Lord Lahiffe's life had taken a rather decisive downturn in recent years. Well. Year. Singular. Starting with the best and worst night of his life.

"My Lady," Nino whispered as he bent down on one knee in front of the entire court.

Here was the girl he had chased through forests and built forts with. The girl who had left with her father on a diplomatic mission abroad as a gangly, acne-covered child and returned a stunningly beautiful woman. The love of his life.

"Will you do me the greatest honor of becoming my–?"

Chloe burst into happy tears and the court cheered when she jumped into his arms, toppling him over.

Despite his prodding and pleading, Adrien had not been able to accompany him to the winter ball, and thus missed the proposal. A slight stain on an otherwise perfect evening, to not have his best friend there to calm his nerves. Nino was known as a rather even-tempered man, but he'd nearly vomited into the bushes of the garden maze shortly before the critical moment.

Yet once she'd said yes, everything had been perfect and magical, and he'd looked forward of telling Adrien every detail the next day. The prince would still have stood by his side at the ceremony itself, so him missing the proposal was no more than an inconvenience.

But Adrien had not been there in the morning.

Nor the day after, or the day after that. His best friend was gone, leaving not a trace behind. The king, maddened by grief, blamed Nino for tempting Adrien to leave the castle, and almost all the nobles followed suit.

Only a small handful of friends stood by him, his sweet fiancée one of them. But it was not the loss of social status that had the two of them desperately seeking comfort in each other's arms.

The Lahiffe's estate bordered the lands of the Bourgeois family. He'd met Adrien there when the king had come to visit Chloe's father to offer him the position of Steward. One entire summer the prince had spent there, and Nino and he had become thick as thieves. Chloe had eternally trailed behind the two boys, complaining of being left out.

Adrien had laughed uproariously when, after a lifetime of pulling Chloe's ponytail, Nino had one day woken up to notice her stunning beauty. He'd not stopped noticing it since.

They had mourned Adrien together, even as Nino threw himself into every lead he found, followed every whisper of a sighting of the prince.

And then Chloe had gone absolutely fucking insane.

Screaming at him at the top of her lungs in the middle of a ballroom, she had drawn all eyes to her. Throwing his ring in her face, she had accused him of all manner of foul betrayal.

And when Nino had groggily woken up from that hangover, he'd truly had no friends left among the nobility. For what kind of scoundrel was he to make sweet, elegant, well-mannered Chloe Bourgeois lose her temper in public like that?

Never mind that he hadn't done any of the things she accused him of.

So yes. The last year had been rough on him. He'd gone from being the Crown Prince's confidant, his ascension to the next King's steward all but assured, to a persona non grata.

But.

If what they were saying was true, then the downward slide might finally come to an end.

Lord Lahiffe leaned against the pillar of the balcony overlooking the courtyard as a carriage drew closer. He was not the only one of course. Lords and Ladies of the court had gathered on every available surface of the palace and its garden, discretely and not-so-discretely trying to catch a glimpse of the miraculously returned Prince.

But only a small and select delegation waited at the palace's great doors to greet him in person. Nino, with his reputation and social standing in absolute tatters, was not among them.

But if Adrien was truly alive, then…

He swallowed heavily and willed himself not to get too invested in the idea. There'd been other imposters before. Ransom notes that led to nothing. Men fortunate enough to be born with a resemblance to the Prince's fair looks, looking to exploit the kindness of strangers to beg for gold.

Oh, but I need only enough for the road back home, and then my father, the King, shall handsomely reward you for aiding me.

These rats never survived close encounters with those who'd known the prince personally.

But this man claiming to be Adrien was traveling directly from the Bourgeois estate. Not even this new and vicious version of Chloe would play a joke this cruel. Would she? No, surely not. Close to madness as he was, the king might just take her head if she dared to vouch for a pretender.

The horses came to a halt and Nino's fingers dug into his skin, the air caught in his lung finding no escape as he waited with bated breath.

A blond man stepped out of the carriage, gingerly placing one foot in front of the other. He was thin, thinner than Adrien. The prince had liked to spar with his knights and he'd had the physique to show for it.

But then the man raised his head.

Adrien.

His best friend was alive.

Blinking rapidly, Nino watched as the King's valet-slash-secretary welcomed the prince and lead him to the palace. Adrien curiously turned his head in all directions, seeming eager to drink in the sight of his home.

His gaze landed on Nino, who quickly raised his hand to wave, a broad grin on his lips.

