Chapter 617: Princess
"Then tell me. Why did you dare to speak in the name of Royal Family?"
The cold steel lingered at his throat, but the boy's expression didn't shift.
He met the princess's gaze—not with defiance, not with submission—but with something calmer. Deeper.
Still.
"I did not speak in the royal family's name," he said softly. "I spoke my own thoughts."
The words were quiet, but they carried.
"I do not dare to speak for royalty."
His black eyes, deep as ever, reflected the flicker of crimson in hers.
"I only asked some questions. Nothing more."
His head tilted slightly—not in mockery, but with the faintest trace of thoughtfulness, almost like a student admitting a small mistake.
"Is that not allowed?" he asked gently. "To wonder aloud beneath the sky of the Empire?"
The cat yawned.
And then—
A breath of quiet humor touched the boy's lips, as if only just remembering his station.
"If it is not," he said with a soft shrug, "then please excuse this country bumpkin just once."
A pause.
"I've only just arrived in the capital. I've yet to learn its… delicate rules."
That last word—delivered with a hint of shade—landed as cleanly as a slap disguised as a compliment.
The crowd stirred again. Someone coughed. A noble woman in the back muttered, "Arrogant little…" but didn't finish.
And then—
"Enough!"
The voice did not belong to the princess.
It came from behind her—sharp and laced with barely controlled outrage.
One of the Crane attendants stepped forward now, fury trembling in every syllable.
"This peasant insulted our house," he spat. "He humiliated our heir in front of the people, he invoked the royal law to make a spectacle, and now he dares joke before Her Highness?"
The heir himself, his face still pale and lips pressed tight, finally managed a weak echo: "This is a disgrace to the nobility. He should be detained immediately."
Priscilla did not move.
Her expression didn't even flicker.
But the weight of her stillness was louder than their shouting.
The boy exhaled slowly, then glanced toward the Crane entourage.
"Insulted?" he murmured. "Ah. Then forgive me again."
He pressed a hand to his chest and dipped his head—not mockingly, but with the exaggerated humility of someone who knew exactly how much it would irritate them.
"I hadn't realized stating facts was considered insulting. I'll write that down. Somewhere between 'breathe softly' and 'don't bleed on the silk.'"
More than one person in the crowd snorted.
Selphine nearly choked.
Aurelian covered his mouth.
The heir of House Crane, red-faced and shaking now with equal parts rage and wounded pride, stepped forward.
"I was assaulted," he barked, voice cracking from the strain. "Unprovoked! This… this vagrant appeared from nowhere and struck me down!"
A few gasps rang out from the crowd—more from disbelief at his audacity than sympathy.
Selphine scoffed. "Unprovoked, my foot," she muttered.
The black-eyed boy didn't even turn to look at the heir.
He simply spoke—calmly, clearly.
"Ah, yes," he said, nodding slowly as if recalling something faintly amusing. "I remember now."
He turned slightly, his gaze gliding over the gathered onlookers before returning, pointedly, to the Crane heir.
"I bumped into a bandit wearing fashionable clothes."
A beat of silence.
Then—laughter. Suppressed, strangled, but unmistakably present.
A woman behind Aurelian stifled a giggle behind her fan. Somewhere to the left, someone snorted loud enough to draw a glare from the Crane entourage.
The boy didn't smile. But his cat, now curled smugly on his shoulder, blinked contentedly.
The heir's face twisted with fury. "You dare—!"
He took a step forward.
"I am the heir of Count Crane, one of the empire's oldest houses! I will not be mocked by some nameless dog in rags!"
But Priscilla's eyes narrowed.
Just slightly.
And the crowd noticed.
The boy did too.
He turned back to her, shifting his tone again—cool and conversational, as if the entire moment had merely been an unfortunate misunderstanding at a dinner party.
"I see," he said, gently brushing an invisible fleck from his sleeve. "Then allow me to explain, Your Highness. I came here because I heard the terrace view was pleasant."
He gestured to the overlook beyond them, the capital sprawling in lights below like constellations trapped on stone.
"And that the tea was decent."
Another pause.
"I simply wanted a cup before the festival began. I didn't expect to find a noble heir trying to wrestle a chair out from under two guests like a drunk peddler at a village auction."
More laughter now—barely masked. The air rippled with it.
The Crane heir's mouth opened—but no sound came.
The boy stepped forward, not toward the heir, but toward the edge of the terrace, looking out over the capital. His voice was soft, thoughtful.
"Truly… what a welcome."
Then, without turning, he added—with a touch more edge.
"Though I suppose I should not be surprised. I've heard whispers of certain… elitist factions. Those who believe their blood makes them more than others. Untouchable. Even above imperial law."
Now he turned, slowly.
Meeting the heir's gaze.
"And yet," he said quietly, "when challenged, they bleed like everyone else."
The laughter stopped.
Not because it wasn't funny.
But because it hit too close.
Because it wasn't just a joke anymore.
The air had grown too still.
The boy's words clung in the air like a curse spoken in daylight—bold, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. No one laughed anymore. Not even Selphine. Not even the baron's sister, who sat with her hand clenched around her teacup, forgotten and cold.
Because what he said struck too near the bone.
The succession war.
Everyone knew. Even if they didn't speak of it openly.
The imperial court was fractured—lines drawn not just by blood, but by ambition. The Crown Prince, eldest of the Emperor's legitimate children, backed by the oldest noble bloodlines, commanded a growing faction known for their rigid elitism and disdain for nontraditional blood.
And yet—House Crane had always walked a line. Conservative. Noble. But neutral.
Or so it had been believed.
Now? After this? After watching their heir attempt to assert power with brute arrogance, in the open, during the festival under harmony law?
People began to wonder.
