PART 3: The cool night air hit Anastasia’s face, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, a stark contrast to the suffocating perfume and spilled champagne of the ballroom.

The cool night air hit Anastasia’s face, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, a stark contrast to the suffocating perfume and spilled champagne of the ballroom. Arthur’s arm beneath her hand was solid, a warm anchor in a world that had just spun violently off its axis. Behind them, the silence of the kneeling crowd stretched like a taut wire, broken only by the distant, frantic barking of security dogs at the estate’s perimeter.

But the silence did not last.

"Wait!"

The voice was a whipcrack, cutting through the heavy air. Anastasia halted, her heart slamming against her ribs as she turned. Standing at the top of the grand marble steps, silhouetted against the brilliant light of the open foyer, was a man she had never seen before—yet his face struck a chord of terrifying familiarity deep within her memory. He was tall, dressed in a tailored black military tunic with silver piping, his posture rigid and radiating an icy, absolute authority.

Arthur’s grip on Anastasia’s hand tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. "Lord Alistair," the Grand Chamberlain whispered, his voice suddenly stripped of its warmth, replaced by a cold dread that made the hairs on Anastasia's arms stand up.

Alistair descended the steps slowly, each click of his polished boots sounding like a countdown. "You play a dangerous game, Arthur," Alistair said, his voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with venom as his gaze swept over Anastasia’s torn blue dress. "To drag a common scullery maid from the dirt, slap a dead queen's necklace on her throat, and call it a miracle? It is treason of the highest order."

"She bears the three-headed phoenix, Alistair!" Arthur bellowed, stepping in front of Anastasia, his chest heaving with a rage she hadn't known the old man possessed. "The birthmark of the direct line! You know as well as I do that she is the rightful heir!"

Alistair stopped three paces away, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. "A birthmark? In the age of advanced prosthetics and chemical branding? How convenient that this 'princess' appears precisely when the Regent's health is failing, and the crown is set to pass to my branch of the family." He stepped closer, his shadow falling over them both, smelling of expensive tobacco and expensive lies. "Let us tell the truth tonight, Arthur. There was no miracle in the winter fire nine years ago. I know, because I am the one who locked the nursery doors."

Anastasia gasped, the memory rushing back in a suffocating wave of heat and smoke—the sound of a heavy brass bolt sliding into place from the outside, the smell of burning wood, and the desperate, soot-choked screams of her mother. "You," she whispered, her voice trembling but carrying an underlying steel that surprised even her. "It was you."

"A child’s fairy tale," Alistair sneered, his eyes flashing with dangerous intent as he reached into his tunic and drew a small, silver-plated pistol, aiming it directly at Anastasia's chest. "But dead girls tell no tales, and fake princesses do not inherit kingdoms."

Before he could squeeze the trigger, the Commander of the Royal Guard lunged. With a roar, the massive man tackled Alistair, the pistol firing harmlessly into the night sky with a deafening crack. The two men crashed into the gravel driveway, rolling in a flurry of limbs, dirt, and torn fabric. Alistair snarled, throwing a brutal elbow into the Commander’s jaw, scrambling to his feet to retrieve the fallen weapon.

Anastasia didn't think; the survival instincts honed by nine years on the streets took over. She sprang forward, her bare feet driving into the gravel, and kicked the silver pistol. It skittered across the stone path and plunged into the dark waters of the estate's ornamental fountain.

Alistair spun on her, his face contorted in a mask of pure, murderous rage. "You miserable little rat!" he screamed, lunging to grab her by the throat.