But then the prince's gaze moved on without acknowledgement. Lord Lahiffe froze.

No.

It could not be.

The possibility had crossed his mind and Nino had dismissed it out of hand.

Surely – surely Adrien would not believe Chloe's lies?

Gabriel sat upon his throne, the splendid hall plunged in darkness. Heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows and the mirrors. Faes were creatures of darkness and it was only fitting that this one would die in it.

He did not wish to see his son's face as he sunk his sword into the Changeling's neck. His grip tightened around the hilt and he closed his eyes to gather his strength. A year of spending his days in bed had taken its toll, the easy sleep offered by the physician's tincture far more tempting than reality.

But this he would do. Protect his people from the creature that had come to steal his crown in the place of its rightful heir. Had that been their plan all along? Was that why the fae had seduced him into this horrendous bargain?

"Eric is a fool," Gabriel snarled and slammed the tankard on the table. "Unworthy of wearing the crown."

"Hush," said André, not yet quite so inebriated to be entirely lost in the concubine's bosom. "The walls in these places have ears, you know that. And that's no way to speak of our dearest king."

Yes, their dearest king. Who was going to plunge them all into a war at the rate he was escalating his aggression toward Esparia. Unlike their own kingdom, Franeaux, their southern neighbor's line of succession did not run solely through male heirs, so a woman sat upon their throne. A fact his idiot older brother found so amusing that he continually pushed along their border, thinking her too weak to stop him. A small skirmish here, a patrol straying too far there, and the King laughing at the outraged letters the Queen kept sending him.

"I should have been firstborn," Gabriel snarled. "Not him."

"Oh yes," whispered the scantily clad woman who was rather fruitlessly trying to stir his passions. "A man as great as you would have been a splendid king." Brown doe eyes batted their heavy eyelashes at him.

How inept. Did she think her flattery subtle?

Gods, how he hated brothels. The heavy smoke of shisha mixed with feminine perfumes gave him wicked headaches. But André was determined to dally with more girls before being shackled in holy matrimony, so Gabriel endured. He took another sip of his drink and cast his best friend a scathing look. The way he moaned about it one would think his parents had arranged for him to marry an ogre, but André's fiancée was renowned for her charm. There were far worse matches to be had than a golden-haired beauty.

Gabriel quickly averted his gaze when the redhead on André's lap started undoing his belt.

"Alright, you have fun," Gabriel murmured and pushed himself out of his chair, the prostitute yelping when she was shoved out of his lap. But when he left the chamber, stumbling over the threshold to the private room, she followed him.

Linking her arm with his, she not-so-gently pulled him toward another chamber. This one was persistent, and Gabriel cast her a baffled look. She was paid for the night, why was she trying so hard when he'd made his disinterest clear?

But the room was spinning, and he supposed it would be nice to lie down amongst soft silks and softer pillows. Sober up a little before he made his way back home.

"So what would you do?" she asked him.

"Hm?"

She twirled a brown curl of hair around her finger. "If you were king. What would you do differently?"

What wouldn't he do? Clean up that mess along the southern border, dig the Crown out of debt, repair the broken infrastructure… all those boring little tasks that kept a realm prosperous and functioning, but that didn't make for the glorious spectacle his brother so longed for.

War. Eric thought there was glory and splendor in winning wars. Fool.

Not that there was any point speculating about it. He was fourth in line, so he would never see the throne. Already the queen was pregnant, was carrying a little niece or nephew. If it was the latter, then Gabriel would slide down to fifth.

But instead of saying any of that, he deflected with a mumbled, "I'm seventeen, what do I know?"

The crown only officially passed to men who had reached their majority, and he was still three years away from that. And the walls of brothels did have eyes and ears, after all.

She giggled prettily. "Yes, but it's fun to speculate, isn't it?"

"Not really. Only reminds me of what I'll never have."

The brunette hummed. "It must be so frustrating. Watching from the sidelines as someone botches a task you know you could do better."

His steps slowed as his brow furrowed. "Well, there's no point in dwelling on it."

"Sometimes," the concubine whispered, "I dream of just running away. Stealing all the gold from the Madame and making a new life somewhere." Then she smiled ruefully. "But I know this cannot be. They'd catch me before I reached the city gates. But what I wouldn't give…"

She trailed off and Gabriel stared at the girl with wide eyes.

"I…I have gold. If you wish to start a new life," he said uncertainly and then mentally slapped himself. Of course. She was trying to gain a higher wage by playing to his sympathies.