And in that silence—
Princess Priscilla finally spoke.
Her voice was softer than before.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
Just… curious.
"…You," she said, red eyes locked fully onto him now, voice low, almost unreadable. "How do you know me?"
The words didn't make sense to the crowd.
Not at first.
A few nobles exchanged uncertain glances. Some leaned forward slightly. Even Aurelian blinked in confusion, lips parting in a quiet, "What…?"
But the black-eyed boy only smiled.
Not wide. Not mocking.
Just a slow, thoughtful curl at the edge of his lips. Something deeper.
Familiar.
"I know a great many things, Your Highness," he said quietly, "but I believe this one would best be shared over tea."
And then, just as casually as if they were speaking at a private estate garden, he added:
"Perhaps… Imperial Mirasheen."
Her pupils tightened just slightly. A flicker passed through her expression—but only a flicker.
The rest of her was still marble.
But inside?
A question now burned.
The crowd, however, didn't get to dwell on the moment.
Because one of the imperial guards, already trembling with restrained fury, stepped forward with his blade raised high.
"Insolent cur!" he shouted, his voice breaking the fragile veil. "You dare to speak so familiarly to Her Highness?! A commoner offering tea?! This is an insult to the very blood of the Empire!"
Gasps again. Some of them real.
Others—rehearsed.
But Priscilla didn't move.
Not yet.
Her eyes didn't leave his.
And neither did his leave hers.
Chapter 618: Princess (2)
Priscilla said nothing.
She stood there, marble-still beneath the arching terrace, the flame-shaped pendant at her throat catching the lanternlight with every shallow breath. Her posture did not falter. Her blade-sharp voice did not return. Her guards were frozen in a half-drawn motion, still awaiting her command.
But her eyes—those deep, regal crimson eyes—remained fixed on the boy who now stood at the very edge of her silence.
And inside?
Her thoughts were louder than war drums.
Who are you?
It wasn't the first time someone had spoken boldly before her. She had heard silver-tongued flatterers, poison-laced courtiers, and self-righteous nobles preach to her of loyalty, tradition, and obedience. All of them dripped venom beneath the veil of manners.
But none of them ever looked at her like this.
Not with fear. Not with contempt.
But with knowledge.
As if he saw through the title.
As if the crown at her brow were a thing easily set aside.
As if— he'd met her before.
That… should have been impossible.
And yet, the name he spoke—Imperial Mirasheen—made something within her stir. A memory brushed by shadow. Not quite forgotten. But locked away.
Her breath slowed.
It's a coincidence, she wanted to believe.
But it didn't feel like one.
He had looked at her with ease, yes—but more than that, with recognition. And even stranger… his words didn't carry the weight of ambition, or calculation, or fear of consequence.
They felt like a conversation.
Like something… private.
Even now, with her guards poised to strike, and the fury of Count Crane's entire house crackling at the edges of the square—
The boy hadn't moved.
Not even an inch of fear. Not a twitch of retreat.
It wasn't arrogance.
It was something else entirely.
Something quieter.
More deliberate.
Her eyes narrowed just slightly.
And beneath that frigid surface, her thoughts churned like winter storm tide.
She could feel them again—those other eyes, the ones that mattered less. The nobles. The whisperers. The courtiers who had once looked at her with distaste the moment they learned her blood was diluted by common birth. Not a pure heir. Not a daughter of politics or power. Just a mistake granted a tiara by imperial whim.
She had learned to live beneath those stares. To walk with poise while their scorn crawled beneath her skin. They bowed, yes—but their gazes stripped her all the same.
But not his.
No, he hadn't even blinked at the sight of her crest. His eyes didn't dart toward her pendant. He hadn't even acknowledged the symbols that had once made her life a cage.
He looked at her.
Just… her.
And that unsettled her more than anything else that had happened tonight.
Does he know? No—he can't. That's impossible. I've never spoken to him. Never seen him at court, or anywhere else.
And yet…
…Why do I feel like I've seen him before?
The question gnawed at the edges of her thoughts like slow fire.
Priscilla's fingers remained still at her side, but she could feel the tension crawling along her spine, curling beneath her collar. Her breath did not betray her—but inwardly, the certainty she wore like armor was showing fractures.
She stared at him harder now, letting her gaze sharpen—not just regal, but piercing.
Still, he didn't falter. His black eyes held hers with that same calm knowing. Not smug. Not brash. Just… present. Certain in a way no stranger should be.
And that smile…
It wasn't the smile of a noble vying for favor.
It wasn't the simpering of some street performer trying to charm his way upward.
It was the kind of smile someone wore when they already knew the ending to a story you hadn't even begun reading yet.
She forced herself to look away from his face, just for a second, grounding herself in the logic.
Imperial Mirasheen.
He had said it like it was nothing. Like it was a casual comment, a familiar suggestion between acquaintances. But it wasn't.
That tea—that specific tea—wasn't listed openly on any café menu in Velis Prominence. It wasn't ordered in public. Not by her.
She only drank it when she came here in secret, late in the evening, beneath a different name, with her face half-shadowed by her veil and her attendants waiting just far enough not to hear the order.
No one knew. Not even her closest courtiers.
She had never spoken it aloud in court. Never allowed it to be listed under her preferences for the palace kitchen.
So how—
Her eyes snapped back to him.
Still watching her. Still unreadable. Still holding that ghost of a smirk—like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
He couldn't have known. Not unless…
Not unless he saw me here before.
But she would have remembered someone like him. She would have.
Wouldn't she?
I'm mistaken, she told herself. It's a coincidence. An arrogant one, yes, but still just a boy playing dangerous games for attention.
And yet—
Her stomach turned.
Because even if it was coincidence, then how did he know to say all this before she revealed herself?
