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Behind the closed doors— Blog chatter Blog Hop

         Anyone who ever entered my room always told me to clean my space.

It is too messy, they complained.

They could not find anything they ever wanted.

And while what they complain about is true, I don’t think they should find anything in my space. Today was just another episode of the same complaints in a different language. But I knew exactly where everything was.

The jacket I wore three days ago? Behind the door.

The watch my grandfather gave me? On the shelf with my maps.

The quill and ink set? On the desk by the suitcase.

The latest batch of poison I brew? Shut in my pocket.

The stack of papers? A combination of what I learn and what others do.

I pick up those papers, only to find an envelope that I certainly didn’t put. And I know about everything in my room, including the almost melted candle and the screw under the bed.

I shut the door and bind my curtains, sealing the room in privacy. I bring the envelope closer to the candle and check for the hidden messages or prints – only to find nothing. I sprinkle some powder around the room to find the traces of any footprints. None.

Not only did someone manage to enter my room, but they also left something, and there was no evidence. And in all my years as an assassin pretending to be a royalty – this has never happened.

I was careful to smell my package for any trace of poison, but either there was none, or it had already entered my body.

I broke the seal on the envelope and went through the contents. Or instead, a small letter.

The letter that changed everything.

I held the letter on the flame to burn it, but it wouldn’t. Conforming all my fears.

The King, my father, was dead.

The King, whose son I was pretending to be, was dead.

And everyone thought it was me who killed them.

While I do have the motive, and I want them both dead, I didn’t kill them.

And I don’t even know how long this envelope is lying here.

There are people out there who are going to kill me. Or at least try to.

People have tried to kill me since my birth. No one’s ever succeeded. But now I have to prepare.

A story? Or a ruse?

A funeral? Or a coronation?

Mourn? Or host a feast?

But between all this, the critical question is…who sent this letter? Who knows my secret? And who is going to be my next victim?

I opened my bag of knives and picked two. The sharpest one and a blunt one. As I measure my poisons, my mind wonders to my fathers. Either of them. What was the last thought in their mind?

“You really want to know?” the voice spoke, and I turned, my knife ready to attack.

I generally am not surprised. I surprise the others before killing them. But seeing them both in front of me was shocking.

Both of them. Together. Alive.

“We don’t know our last words or thoughts yet, son,” my birth father spoke.

“But, we will know yours, my star.”

I felt it. With their words, the poison in my body. Smart. How foolish I am, though as I ignored the signs.

“You know what’s shocking, son?”

“Ours will be the last face you see.”

I wanted to fight it. But it wasn’t easy. I can’t have lived all these times to die on their terms. But the poison had started to work, and my legs were wobbly. I won’t beg.

“Don’t worry, son. We don’t need what you are guarding. Have a safe sleep.”

They walked towards my bed and sat.

They left no footprints.

They were responsible for the murder of…

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krina

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