MYSTERY OF SAINT HILLER DORMITORY

“Before this nation was formed thirty years ago, this land was part of the Kingdom of Blandenburgh, under the Prussian Empire.”

The words pulled Brian back to the present. He’d been staring blankly at the faded photograph in his hands—a younger version of his father standing in front of an ivy-draped stone castle. But now his eyes, once dulled by the storm of emotions, lit up with curiosity. The name *Silvester Alexander* no longer felt like a stranger—it was a riddle begging to be solved.

He shifted on the bamboo couch as James Nkono continued, his voice rich and steady, like a historian unveiling a forgotten legend.

“Blandenburgh was a small but fertile kingdom, tucked between greater powers. Thirty percent of Europe’s wheat came from its land. Its valleys were gold in harvest, and its rivers flowed with wealth. That alone made it a target.”

James stared into the distance, as if seeing it again in his mind’s eye—the great plains, the red-roofed towers of the capital, the air fragrant with lavender and history.

“And because of that bounty, Blandenburgh’s fate was sealed,” he said quietly. “It was eventually seized and annexed by Belarus during the rise of the National Coalition. No one wept. The world was already preparing for a greater war.”

Brian nodded slowly. The ache in his chest dulled for a moment. History had always fascinated him—but this wasn’t a lesson from a textbook. This was personal.

“The kingdom was ruled by King Roman Alexandrovich Pavlov, a just man, though some said too trusting. He inherited the throne from King Leopold Evanovich. His marriage to Queen Elena Sokolova—noble-blooded, sharp-willed—was one of alliance more than love. But from their union came a son: Silvester Alexander.”

Brian sat upright. The name felt electrifying now.

“My father,” he murmured. He let the words linger in the air like incense. The idea of Silvester as a prince—royal by blood—was something he’d never imagined.

James nodded solemnly. “But the palace was no fairy tale, Brian. While the public adored Queen Elena, behind the curtains, King Roman kept a mistress—Galina Petrovna Antonova, an opera singer from Vienna. She was as cunning as she was beautiful.”

Brian’s brows furrowed.

“At the same time, Europe teetered on the edge of disaster. The assassination of Archduke Ferdinand sparked a chain of fire. Troops mobilized. Borders tensed. But long before the first shots of World War I echoed, Blandenburgh had already begun to crumble from within.”

James’s tone darkened.

“King Roman advocated for uniting with Belarus, seeing it as a way to protect his people. But his Prime Minister, Dmitri Andreevich Sokolov, had other plans. He was a nationalist… and Galina’s secret lover. Together, they conspired in shadows.”

Brian leaned in. His hands were clenched on his knees.

“Then, one night… the king was found dead. Poisoned.”

James paused. The weight of the memory seemed to thicken the air.

“They accused a servant. A black man named Tunde. I knew him—honest, kind, and loyal beyond measure. He’d served the royal family for years. But when Emeka and I arrived in the king’s chamber, we found something different.”

“What?” Brian asked quickly, heart racing.

“Dmitri standing there, sword in hand. Bloodied. Tunde already on the floor, bleeding from a stab wound. Dmitri said he caught him red-handed, trying to poison the king. Then, without waiting, he finished him off.”

Brian felt cold crawl up his spine.

“But you didn’t believe him.”

“No,” James whispered. “Because Tunde wasn’t dead yet.”

Brian’s eyes widened.

“He was still breathing. Dmitri ordered me and Emeka to take the body to the crematorium beneath the palace. But as we carried him… he opened his eyes, and with the last breath in his lungs, he said one name: *Dmitri.* Then he pulled out a sachet of poison from under his robes.”

Brian sat in stunned silence.

“He was framed,” he whispered.

“Yes,” James said, voice heavy. “We wanted justice, but we were servants. We had no power.”

Brian clenched his jaw. “But Silvester…”

“Silvester had a different fire,” James continued. “When Emeka told him what Tunde had said, he didn’t hesitate. He stormed through the palace and found Dmitri in Galina’s chambers. They were together—laughing. But not for long.”

“What happened?”

“A duel. A brutal one. Silvester was trained in swordsmanship. The boy had the strength of purpose. And he nearly won.”

Brian’s breath caught.

“Until Galina intervened. She threw a heavy blanket at Silvester’s legs mid-swing. He stumbled, and Dmitri seized the moment—slashing across his side.”

James’s hands trembled at the memory. “I arrived just in time. I threw two torches into the chamber. One struck Dmitri, the other the silks on the bed. Fire spread like madness. Dmitri and Galina fled. I carried Silvester out through the smoke.”

“How?” Brian asked, shocked.

“There was a waste chute behind the wardrobe. I dragged him through it. We dropped into a cesspool. I held his body on a log, paddled us through the sewer, and emerged at the canal near the palace wall.”

Brian closed his eyes, imagining it: the smoke, the fire, the choking stench of death and sewage—and his father, bleeding but alive.

“Where did you take him?”

“To Castle Sedorov. It belonged to Lord Konstantin Petrovich Antonov, an ally of King Roman. He was one of the few we could still trust.”

“And Lady Caroline?”

“Already gone,” James said softly. “She died in childbirth. The only surviving family was a young girl. Seven years old. Named Linda Greywood Pattison.”

Brian’s breath hitched. “My mother.”

“Yes.”

Silence fell between them.

“Lord Konstantin took us in. He agreed to hide Silvester in a concealed chamber behind the wine cellar. For three months, I cared for your father in that cold, silent place.”

Brian stared at the floor. So many truths. So many buried roots.

“But then a bomb fell,” James said, voice low. “It struck the east wing. Lord Konstantin was crushed under the rubble. As he lay dying, he looked at Silvester and said only one thing: *Take Linda away. Protect her.*”

Brian’s throat tightened.

“Silvester obeyed. They left that very night. I stayed behind to recover the body. But the palace was crawling with soldiers.”

James closed his eyes. “And that’s when a Russian officer—tall, bearded—appeared above me, rifle raised.”

Brian couldn’t breathe.

“But he didn’t shoot. He threw the rifle down to me and said, ‘Take it. You’ll need it.’ And when I said I didn’t know how to use it, he ordered his men to teach me.”

A long silence followed.

Brian finally spoke, his voice rough. “And after that?”

“That,” James said, eyes on the photo once more, “was the beginning of the exile.”

Brian's thoughts swirled.

His father—a prince, a warrior, a fugitive.

His mother—a noble girl, saved from war.

And himself—the son of two ghosts.

He looked at James.

“Why did no one tell me this before?”

James stared at him, a shadow of pain behind his eyes. “Because, child… sometimes history must wait for its listener to be ready.”

Brian nodded slowly. “I’m ready now.”

James reached for a worn journal from a hidden drawer and handed it to him.

“Then it’s time you read this. Your father’s words. His last entries before he vanished.”

Brian took the book in both hands. His fingertips brushed the faded ink.

And deep in his soul, something ancient stirred.

dear boy, is a story for another night.”