The words he had used—the royal law, the harmony of the Empire, justice beneath the flame—he had invoked the language of court with such ease. Not as someone pleading to authority… but as someone expecting it to arrive.
As if he'd been waiting.
As if he knew.
He stood in the center of Velis Prominence, made a scene loud enough to shake the district, and said just enough to draw the royal eye without ever once speaking my name.
Her jaw tightened.
He baited me here.
And I walked straight into it.
Her attendants still stood frozen around her, watching, waiting, unsure whether to move unless she gave the order.
But even as she stood beneath the arch, high above the glowing veins of Arcania, above the chattering crowds and fractured factions—
Priscilla Lysandra found herself no longer certain who was observing who.
And that?
That was the part that unsettled her most.
The terrace wind carried the scents of lantern-oil, smoke, and distant spice, yet none of it reached her.
Priscilla Lysandra exhaled slowly.
She did not blink.
Did not move.
And then—wordlessly—she raised one hand.
The imperial guard stepped back. The blade lowered, though not fully sheathed. Her attendants remained still, but she could feel their silent confusion ripple behind her like a tide pressing against a dam.
Still, she said nothing at first.
Instead, she took one measured step forward.
Then another.
And another, until the sharp click of her heels faded into the soft stone beneath the overlook. Until the boy was less than two paces away. Until his black eyes were no longer a thing she had to meet—but a reflection she was already within.
And then, voice low and perfectly controlled, she spoke.
"…Very well."
She didn't say his name.
She didn't ask it either.
She simply nodded—barely—and turned toward the shaded archway behind the promenade.
"To the Ember," she said to no one in particular. "We will speak there."
The words cut the plaza like a blade.
A hum of disbelief rose from the nobles gathered at the edges. Whispers. Shocked stares.
But none louder than the voice that followed.
"You can't be serious."
The heir of House Crane—pale, trembling, voice taut like a frayed string—stepped forward, barely containing the scowl twisting across his face.
He hadn't raised his head when the crowd bowed. He hadn't smiled when she arrived. And now, with the scene slipping beyond his control, he barely hid his rage.
"Your Highness," he said, voice clipped. Too formal. Too sharp. "You… would grant him an audience?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
Didn't want one.
The disdain in his tone made the question rhetorical.
"This boy insulted nobility," he continued, louder now, turning partially to the crowd. "He threatened an heir. He invoked the name of the royal family for theatrics—and now he's rewarded with privacy?"
His gaze snapped back to her, and for the first time, it wasn't simply disbelief she saw.
It was accusation.
A challenge—naked and unfiltered, drawn from the embers of an enmity that had been waiting to ignite.
"Or do you take his side?"
Chapter 619: Princess (3)
"Or do you take his side?"
The question split the moment open like a cracked gem.
The crowd stirred.
Even Selphine blinked.
Aurelian tensed, his hands half-raised at his sides like he was bracing for a blast that hadn't yet come.
The boy—
This time, he said nothing.
No smirk. No clever retort. He merely watched.
And Priscilla…
Her eyes slid toward the heir.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
But exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that didn't come from the hour—but from years.
She had known this was coming.
That their cordial ties, thin and political as they were, would fray eventually. The Cranes had always resented her standing. Her mother's blood. Her refusal to be paraded like a lesser pawn. Her silence in court that never yielded loyalty.
He, especially—this boy who had once offered her a rose at a summit for appearance's sake, then boasted later that the flower was "charity."
Their falling out was inevitable.
This night had merely chosen to light the fuse.
So she looked him in the eye.
And then—
"Is that what you think?" she asked, voice still light. Unshaken. "That a princess offering an audience to a stranger implies loyalty?"
The heir flinched—just slightly.
But her voice didn't stop.
"Then you mistake diplomacy for favoritism. And pride for purpose."
She turned, her mantle sweeping lightly behind her.
"Should you find yourself troubled by the people I choose to hear… perhaps consider whether your voice would stand beside theirs if you were not born into a title."
The silence that followed was deeper than any command.
The heir's jaw clenched. But he didn't answer.
Because there was no safe answer to give.
And she didn't wait for one.
Instead, she gave the faintest nod to her guard captain, who stepped aside wordlessly, then gestured for the boy to follow.
And just like that—
The walk was silent.
No guards followed—not into the inner tier of the Ember.
They passed under silver-lit archways and over soft bridges of glowing stone, away from the eyes of nobles, and into a quieter place where the lanterns no longer flickered for spectacle, but for warmth.
The Ember, as it was casually called, wasn't truly a garden.
Its full name was The Embered Veranda of Lysandra's Flame—a secluded terrace tucked behind the third level of the Prominence District, just beneath the imperial observatory. Built generations ago by one of Priscilla's ancestors, it had been designed as a private meeting space for quiet diplomacy.
But people rarely used its full name. "The Ember" had stuck over the years, passed down in murmured corners of court and through hushed slips of noble tongues.
And for Priscilla… it had become something else entirely.
A place to breathe.
Tonight, the marble tiles underfoot carried the faint warmth of residual sunfire enchantments. Wind rustled the low-blooming embergrass that lined the rails, and in the far corner, a kettle of soft crimson tea leaves was already steaming—left by her handmaidens in preparation, as always.
She stepped forward without a word, and the boy followed behind her.
His white cat, still draped across his shoulders like living snow, flicked its tail but made no noise.
When they reached the terrace's edge, Priscilla's handmaid, a slight woman named Idena, stepped forward from the shadows with a hesitant incline of her head.
"Your Highness," Idena said quietly, just above a whisper. "Forgive the intrusion, but this… this may not be wise."
Priscilla didn't turn.