But, to his surprise, she shook her head. "No. They'd take that before I reached the door."

Then meet me outside? He swallowed the foolish words. Gabriel would not be deceived by a pretty face.

"So," she said brightly as she sat down and pulled him into her lap. "That's why I like to play pretend sometimes. Won't you indulge me, my Lord?"

"That depends on what your idea of indulgence is."

"Just a game. A game of 'What I wouldn't give'. We will take turns saying something we want, and the other names a price. If it's a price you would pay, you must drink."

"Sounds simple enough. You start."

She grinned as she filled both their goblets. "Your shirt, taken off."

"A fifty percent discount."

The concubine snickered and, rather pointedly, did not drink. "Your turn, my Lord."

"Very well." He thought for a moment. Truth be told, there weren't all that many things he lacked in life. Gabriel came from a prosperous family, even if his eldest brother was a vainglorious simpleton who robbed him of his last nerve. "A pristine first edition of Lord Paeron's works."

She arched an eyebrow, no doubt unfamiliar with his favorite poet, and tapped her chin. "Hm. A hundred gold."

He scoffed at the paltry sum and drank. It was worth a hundred times more than that.

And so it went, round after round, until at last, Lord Gabriel ran out of things he wanted.

"A crown," he said, voice slurring.

The girl smiled guilelessly. "Your firstborn son."

Gabriel laughed loudly and raised the goblet to his lips. A son? One could always make more of those.

The king tightened his grip on his sword hilt, pushing those hated memories away.

Eric had been found dead the next day. Soon after, his widow had perished in childbirth. Little by little, the Agreste family tree had been pruned until only Gabriel remained.

What he wouldn't give to go back in time and slap that young fool he'd been. The prospect of fatherhood had been far away and not quite real. That had changed as soon as he'd held his son in his arms for the first time, the true horror of his bargain sinking in.

Adrien was unique in all the world. Nothing could ever replace him.

Had been unique in all the world.

The doors opened with a screech and swung closed behind the imposter with a reverberating thump.

His son's face smiled at him and Gabriel's heart ached.

"Father," the Changeling said, its words echoing in the great hall. "I've come home."

Die.

King Gabriel rose from his throne, grimacing as he briefly needed to lean on his sword for balance, and then descended from the dais, the iron blade shrieking as it dragged along the floor.

"I commend you on the Glamor," he said softly. "It's well-done."

Not-Adrien tilted its head. "Father?"

"I see you've not yet noticed the runes upon the threshold. Don't worry. You'll notice them when you try to leave. Iron traps your loathsome kind."

"Iron?" Green eyes blinked slowly, and the voice that sounded just like Adrien's softened. "Father, they've told me you've not been well. I – I hadn't wanted to belie–"

"Spare me your performance, creature. I know what your whore of a queen did to my son."

For just the briefest moment, its Glamor flickered, pupils narrowing. The king grinned in triumph as the Changeling's gaze dropped to his sword. Yes, stare upon your doom all you like. I still know how to wield this.

"That's iron, isn't it?" The fae crooned. "Can I touch it?"

Gabriel froze. "What?"

"Your valet told me – I remember your stories, father. Fae can't touch iron, right? So – if I can touch that… then I can't be a Changeling, can I?"

The king stared at the creature. It wanted to touch the weapon it would shortly be impaled upon? A hysterical laugh rose. Did it think he could be disarmed that way? He'd made sure that even the hilt was laced with iron.

"By all means, creature. Come closer."

The man who was not Adrien did just that, inching toward him the way one would toward a spooked stallion.

His ungloved fingertips brushed the flat side of the blade.

That.

That could not be.

No sizzling skin, no smell of burning flesh, no Glamor breaking instantly. How could this – his son was gone! Turned into a dumb beast that liked nothing more than to hunt and kill! Nightmares of the images he saw play in the mirrors haunted the king, showing him Adrien's fur-covered face twist in ecstasy as he chewed on raw flesh and bones.

Gabriel shook his head, taking a step back.

"You – you're not real. I saw you–"

"Father," Adrien whispered. "You've not been well." He took another tentative step forward, a teary smile on his lips. "But it's going to be alright. You're going to be alright. I'm home now."

"I know what I saw," the king whispered.

"But father. Can't you see me? Standing right in front of you?"

The iron longsword clattered to the floor.

And King Gabriel wept.