It was too early on a Monday morning for him to deal with his schoolwork, let alone the terrible item on this morning's agenda.
Hunter Lyons stood deep within the Academy's only morgue, alone, with no one to help him process the information he was receiving; the only one that could have helped him process it was lying on the slab before him. His father was in the Americas for business—he wouldn't be back for another few days.
The realization of his loneliness came upon him in waves, never ceasing, never compromising.
"I understand how hard this is for you, Mr. Lyons," said the coroner. "I truly do, I'm not just saying that to be polite. And I need you to believe me, because I need you to trust and understand what I'm about to say."
Hunter's mouth was dry, making it difficult for him to vocalize his agreement.
"I—sorry," he began, wetting his mouth and clearing his throat, "—I believe you, I do. Thank you, Doctor. But… what do you need me to understand?"
The coroner took a deep breath to steady his own nerves, before continuing:
"Do you know if your mother was experiencing any mental issues before her collapse?"
"No, not as far as I know. Why? I thought she fell and… uh… you know…"
"Yes, you're right," the coroner replied. "Her cause of death is, in summary, blunt force trauma to the skull due to a fall. It's the cause of the fall which I've been looking at. It's procedure, you understand."
"I—I understand… mental issues? Really?"
"I only ask because, well, in examination of her brain… I'm sorry, Mr. Lyons, there's no easy way to say this, but your mother's brain was already in the process of hemorrhaging before she died, and she's displaying signs of a severe traumatic brain injury with no perceivable physical cause."
Hunter leaned on the coroner's slab—"I'm sorry, I need to sit," he mumbled.
"Come with me, son," the older man replied, ushering Hunter to a nearby office. Hunter collapsed on the cheap pleather couch, but at this moment, the quality of the furnishing didn't matter to him at all. The pair were quiet for a few minutes, and though the coroner saw the glistening dewdrops forming in Hunter's eyes, he knew that the young man was trying to maintain his composure; thus, he chose to remain silent.
"So—what are you saying, doctor?"
"I'm not saying anything. Just stating my observations. However…"
"…yes?"
"…please don't get the wrong idea, Mr. Lyons," the coroner began, "but I am obligated to inform campus security of these findings. I would've done it already, but I haven't been able to reach anyone—seems they're dealing with their own issues."
"But—that means you suspect the same thing I do," said Hunter, struggling to keep his face from displaying the full extent of his emotions. "You think that mom didn't die of natural causes, and that's why you're obligated to tell the police."
"…more or less, yes."
"I see."
As the coroner watched Hunter's face, he saw the young man rapidly switching between different emotional states. It was understandable: he was young and he had just lost his mother, and without his father he was left to battle grief in solitude. The coroner, having decades' worth of experience over Hunter, knew well that solitude was the worst position from which to battle grief.
"Son, do you have friends in Camelot?"
Hunter looked up.
"Hm? Oh, yes, I do."
"Well, if I can give you a piece of advice—spend the next couple days with them. Trust me, son. It's better than trying to overcome this on your own."
"Thank you, doctor," Hunter replied. "I'll try to do that."
"Trying is not enough; make sure to do it."
"Got it," said Hunter with a weak, forced smile. "Will do. And—thank you."
But as he left the morgue, Hunter had only one thought on his mind:
I need to know if my mother was murdered.
I can't wait for campus security to investigate.
I need to know…
I need to know, and I need to know now.
But what can I do?
Her phone—I still have it, but they'll probably take it away soon.
Luckily, I know her password.
He stepped outside into an uncharacteristically-sunny day, a climate which felt inappropriate in light of his present situation, but he understood that the weather didn't know about his mother's passing and so he didn't hold it against the lovely morning.
Ironically, despite the coroner being unable to reach campus security, there seemed to be a lot of activity on the streets—far more than usual. He stopped an officer who was hurrying towards Market Square and asked what was happening, but he was left unsatisfied by the conversation that followed for the few answers it contained.
"Sorry, sir, it's confidential. Where do you live?"
"Faculty housing, fifth house on Cornwall."
"Ah, good. No need for you to be inconvenienced, then. Class is cancelled today and we're asking all students to shelter in place. Everything's fine, we've just got… things… to do and we can't have anyone out and about."
"I understand, officer. Thank you."