"He is a stranger," the attendant added, eyes flickering briefly toward the boy. "And House Crane—while not powerful—was neutral. If you lose their support, your position weakens further. The other branches will circle."
"I know."
"You've already earned enough enemies, Priscilla. Taking a public stance against a noble heir—"
"I know," she said again, this time firmer. Her tone didn't rise. It never did. But the weight behind it ended the sentence before it could finish.
She lifted her hand—not in dismissal, but in finality—and Idena bowed away, melting silently into the terrace shadows.
Then, finally, she turned and seated herself.
Her chair was plain by court standards—redwood and gold, curved and designed more for solitude than audience. She settled into it with practiced grace, her mantle pooling around her feet like stilled flame.
And after a beat—he sat as well.
Across from her.
The boy didn't bow. Didn't speak. But neither did he sprawl or smirk. He simply folded into the seat like he belonged there, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair, his posture composed, calm.
Balanced.
Priscilla watched him with eyes like blooded glass.
Still, he revealed nothing.
It bothered her.
She had spent her whole life parsing through lies wrapped in silken speech, deceit hidden behind jeweled smiles. And yet this boy—this nameless stranger with midnight eyes—sat across from her like he had nothing to hide and everything he wanted to say already tucked neatly behind his silence.
Too calm. Too deliberate.
She hated guessing.
But now, she was already dancing blind.
And so—
"You knew I would come," she said finally, her voice no longer sharp but steady. Measured. Regal not by volume, but by clarity.
Her fingers rested atop the armrest, unmoving.
The boy's lips curled—slowly.
Not wide. Not mockery. But something smaller. Subtler. A trace of quiet amusement, like a ripple in still water. His gaze remained steady, those black eyes reflecting the flickering lanternlight behind her like mirrors without depth.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Come now," he said lightly, voice smooth as woven dusk. "What makes you think I knew you would come?"
His tone held no mockery—just a question. A genuine curiosity, as if her certainty was more fascinating than her title.
He leaned back slightly, the white cat on his shoulder shifting with a soft chuff of breath before curling back into its silken nap. "Perhaps I was simply stirring trouble for its own sake. Perhaps I speak in riddles to see who listens."
The smirk deepened, just a fraction.
"Or perhaps… it was coincidence, and you stepped into the tale at the perfect time."
But she wasn't interested in games.
Priscilla's gaze remained unmoved.
"There is no such thing as coincidence."
Her words cut clean through the space between them—clear, sharp, final.
Priscilla did not lean back. She did not lift her chin. She simply watched him, crimson eyes locked onto his as if to peel the skin from his thoughts.
"I don't believe in happenstance," she said. "Especially not when someone creates a scene loud enough to ripple through the capital, invokes the royal family's name without flinching, and then—just so precisely—presents me as the impartial witness."
She tilted her head, only slightly, the gesture deliberate.
"You didn't even look surprised to see me," she said quietly. "Not a blink. Not a breath out of place."
Then—
"If I can't see that much," she continued, her tone now lined with frost, "then I should be ashamed for having eyes."
She let the silence rest there—let it weigh on the moment like snow just before it breaks a branch.
"Quite clever," she murmured.
Then, after a pause, she shook her head faintly. "Not very. But clever enough."
Her fingers tapped once on the armrest—just once. A signal more than a habit.
"What I want to know now," she said, eyes narrowing, "is why."
Her voice lowered.
"You crafted all of this. You played your piece across the board and waited for the crown to tilt. So tell me…"
She leaned in—not much, not enough to betray poise, but enough that her gaze landed heavier, her presence more direct.
"…What is it you want, black-eyed boy?"
Chapter 620: Princess (4)
"…What is it you want, black-eyed boy?"
The boy tilted his head slightly at her words, one brow lifting—not in mockery, but with an almost amused intrigue.
"You speak as if you're older than me," he murmured, voice low, smooth. "Black-eyed boy… hm. Is that the attitude of someone so young?"
He let the question hang there, a thin thread of something between jest and study.
"How peculiar."
The words brushed the air like fingers over glass—too gentle to be insulting, but too familiar to be innocent.
Then came the answer she had demanded.
Or rather—the evasion.
"As for why I did all of this…"
His eyes, bottomless and unblinking, met hers without flinching.
"Who knows?"
The silence that followed was immediate.
Deliberate.
And sharp.
Priscilla's fingers stilled.
Her shoulders squared.
And her eyes—those deep, regal eyes that had learned to burn cold when words failed—hardened.
She didn't shout.
Didn't rise.
She didn't need to.
Her presence alone shifted the air.
"You mock the throne," she said coldly, each word honed to an edge. "You sit before me as if you earned the right to play coy. As if the veil of riddles is armor against consequence."
She rose—slowly.
But her anger was unmistakable now, a coiled thing behind her voice.
"Even if I was born from a commoner's blood," she said, stepping closer, her tone low but crackling like a blade drawn through frost, "even if the palace would rather forget my name—do not mistake that for weakness."
Her crimson gaze bore into his. Unblinking.
"I am a princess of the Arcanis Empire. I hold the right to have you bound in iron, shackled in the palace vaults, and erased from the public eye without a single record of your name ever touching parchment."
A pause. Her mantle swayed with the soft breeze curling through the Ember.
"So if you've come here thinking I'm someone you can trifle with, someone you can prod and taunt and leave guessing—"
Her breath drew in, slow, even.
"I suggest you think again."
The cat on his shoulder stirred but didn't move.
And the boy?
Still calm.
Still infuriatingly unreadable.
Then—
"Sure you can do that."
His voice was soft.
Unbothered.
Almost… admiring.
"And if you did…" he said gently, his fingers brushing the edge of his coat sleeve, "you would silence the one person who came here tonight without a name. Without a house. Without power."
