The Shadow of Great Britain

The Marquis of Cunningham unconsciously placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but was gently stopped by a wave of the hand from the Archbishop of Canterbury.

”His Majesty William passed away at twelve minutes past two this morning at Windsor.” The Archbishop of Canterbury pronounced each word distinctly, as if his speech resonated through the very air: ”We are obliged by the duties of the Kingdom to immediately seek an audience with Her Royal Highness Princess Victoria.”

Conroy’s expression shifted in an instant, first displaying shock, and then shrouded in a facade of ”grief.”

”Your Excellencies... what a dreadful news this is! His Majesty William was always benevolent and gentle, and now with his sudden demise, the entire nation is bound to fall into endless mourning. My relations with the Duchess of Kent and with Her Royal Highness have always been as close as family, but Her Royal Highness is still quite young...”

As he spoke, he stepped forward, slightly raising his arm as if to walk alongside the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham.

However, before Conroy could approach, a chilling voice abruptly cut through the mist: ”Stop.”

Conroy paused, looking towards the source of the voice, only to find Arthur had already stepped forward.

The dawn had just broken, casting light and shadow slanting from his shoulder, making the water droplets on his black tailcoat sparkle.

His gloved hand remained behind his back, yet his gaze was as cold as a knife, unapologetically slicing across Conroy’s face.

”Sir John.” Arthur’s tone was calm but forceful: ”Make way.”

The smile on Conroy’s lips seemed forcibly severed, frozen on his face.

He stood at the center of the steps, his shoulder blades subtly tensed, as if trying to bypass the knife-edged atmosphere with a few polite words, yet Arthur left him no room. Those jet-black eyes, tinged with a crimson gleam, were steady and composed, like a deep sea without waves, evoking an instinctive sense that ”one more step forward, and you’ll fall within.”

The steps were open and silent, with only the wind sweeping across the edges of the palace walls.

Conroy braced himself for two seconds before finally sidestepping half a step.

Half a step was not much, but it was enough to clear the path.

He kept his head down, as if avoiding the morning light or Arthur’s gaze: ”Of course... Sir Arthur Hastings. Affairs of state... affairs of state are paramount.”

Arthur did not respond, only raised his chin slightly.

The two mounted police behind him understood, stepping forward, their boot heels landing neatly on the stone steps, securing both sides of the path.

Conroy’s Adam’s apple rolled slightly, as if his spine had been crushed under their force.

”Go notify the Duchess,” Conroy turned his face aside, whispering to the hesitant footman beside him: ”Immediately, at once! Tell her, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chamberlain are already waiting in the reception room.”

The footman hesitated, his gaze shifting between Conroy and Arthur, as if trying to discern who was truly in charge at Kensington Palace this morning.

Arthur cast him a brief glance, and the footman immediately nodded in agreement, practically running along the corridor, disappearing around the corner.

Arthur moved his gloved hand on the guard of the Sword of Honor slightly, yet he did not touch the hilt, merely shifting his weight forward in a highly restrained posture, stepping aside to make way for the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham, standing in a semi-guarding, semi-guiding position at the flank: ”My Lord, Your Excellency, please proceed.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham exchanged a glance, then nodded to Arthur in acknowledgment, and ascended the steps.

The Marquis of Cunningham followed closely, his garments brushing past the sleeve of Conroy.

Conroy continued to keep his head down, stiffly retreating half a step only as the toes and robes of the two important figures passed by his feet.

Subsequently, Arthur silently climbed the steps, maintaining a respectful half-step distance, neither advancing nor lagging behind the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Marquis of Cunningham.

The gap that Conroy should naturally have filled was occupied by Arthur’s unquestionable demeanor and new rules.

Conroy was stunned on the spot, like a discarded chess piece moved from the center of the board.

He instinctively wanted to move forward and walk in tandem, only to realize Arthur had already locked the corridor gap firmly with his shoulder and elbow line.

He had no choice but to retract his toes, bow slightly, falling half a step behind Arthur.

The corridor was long, casting long shadows with red bricks and stone columns in the morning light, a few oil painting portraits hung on the walls, glimmering dimly in the morning’s dampness, and at the corridor’s end, a standing clock was ticking away with an exceptionally even beat, nailing time into the heart of Kensington Palace.

Arthur’s boot heel brushed over the boundary between stone and carpet edge, making a very faint scraping sound.

He did not look at the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Marquis of Cunningham, nor did he turn his head.

He only gazed ahead, at the archway leading to the reception room, and the invisible door beyond the archway that had already been opened.

At the entrance of the reception room, another footman came forward to greet them.

His gaze first landed on the Archbishop of Canterbury and Marquis of Cunningham, then followed their figure backward, finally settling on Arthur’s face, bowing deeply: ”Please come in.”