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The morning light in London was never truly bright, but to Prince Charles, it felt like a serrated blade pressing against his retinas. He groaned, the sound muffled by the heavy silk pillowcase that smelled faintly of expensive cologne and, more pungently, the stale, yeasty tang of Scotch.

He was eighteen, the Prince of Wales, the heir to the most famous throne on Earth, and his head felt as though it were being used as an anvil by a particularly vengeful blacksmith.

It had started at sixteen, a rebellious thrill in the darkened corners of Gordonstoun parties. A stolen sip of gin here, a shared bottle of sherry there. But what had begun as a teenage lark had morphed into a silent, constant companion. Charles had discovered that the world was much easier to navigate when it was slightly blurred at the edges. The crushing weight of his father’s expectations, the cold distance of his mother’s duty, and the relentless flashbulbs of the paparazzi all felt manageable when he had a small, silver flask tucked into the inner pocket of his bespoke suits.

Last night had been a disaster. Or a triumph, depending on how one measured the amount of amber liquid consumed. He had been out with a group of aristocrats who cared more for his title than his well-being, and he had lost count of the drinks somewhere around midnight.

His personal protection officer, a man named Miller who possessed the stoicism of a stone wall, had practically carried him through the side entrance of Buckingham Palace at four in the morning. Miller had been a godsend, navigating the labyrinthine corridors with a limp Prince draped over his shoulder, avoiding the night staff with the precision of a commando.

"Your Royal Highness," a sharp, panicked voice pierced the fog of his sleep. "Sir, you must wake up. Immediately."

Charles groaned again, pulling the duvet over his head. "Go away, Miller. Tell the world I’ve died of the plague."

"It isn’t Miller, sir. It is Mr. Rogers."

The duvet was ripped away. Charles squinted, his eyes stinging. Mr. Rogers, his personal advisor—a man who prided himself on his crisp collars and even crisper schedule—was standing over him. The man’s face was a mask of sheer horror.

"Good God," Rogers whispered, recoiling.

Charles was still wearing his dinner suit from the night before. It was crumpled, the lapels stained, and his bowtie hung like a dead bird around his neck. The room reeked of a distillery.

"What time is it?" Charles croaked, his throat feeling like he had swallowed a handful of dry sand.

"It is eight-thirty, sir," Rogers said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. "In exactly thirty minutes, you are expected at the Privy Council meeting. The Queen is attending. Prince Philip is attending. The Home Secretary and the Prime Minister’s representatives are already arriving."

Charles tried to sit up, but the room tilted violently to the left. He slumped back down, clutching his stomach. "I can’t. Tell them I’m ill. A stomach bug."

"Miller!" Rogers shouted toward the door. The guard stepped inside, looking grim. "How long has he been like this?"

"He arrived an hour ago, sir," Miller replied flatly. "I did my best to get him upstairs undetected."

"An hour?" Rogers looked like he might have a stroke. "He’s still drunk! He isn't just hungover, he’s practically sodden!"

Rogers didn't wait for a response. He grabbed Charles by the arm, showing a surprising amount of strength for a man who spent his days filing memos. "Get up. Now. Miller, help me."

Between the two of them, they dragged the heir to the throne into the ensuite bathroom. Charles stumbled, his legs feeling like lead weights. The next thing he knew, he was being shoved into the walk-in shower.

"Wait—" Charles gasped, but it was too late.

Rogers turned the handle all the way to the right. The water wasn't lukewarm; it was ice-cold, a freezing deluge that hit Charles like a physical blow. He let out a strangled yelp, his breath hitching as the frigid spray soaked through his dress shirt.

"Wake up, Charles!" Rogers hissed over the spray. "Do you have any idea what the press would do? Do you know what your father would do if he saw you like this?"

Charles leaned his forehead against the cold tiles, shivering violently. The shock of the water was working, dragging him back from the hazy abyss, but the nausea remained, a dull roar in his gut.

"I'm awake," Charles managed to say, his teeth chattering. "I'm awake. Turn it off."

Rogers shut the water off and threw a thick towel at him. "You have fifteen minutes. Miller has brought a fresh suit. I have peppermint oil and strong coffee. You will drink the coffee, you will use the oil to mask the scent, and you will sit in that meeting and look like the future King of England, or so help me, I will resign before the scandal hits the papers."

Ten minutes later, Charles stood before the full-length mirror. He looked pale, his eyes rimmed with red, but the new navy suit was sharp. Rogers had personally brushed his hair and applied a liberal amount of cologne—enough to be noticeable, but hopefully not enough to be suspicious.