"…You would just silence someone you've yet to understand."
The boy's voice remained level, smooth as a reflection cast over still water. Not daring. Not pleading. Simply stating.
"And maybe after that," he continued, gaze drifting slightly upward as if imagining it aloud, "you'd assign a scribe from the Shadowguard to dig into my background. Have the scribes trace my steps. Look into my blood. My birth. My travel patterns. My teachers. My shoes."
His hand made a small motion, dismissive, a slow wave in the air as if all of it were routine—mundane.
"And eventually, they'd bring you a report."
He leaned forward slightly in his seat, just enough for the lanternlight to catch in the soft arc of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw.
"They'd tell you my name. Or one of them. A village. A mother's name you wouldn't recognize. A list of unspectacular achievements, tied up in a bow. Simple. Clean. Forgettable."
He smiled, faintly, but it was not joy.
It was knowing.
"And then the matter would be closed."
His black eyes slowly turned back to her. No longer brushing. No longer distant.
"Or would it?"
The boy's voice dipped lower, the air curling with the weight of unspoken implication.
"Would the matter really be closed so neatly, Your Highness?"
He tilted his head again, not mocking, but inquisitive. Like a professor urging a student past the obvious answer.
"You seem like a smart person," he continued, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. "Sharp eyes. Quiet spine. Not the sort who bows to pressure just because the wind shifts."
Then—
"Tell me," he said softly. "Do you not wonder why House Crane was making such a loud scene in the heart of Velis Prominence—under the Empire's own lanterns, during a festival held in the name of peace—while claiming, all the while, to be neutral?"
The question struck like a stone across glass.
"Is that coincidence as well?"
Priscilla did not move.
But something in her eyes—those regal, unblinking crimson eyes—shifted.
A tremor.
Barely there.
But real.
Her lips parted ever so slightly, though no breath left them.
Because the moment he said it—she saw it.
The timing.
The placement.
Her own steps, heading toward the promenade just moments before the crowd thickened. The Crane heir posturing in a territory he had no business claiming. The forced scuffle. The escalation. The invocation of royal law.
All of it, right where she would be.
Right where she would have to act.
Right where she would have to be seen acting.
Her heart didn't race. She was trained better than that.
But her thoughts suddenly burned hot behind her still expression.
Because the boy was right.
This didn't feel like a spontaneous display of Crane pride anymore. This didn't feel like a random heir lashing out at a stranger with too much tongue and no title.
It felt staged.
And if it was staged…
Why?
Why risk political exposure? Why provoke scandal in the open—under harmony law, no less?
Why now?
Her mind raced. The Crane family had long kept to the middle. Never loud. Never overly ambitious. But never loyal, either. If they were making noise now… there was a reason.
And yet—to provoke her?
Was that the goal?
If it's him…
The thought struck her like a sudden, silent knife.
She didn't finish it aloud, didn't let it touch her face. But inside, the suspicion bloomed sharp and fast, threading through every piece of this carefully crumbling moment.
My brother.
Her jaw tightened ever so slightly.
The Crown Prince. First-born son of the Emperor. Paragon of court etiquette. Glorious heir of pure-blooded lineage. Untouchable.
And the leader of the Elitist Faction—the ones who saw power not as duty, but birthright.
He had never once spoken kindly of her. Not in court, not in private. Every time their paths crossed, it was with veiled contempt.
Not even veiled, if she were honest.
It was not simply that he disliked her.
He despised her.
Her mother's blood—common. Her status—unwanted. A reminder of weakness in a bloodline obsessed with strength.
And now…
Now they would be attending the academy at the same time.
Not just on the same grounds—but in the same light.
In public.
Before the Empire.
And if this had played out differently…
If the crowd had turned against her.
The boy watched her in silence, his expression unreadable.
And then—
"What if I wasn't there?"
His voice was soft again. Almost thoughtful. As if he were tracing a memory that hadn't happened yet.
"Let's think a little, shall we?"
He didn't lean forward this time. He didn't need to. His words reached her clearly—sharp and quiet as a blade drawn in the dark.
"What if I wasn't there, and no one interrupted?"
His eyes, black as polished ink, held hers without flinching.
"No theatrics. No intervention. Just a noble heir of House Crane… and a low-blooded baron being humiliated in the heart of the Prominence."
A pause.
"No… not just humiliated. Forced."
He tilted his head slightly, voice still calm, but now quieter. He was threading the shape of the trap, piece by piece.
"They would have forced that boy and his sister from their seats. Perhaps a few mana strikes thrown in. Maybe a bruised wrist. A bloody nose. Just enough to make a show of it."
His tone remained light—almost eerily so.
"And then you'd arrive."
He looked toward the terrace railing, toward the city lights far below. The lanterns flickering like little lies scattered across the veins of Arcania.
"You'd see it. A scene already ended. A noble heir victorious. A common baron discarded like waste."
Then, he turned back to her.
"And what would you have done, Princess?"
She said nothing.
But she didn't need to.
Because the answer sat heavy in the silence between them.
"You'd have done what's expected," he said. "Overlooked it. Like any other royal walking through the ash of someone else's fire."
He didn't say it with cruelty.
He said it like a truth too old to mourn.
"Because it would be beneath your attention. Because you don't know him. Because it would have looked… political. Risky."
He leaned back now, the soft shift of his coat the only sound for a heartbeat.
"After all," he said, "who would risk their reputation over a baron?"
His fingers traced an idle line across the table.
"Quite smart of them, really."
Then his voice dipped, just enough to draw her attention back in.
"But… what if," he said slowly, "that mere baron… turned to you?"
His eyes flicked up, catching hers like a hook.
