaze held his.
“I know you draw,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You always have.”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly, he could tell she was itching to change the subject.
“And you would go under your own name.”
“No,” he said. “I would go by my middle name, Victor.”
She swallowed, looking to the side briefly before her eyes met his again as she raised an eyebrow.
“It is… less recognizable,” he attempted.
“That is not what concerns me.”
Victor had been his fathers name
“I know.”
The Queen stood and walked toward the window. Outside, the palace grounds were immaculate. Orderly. Safe.
“You would not be able to tell anyone who you are,” she said. “No classmates. No professors. No friends.”
“I understand.”
“You would have to lie,” she continued.
“I already do,” he said unthinkingly, then stopped himself. “I mean. I already withhold.”
She turned to face him.
“You would be alone,” she said.
He met her gaze. “In many senses of the word I already am.”
That landed harder than he expected.
Her shoulders sank slightly. Just slightly.
“You would go to Los Angeles,” she said slowly. “You would attend college as an ordinary student. You would live in student housing.”
“Yes.”
“You would be monitored discreetly.”
“Yes.”
“And the moment your identity was at risk,” she said, “you would come home.”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
She studied him for a long time. This was not a negotiation anymore. This was a mother deciding whether to let her son step into a world she could not fully protect him from.
“Three years,” she said at last.
He blinked. “Three?”
“You will return at twenty-one,” she said. “No extensions. No arguments.”
His chest tightened. “I understand.”
“You will keep contact,” she added. “Weekly.”
“Yes.”
“And you will not do anything reckless.”
He hesitated, then said, “I will do my best.”
That earned him a look. “You will do better than your best.”
He smiled, small and genuine. “Yes, Mother.”
She sighed. “You can leave at the end of summer.”
His breath caught. “You are serious.”
“I am,” she said. “But Malachi.”
“Yes?”
She stepped closer and placed a hand on his arm. Not the Queen. Just his mother.
“This is not an escape,” she said. “It is a gift. Do not waste it pretending you are someone you are not, use it to find out who you are.”
He nodded.
“I will try,” he said.
Two weeks later, Malachi boarded a plane under the name Victor and watched his country disappear beneath him, unsure whether he was running toward something or away from everything.