"My head is spinning," Charles whispered, gripping the edge of the dresser.

"Focus on your breathing, sir," Rogers said, his tone softening slightly out of pity. "And for heaven's sake, do not speak unless you are spoken to. Just nod and look thoughtful."

"I can do this," Charles lied to himself. He reached for his jacket pocket, his fingers instinctively searching for the small silver flask he usually kept there.

Rogers slapped his hand away. "Absolutely not. Not today."

The walk to the council chamber felt like a mile-long trek through a minefield. Every footfall echoed in Charles's skull. They passed a group of maids who curtsied, and Charles gave them a stiff, jerky nod, his jaw clenched tight to keep his stomach from revolting.

When the doors to the chamber opened, the atmosphere shifted. The room was heavy with the scent of old wood, beeswax, and the stifling weight of tradition. His mother, the Queen, sat at the head of the long mahogany table. She looked up as he entered, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. Beside her, Prince Philip sat with his arms crossed, his gaze landing on Charles like a spotlight.

"You're late, Charles," Philip remarked, his voice booming uncomfortably loud.

"My apologies, Father," Charles said. His voice sounded thin to his own ears, but it didn't slur. "I was... finishing some correspondence."

"Sit," the Queen said simply.

Charles took his seat, the leather chair feeling like it was swaying on the deck of a ship. He stared at the blotter in front of him, the green ink and white paper dancing before his eyes.

The meeting began. A minister started droning on about trade relations in the Commonwealth. Charles tried to listen, he truly did, but the words were like water flowing over a smooth stone—they left no impression. He focused on a single spot on the table, a small scratch in the wood, and willed himself not to vomit.

"Don't you agree, Charles?"

The voice snapped him back to reality. It was his mother. She was looking at him, waiting. The entire room was silent.

Charles felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his spine. He had no idea what the question was. He looked at Rogers, who was standing against the wall, looking as though he were about to faint.

"I think," Charles started, his voice steadying by sheer force of will, "that the nuances of the diplomatic approach are paramount. We must ensure that our partners feel valued, rather than managed."

It was a generic, royal platitude—a string of words he had been taught to use when he wasn't paying attention.

The Queen gave a small, slow nod. "Quite. However, we were discussing the budget for the upcoming investiture."

Charles felt his face heat up. "Of course. And in that regard, I believe prudence is the best course of action."

Philip narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. "Are you quite alright, lad? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Or perhaps you’ve been 'corresponding' a bit too late into the night?"

Charles met his father's gaze. The adrenaline of the moment cleared the fog just enough for him to find his footing. "I am perfectly fine, Father. Just a bit of a restless night. The burden of the studies, you know."

Philip let out a short, skeptical huff but didn't press further. The meeting continued for another hour, an hour that felt like a lifetime. Charles sat perfectly still, his hands folded on the table to hide their slight Tremor. He nodded at the right times, he made eye contact when necessary, and he prayed to a God he wasn't sure he believed in that the room would stop spinning.

Finally, the Queen rose. "That will be all for today. Thank you, gentlemen."

The room cleared. Charles waited until the ministers had filed out before he dared to stand. He felt Rogers appear at his elbow like a shadow.

"Well done, sir," Rogers whispered, though his eyes were still full of reprimand.

Charles didn't answer. He walked out of the chamber, his stride purposeful until he reached the privacy of the corridor leading to his private apartments. Once the heavy oak doors closed behind him, he collapsed against the wall, his lungs heaving.

"Sir?" Miller asked, stepping forward.

"I need to sleep," Charles rasped. "Cancel everything for the afternoon. Tell them I have a migraine."

"A wise choice," Rogers said, appearing behind them. "But Charles... this cannot happen again. You are the Prince of Wales. You cannot hide behind a flask forever. One day, the cold water won't be enough to wake you up."

Charles looked at his advisor, seeing the genuine fear in the older man's eyes. For a second, he felt a pang of guilt, a sharp realization of how close he had come to the edge of the precipice.

"I know," Charles said softly.

He turned and walked toward his bedroom, his head still throbbing. But as he passed his desk, his eyes caught the glint of the silver flask Rogers had confiscated earlier, now sitting on the side table.

He reached out, his fingers hovering over the cool metal. He knew he should throw it away. He knew he should listen to Rogers.

But as the tremors in his hands grew worse and the silence of the palace began to feel like a cage, he picked it up. Just one sip, he told himself. Just to settle the nerves.

He unscrewed the cap, the scent of the Scotch filling his nostrils like a familiar, poisonous hug.

"Just one," he whispered to the empty room, and he drank.