"What if, right before the crowd, he called out to you? Claimed the previous alliance, and sought your protection?"
He waited a beat.
Then—
"What would you have done then, Priscilla Lysandra?"
Chapter 621: Priscilla
The boy's words echoed—soft, deliberate—and Priscilla could already see it.
The lanterns. The murmuring crowd. The blood on the baron's lip. His sister trembling beside him. The Crane heir standing tall, basking in noble righteousness. And then—her, stepping into it all.
Too late.
Just in time.
And then—
The boy's voice changed.
Softer.
Higher.
Feigning a young noble's tremble, and lacing it with theatrical desperation.
"Ah… Princess," he said, hand to his chest, mock-shaky but not mocking. "'My liege—my lady—please. You remember me, don't you? From the southern court? You… you accepted my vow before the autumn festival.'"
His pitch wavered, like a man recalling a shared truth that never existed.
"'And now—now they're threatening me! These nobles—House Crane—they're trying to force us out!'"
He widened his eyes slightly, miming panic, his voice trembling just enough to sell it.
"'You must stop them, Princess. Please.'"
Then he stopped.
And silence followed.
But not inside her.
Inside Priscilla, a storm had started to churn.
Because she saw it now. All of it.
The baron's face—pitiful and pleading. The crowd's attention turning to her. The nobles watching, already knowing the game. Already expecting how she would respond.
She'd stand there. Silent. Uncertain. Searching through memories that didn't exist for a face she'd never seen.
And if she said no?
If she denied the boy's allegiance?
It would not be him who suffered.
It would be her.
She, the "unwanted princess," the one born of a commoner's blood, would be painted as cold. Disloyal. Cowardly. The kind of leader who lets her own followers be trampled under noble boots.
Even if none of it were true.
Even if it was fabricated from the first thread.
It didn't matter.
Because it would be her word against theirs—and in the eyes of the empire's court, her word had always come with an asterisk.
She could already hear it: So this is the girl the Emperor allowed into the academy? The one who abandons her allies in public? The one too ashamed to defend her own?
The boy didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He just watched her now, quiet again, letting her mind race through every ripple of the trap that could have been.
A trap she hadn't even seen until it was nearly set.
And slowly—
Ever so slowly—
Her gloved hand curled into a fist over the armrest.
Not out of fear.
But out of understanding.
This wasn't about House Crane.
Not really.
It was about her.
About humiliating her before she even set foot in the academy. About dragging her title down just enough to ensure she never stood on equal ground.
To make her presence at the capital not just awkward, but undesirable.
And it could have worked.
It could have worked.
That thought, quiet and precise, settled in Priscilla's mind with the weight of iron.
It wasn't just a hypothetical anymore.
It was a viable strategy—one with precedent, one the court would devour like blood in the water. Her presence at the academy would already draw whispers, but this? This would give them something to anchor their disdain to. Something concrete. A failure to protect. A display of political weakness. A stain.
And they would not forget it.
She drew in a breath—but said nothing.
Because the boy was still watching her. Still sitting across the table with that maddening calm.
No longer simply a "boy" now that she looked closer.
He was older than she'd first assumed—not a child playing games, but a man, likely in his twenties. Early, perhaps, but no less dangerous for it. His posture, the clarity of his words, the restraint behind his tone—they weren't just signs of wit. They were signs of control.
He had acted the part of a charlatan, worn the smirk of a provocateur, but now… now that she looked at him without the assumption, she saw how deliberate the act had been.
His face was sharply angled, not gaunt but cut clean—cheekbones defined, jaw lined with just enough softness to undercut the precision. And his eyes—
Those eyes.
They weren't wide with youth. They were watching. Always. The kind of gaze that didn't just meet yours—it evaluated what stood behind it.
And now?
That gaze softened again—just slightly—as he lifted one hand in a light, graceful motion.
And then—
He began again.
This time, he played the crowd.
"Oh… oh my," he gasped softly, imitating the fawning tones of a noblewoman, hand fluttering dramatically near his chest. "Did you see that? She didn't even acknowledge him. Her own sworn baron."
Then he shifted—voice deepening into the low, smug mutter of a rotund nobleman. "Disgraceful. Unfit for court, really. I expected poor judgment, but abandoning her own? Tsk."
Another shift.
A whispery, hushed voice. "Well, her blood isn't clean, you know. What can you expect from a girl raised by sentiment instead of sense?"
He let those imagined voices hang a moment before his posture changed again.
Shoulders back. Chin lifted slightly. And then—
The heir of House Crane.
The boy's expression curled into a mask of smug satisfaction, voice now drawn and imperious, heavy with triumphant condescension.
"Of course we never meant to start anything serious," he said with false civility. "But when a noble of the Empire causes such a disruption, we must act. It is a matter of dignity. Of discipline."
He leaned slightly, lifting one finger for emphasis, his tone thick with false virtue.
"And with Her Highness unwilling to claim her own… well. What choice did we have but to restore order ourselves?"
He gave a small, performative sigh—exaggerated just enough to mock.
"It's truly a shame. I had hoped Princess Priscilla might grow into the role."
Then he stopped.
Let the silence return.
His expression now was still. Calm again.
But in his voice?
Only one question remained—unspoken, but carved into every word that came before:
Do you see now?
Because they did.
Priscilla exhaled slowly, long and quiet.
Her hand uncurled from its fist, returning to the armrest as the firestorm of possibility dulled into something colder—analytical.
Yes, the picture he'd painted was plausible.
Alarmingly so.
But it was also crafted. Layered. Possibly embellished.
And she was no fool.
If she were to believe every tale whispered in a smoky alley or spun by silver-tongued strangers, she'd be buried by paranoia before her next court appearance. She'd be used. Pulled into a thousand webs by a thousand liars.
