The first time Thalric heard about the portrait, it was from a kitchen boy delivering tea.
He hadn't asked for tea.
The boy stammered something about a woman named Merra setting up in the western gallery—"with easels, sir, and charcoal, the good kind, from the south."
Thalric didn't respond. He let the boy leave.
Then he followed the scent of varnish.
The western gallery hadn't been used in years. Sunlight slanted through leaded glass panes, pooling on wooden floors bleached pale from neglect. Paintings hung at uneven intervals—past lords, minor victories, and a hunting scene Cedric had once funded as a birthday tribute to himself.
Near the far window, a canvas stood propped on a brass frame. A woman in her mid-thirties adjusted a palette beside it. Her sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbow, and she held her charcoal like a weapon.
She didn't look up when he entered.
"Back straight," she said. "Eyes forward."
He didn't move.
"Sit," she added, motioning to a velvet chair turned slightly toward the window light. "We've only got two hours of proper daylight and your face is difficult."
He stepped closer instead.
"Who commissioned this?"
Now she looked up.
Merra Vale. Royal portraitist. Known for her subtle hand and ruthless commissions. She raised an eyebrow. "The Queen. Standard display contract. One formal likeness for state use, one for archival record, and one private sketch for the family collection."
"I didn't approve this."
"You weren't asked," she replied evenly. "Because this isn't about you. It's about the image of you."
He studied the canvas. The sketch was loose, impressionistic. The nose a bit too delicate. The hands positioned as if they belonged to someone born gentle.
"She asked for revisions?" he asked.
"None yet. But I suspect she'll want it softened."
Thalric reached forward and, without ceremony, tilted the chair ninety degrees—so it no longer caught the window's natural light, but instead cast a faint shadow across his left side.
"Paint me like this," he said.
Merra hesitated. "That throws the lighting."
"I'm aware."
She considered. Then returned to her palette.
He sat, but did not relax. Let the shoulders stay rigid. Let the posture betray just enough unease. Not a scowl. Not confidence. Just a tension people wouldn't be able to place.
"Do you know what they said about me before I returned?" he asked.
"I don't listen to gossip."
"You do portraits," he said. "You live on gossip."
Merra paused her brush. "They said you were small. Weak. Some thought dead, others whispered about madness. One maid swore you slept on the floor because beds made you anxious."
Thalric looked ahead.
"Now they say you're cold," she added. "Calculating. Some think you're not even Percival."
He didn't deny it.
She resumed painting.
After a few minutes: "You planning to control this image too?"
"I don't need to."
"You've changed your position. That's control."
"No," he said. "That's the truth slipping through."
An hour passed.
Merra painted in silence, adjusting only to mutter occasionally about the way his jaw didn't match earlier portraits or how his shoulders sat too square.
"You're not drawing him," he said at last.
"No," she replied. "I'm drawing you."
He stood. Walked behind her.
The face on the canvas looked almost noble.
But the eyes weren't noble. Not quite angry. Not quite proud.
Just… watching.
"They'll hang this in the outer court," she said. "Everyone will see it."
He nodded.
"Then let them."
And left her with the shape of a prince no one had wanted—finally sitting in the light, shadowed just enough to make them wonder.