"All right, then. Off ya' pop," said the officer, resuming his journey at a faster pace to make up for lost time.
Market Square was abuzz with activity, but not in the usual manner that accompanied a Monday morning. Forensic crews from London were combing over every single stone paver while a veritable army of detectives interviewed the occupants of the residence halls—all except for one, a young woman who required special attention, and Duke Cahill was handling that interview personally.
"…and that's all I know," Elisabeth concluded, leaning back into the booth's cozy embrace. They were seated in one of her dorm's smaller event spaces, and Henry had given explicit instructions that they weren't to be interrupted.
This, of course, had suited Elisabeth's purpose well.
"Really, Elisabeth?" asked Henry as he ran his fingers through his hair. "We've traced their movements to this square, to your dorm, but they seem to vanish from there until their bodies turned up in the southeast sector. You really expect me to believe that a Moriarty doesn't know what happened?"
"Oh, Henry, sweet Henry…" she purred, reaching to stroke the inside of his leg with a gloved hand, "whether or not I know what happened, what matters is that I'm telling you that I don't know, right? Can't we just leave it there?"
He didn't know whether she was trying to soothe or arouse him, but it was certainly clouding his judgement.
"Elisabeth—no one's listening, and I'd like to see a little bit of truUUussst from you," he said, fumbling over his words as her hands worked their magic. "It would be great if you could show Jessamine that you're willing to work with the Society…"
Elisabeth withdrew from his leg and crossed her arms, her look one of stern disapproval.
"Why should I?"
"She's firmly against you joining us," he replied, his mind clearing ever so slightly. "You're going to have to talk to her at the Guy Fawkes' celebration tomorrow, otherwise, I won't be able to help you."
"Is she really that influential?" she huffed.
"Yeah, Liz. She is."
"Fine, then," replied Elisabeth, standing with an obvious air of frustration. "I know exactly what to say to get her on my side, and also to settle your doubts about my trustworthiness. Arrivederci, dear Henry—I'll see you tomorrow."
"You can start now, you know."
"I'll start on my own time, thank you very much," she said, moving to the door but pausing to look over her shoulder and to shift her hips in a very strategic manner, "…and just a little free advice: you should probably avoid mentioning other women whenever you're about to have a wonderful time."
Her jeans, boots, and long-sleeved formal top—Why is she wearing long sleeves on warm day? he wondered—accentuated her figure in a way which not lost on Henry.
"I'll keep that in mind," he replied, almost managing to sound stoic. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."
Elisabeth only smirked in response before sauntering back to her dorm.
Henry remained seated for some time, as he had to sort everything out in his mind before he could even think of coming to a conclusion or forming a plan of action. It was only when he received a call that his helicopter was due to arrive in thirty minutes that he left the underclassmen women's dorm and began walking to the island's airstrip—the same one at which Elisabeth had arrived only two weeks ago.
I need something to tell them, he thought. I can't sully the reputation of House Cahill by having no information on a foreign incursion into our most valuable asset.
This is a massive breach of state security. There may have been an operative on the inside, feeding information to the Union; it's a possibility we can't ignore.
It seems unlikely that Liz is that operative, even though she's a Moriarty… but how is she connected to this?
The most obvious answer would be that the Union are targeting the Domino Witch, but Liz can't be the Witch. She has a very petite aura; maybe the Witch is someone close to her? This attack could be a warning to the Witch.
I can't even be sure that Elisabeth was attacked. The blood trail doesn't match anyone on record, so we'd have to get a blood sample from her to be sure.
And if she was attacked—how did she escape? How did she kill four whole strike teams' worth of assailants without being injured?
I have to come up with enough answers to satisfy the King before I arrive at Buckingham…
As Henry embarked on his emergency flight to London, Elisabeth slipped through the shadows towards her safe house, passing by a young man who had fully embraced the first stage of grief and was looking to do something about it.
Neither of them noticed each other, and if they had, neither would have cared. Hunter was too busy trying to identify the last-call number on his mother's phone, and Elisabeth was dreading her own upcoming phone exchange.
The safe house had been in the hands of House Moriarty for a couple decades, serving as the main hub for their surveillance of Britannia's preeminent magicians and magic theoreticians. Those stationed here were among the best of the best in the craft of subterfuge; it had been a shame to lose them, but they were prepared to do their duty for their princess, as was every Moriarty agent.