This—whatever it was—might be truth.
Or it might just be another performance. A trap within a trap, wrapped in insight and delivered with perfect timing.
Her gaze steadied on him.
Measured. Sharp.
"Why," she said finally, "should I trust you?"
As if on cue, the soft clink of porcelain interrupted the quiet.
A silver tray was set gently between them, two cups placed with imperial precision by a discreet attendant. She bowed out without a word, vanishing into the terrace shadows as swiftly as she came.
The steam rose gently from the delicate cups.
Priscilla noted immediately: not the same order.
She had chosen her usual—subtle, quiet, bitter enough to sharpen the mind.
But his?
Imperial Mirasheen.
Again.
Of course he had.
The boy—young man, she corrected silently—lifted the cup carefully, as if it were a ritual. He took a single sip, posture so casual it bordered on comical… and then let out a soft, contented breath, the way someone might after surviving something that really should have killed them.
And then—
He smiled.
That damned half-smile, just a little too comfortable.
"Why should you trust me…" he mused, the cup still balanced between his fingers.
His eyes flicked toward her, almost mischievous.
"…Hmm."
Another sip.
The silence stretched, deliberate.
Then, at last—
"Because I don't lie."
Priscilla blinked.
Her brows lifted—ever so slightly.
"…Haah?"
Chapter 622: Priscilla (2)
"Because I don't lie."
Hearing that, Priscilla blinked.
Her brows lifted—ever so slightly.
"…Haah?" she exhaled, caught between disbelief and outright insult.
Her tone wasn't cold this time.
It was baffled.
Because that—that—was his answer?
"You don't… what?"
"I don't lie," he repeated, lips brushing the rim of the cup as if he were making a toast to his own absurdity.
She stared at him.
Stared.
Then leaned slightly forward, crimson eyes narrowing.
"That," she said slowly, "is the most ridiculous thing I've heard since Lord Varren claimed his horse recited poetry."
He chuckled into the cup, clearly unfazed.
And then set it down with a soft clink, his gaze flicking back to hers with a devilish gleam beneath the calm.
"Perhaps," he said, "but he was lying."
Pause.
"I'm not."
Her glare sharpened.
The kind that could silence a servant mid-step, or freeze a lesser noble in the middle of a sentence. But this time, it landed on the man across from her like snow on black stone—noticed, perhaps, but utterly unfazed.
"Anyone can claim they don't lie," she said coldly, fingers brushing once against the rim of her untouched teacup.
"True," he replied, with the ease of someone who had never once needed to convince anyone of anything.
"So," she pressed, voice tightening with restrained disbelief, "why should I believe you?"
He took another sip of tea, calm as moonlight. "Because I don't lie."
There it was again.
That same infuriating calm.
"…Do you want to be locked down?" she asked, flatly. "Is this your version of a confession?"
He didn't even blink.
"Princess," he said, gently setting the cup back down, "you can lock me whenever you want. There's nothing stopping you. You can believe me. Or not. I simply stated what I think. That's all."
He leaned back, folding his hands loosely in front of him as if that truly was the extent of his concern.
And for a brief second, Priscilla considered ending it there.
But then—
He leaned forward, just enough to catch the lanternlight in the curve of his black eyes.
"…But let's make it easier for you."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Oh?" she murmured.
He smiled again, faint and quiet.
"Why don't you just check it yourself?"
The air between them shifted.
"For instance," he continued, resting an elbow on the table, "if you were to dig a little deeper—perhaps beneath the surface of House Crane's neutrality—maybe you'd find… connections."
"Connections," she repeated.
"To the Crown Prince," he said, with pointed nonchalance, as if he were mentioning a slightly overcooked dinner.
Her spine stiffened.
He sipped his tea again, unconcerned.
"Or maybe," he added, tapping the side of the cup with one knuckle, "you could look into the baron. That boy from earlier. See where his loyalty truly lies. Or what role he was meant to play."
Then his voice dropped slightly, just enough to brush the edges of implication.
"Though… considering that guy's meticulous nature, you won't find anything. Not on paper. Not in ledger. Not even in a servant's whisper."
Her gaze locked on him.
Something about the tone. The phrasing.
His meticulous nature?
'That guy…?'
Her thoughts turned inward, sharp and sudden.
He can't mean—
The Crown Prince?
Her mind recoiled, twisting around the absurdity of it.
Is this man crazy?
And yet… as she studied him again—
The man across from her smirked.
Not wide.
Not arrogant.
But with the subtle curve of someone who had already wandered deeper into her mind than he had any right to.
He sipped his tea again—slow, deliberate. Like there was no urgency at all. Like he had all the time in the Empire and nothing to fear from any of it.
Then, casually—
"For you," he said, voice smooth, "the best move would be to lock me down."
The porcelain clinked softly as he set the cup aside once more.
"That would save your image, at least. For now."
Priscilla's eyes narrowed.
But he wasn't done.
His gaze flicked toward hers—not piercing, not challenging, just calm. Dissecting.
"But the question is…" he continued, fingers now steepled lightly beneath his chin, "…do you have an image to be saved in the first place?"
The words dropped like ice into still water.
She didn't answer.
Not because she didn't have one.
But because—damn him—he'd struck too close.
"And if things keep going," he said, voice quieter now, not for secrecy but for weight, "just as they are now… do you really think you'll survive in that academy?"
Another pause.
"Forget survival. Let's say you endure it—somehow. But do you think you'll achieve anything? Make a mark? Move freely? Pull your own strings?"
He tilted his head faintly.
"Or will you spend your years like you've spent your life so far—dodging knives you weren't supposed to see coming, and bowing just deep enough to be ignored?"