After dispatching the last of the Union forces—and she had taken her time in that endeavor, allowing the mission commander to listen with mortal regret as she extracted every last ounce of vitality from "Rookie"—Elisabeth had sealed the safe house to maintain her family's strategic advantage. As for the strike forces—Why not let Jessamine squirm under the threat of consequence for once? she had decided. Her people had scrubbed nearly every trace of her existence from Camelot in the early hours of the morning before even campus security had caught wind of the battle, leaving behind only those clues designed to make Henry and the Academy administration believe that something violent had indeed occurred.
Now: Elisabeth faced the monumental task of reporting her actions to her father.
"Lizzy, I'm glad you called. 'Bout to meet the Round Table and I'd like to avoid being blindsided, if possible. Why did the Union attack us? We haven't been given an official explanation from them, or even a halfhearted apology."
"They think I'm the Domino Witch," she hesitantly replied, "and I did little to dissuade them of their error."
Richard Moriarty processed this information in absolute silence, as he did whenever he was faced with a particularly troublesome problem, and Elisabeth did not dare interrupt him.
"…now, why on Earth would you do something so ridiculously stupid?" he asked, breaking the silence. "You've ruined three generations' worth of political cache in the Union, for what?"
"It wasn't by choice, father."
"Pray, tell."
"I think the Witch was able to use Rome's nullification zone against me," she explained. "The soldiers said they traced her magic to me, and that should be impossible. Honestly, I don't know if we can even compete with that level of magical control, and I don't think it would be wise to upset her."
"On that point, and that point alone, I fully agree. Did you play along with the Witch's scheme because you're afraid of her?"
"No, father. I want her to be in debt to us."
"I see…" he said, and she could imagine him stroking his beard. "The Witch would, of course, know that you can unmask her deception. By allowing her to trick the world, you've gained control over her fate, to an extent—you can reveal the truth at any time, which would both restore our relationship with the Union while also giving the world a reason to fear the Witch, and there's no better motivation than fear."
"Yes, father. I also believe we can use this to our advantage; the world will be more likely to believe that I am the witch if the Union testifies to it rather than the claim coming from our House itself—and if House Moriarty produced the Domino Witch, none would oppose us recklessly. We could make a play for the throne."
"You've become quite the strategist, Lizzy," her father replied. "You're beginning to rival your brother, you know. I'm proud of you."
"Thank you."
"But how will you protect our House from repercussion? The Union has already shown their willingness to lash out."
"We can allow Britannia to announce my identity publicly and formally integrate our family into the nation's governance," she stated with confidence. "Britannia will then be obligated to protect us, and I don't think the Union would risk starting another world war."
"Hmm, indeed. I assume you've already begun working on this plan?"
Elisabeth smiled, and though her father couldn't see the smile himself, it carried through in her tone.
"Yes, father," she replied. "I've begun planting the seeds of strategic alliances here at the Academy, and I expect the first fruits to ripen in the immediate future."
"Excellent. Good work, Lizzy."
Her father ended the call and stepped out of his limousine, having arrived a few minutes early to the meeting of the Round Table as was his norm. The pre-game confrontations were just as important as the actual match, after all, and Duke Richard Moriarty was not a person who liked to lose.
Who does, though? he thought, chuckling to himself as he entered Buckingham Palace through a side door.
The Round Table was the informal name for the Conference of the Blessed Houses, which was one of the unofficial governing bodies of the Kingdom of Britannia. It held no political power of its own, but neither did it need any more power: the collective authority of its members was more than enough to put into effect any agenda it may concoct. Usually, however, the Conference was only held triennially for the purpose of handling disputes between the Blessed Houses; rarely was an emergency meeting such as this called, but then they were, it was always serious.
Duke Cahill and Duchess di Cadenza—the two houses most strongly aligned with House Pendragon will be forced into an interesting position today, won't they?
I've heard Lizzy is cozying up to Cahill, who is himself friends with di Cadenza. Cahill will present a report on last night's events, but I wonder if di Cadenza knows yet that the Union thinks Rosy's daughter is the Domino Witch?
And if she does, will she confront me directly?
Can't wait to find out.