Her expression remained cold, poised.
But her fingers twitched against the armrest.
Just slightly.
Because he was speaking like he knew her.
Not in the way nobles thought they knew her—the half-smiling sympathy, the whispered pity.
No.
This man—this stranger—was peeling through the layers of her ambition like he had read the outline of it before she ever dared give it form.
It was annoying.
Infuriating.
And worse—it was starting to feel dangerously close to right.
"You speak insolently," she said, voice cold, clipped. "As if you know me."
Her crimson eyes narrowed, watching every subtle shift in his expression, every breath.
"Yet who are you?"
The man didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
He only smiled.
Faint. Infuriating. Unrushed.
"Who am I?" he echoed, almost to himself.
Then, with a slight flourish, he lifted one hand and waved two fingers through the air—slowly, as if tracing a word that didn't need to be spoken.
"Someone," he said lightly, "you'll be seeing a great deal of in the future."
"You speak insolently," she said, voice cold, clipped. "As if you know me."
Her crimson eyes narrowed, watching every subtle shift in his expression, every breath.
"Yet who are you?"
The man didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
He only smiled.
Faint. Infuriating. Unrushed.
"Who am I?" he echoed, almost to himself.
Then, with a slight flourish, he lifted one hand and waved two fingers through the air—slowly, as if tracing a word that didn't need to be spoken.
"Someone," he said lightly, "you'll be seeing a great deal of in the future."
His black eyes sparkled—not with mockery, but with a maddening calm. Like he was already walking steps ahead of her in a dance she hadn't realized she'd entered.
"Someone you'll meet again," he added, rising from his seat with a slow grace, "and again."
His coat whispered as he moved, the white cat stretching lazily across his shoulders before curling back into stillness.
And despite the guards positioned just beyond the terrace.
Despite the palace law.
Despite her own command that could be given with a single raised hand—
He moved like a man who knew she wouldn't stop him.
And it was that certainty—that gall—that sent a slow ember of heat curling through her chest.
He paused near the garden's edge, not turning back yet.
"Miss Princess," he said, voice drifting like smoke over silk, "you should be looking forward to your time at the academy."
Another step. Still no rush.
"And to the festival."
He half-glanced over his shoulder now, not enough to meet her eyes, just enough to let his voice carry one final thread of mischief.
"You'll see quite a lot of interesting things."
Then he turned, walking into the shadowed corridor as if he belonged there.
And just before he vanished entirely—
"Your name!" she called after him, the question sharper than she'd intended. "What is your name?"
He didn't stop.
But he did smile again.
"Wait and see, Miss Princess," he called back.
And then—
Gone.
Leaving nothing behind but steam rising from two half-finished cups, and a silence thick with questions.
Chapter 623: Priscilla (3)
The flickering lamplight inside the secluded stone chamber cast long, distorted shadows across the walls. High above the rest of Velis Prominence, tucked behind a shuttered balcony meant only for nobles with names too proud to be seen drinking among the crowds, the heir of House Crane stood alone at the room's center, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white.
His chest heaved.
Not from exertion.
But from fury.
"I should've crushed him," he growled under his breath, voice shaking. "Right there. In front of all of them."
Around him stood his entourage—two attendants, one senior officer of the estate guard, and a family cousin whose robes bore the telltale silk trim of those tied to the Elitist Circle behind the Crown Prince's faction.
"Lord Reynard, please," one of them said quietly. "Your mana has still not stabilized. You could worsen the damage to your inner circuits if you—"
"Silence!" Reynard snapped.
His aura flared for a second—brief, unstable, but filled with heat and humiliation. He turned sharply, pacing across the room like a caged predator, the back of his heel slamming against the leg of a polished chair and sending it screeching aside.
"He humiliated me. In front of everyone. The nobles. The commoners. Her." The last word spat like venom.
The cousin raised a placating hand. "It was unforeseen. That boy was not listed on any of the watch rosters or academy contenders. We still don't even have a name."
"And yet he knew everything," Reynard hissed. "He knew the law. He knew the timing. He knew she would be there."
His gaze shot to the side, toward the corner of the room where two figures stood uncertainly—the baron boy and his sister, half-shadowed by the golden trim of the curtains behind them. Their posture was stiff, backs pressed near the wall, clearly unsure if they were meant to leave or be questioned further.
Reynard stepped toward them slowly, his boots echoing across the polished stone.
His eyes—red-rimmed and furious—locked onto the baron.
"You," he said.
The boy flinched.
"You... Do you know that bastard?"
His voice was ice and fire layered over contempt.
The baron shook his head quickly. "N-no, my lord. I swear—I've never seen him before tonight."
Reynard took another step forward. The baron's sister instinctively placed a hand in front of him, protective, but she said nothing.
"Then why was he there?" Reynard's voice thundered across the chamber, cutting into the silence like a blade. "Why did he care enough to step in—for you?"
His words hung heavy, filled with a bitter venom no apology could ease.
The baron boy swallowed hard, eyes wide and panicked. He looked to his sister, but she said nothing, her hand still protectively across his chest, holding him back like a fragile wall between the storm and the sea.
"I—I don't know," the boy stammered. "I swear it, my lord. I don't know who he is."
Reynard's fists clenched, veins bulging white across the back of his hands. For a moment, it looked as if he might strike the boy then and there. His body shook—not with fear, but with the sheer pressure of swallowed rage.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
This wasn't just a bruised ego.
It was a crack in a design that had taken months to shape.
The baron had no faction. No ties. That was the point. That was his role in the plan. A disposable name from a rural border, here on a forged admission. Someone no one would protect. Someone who wouldn't cause a stir if cornered in public—someone who would collapse quietly under pressure and make the princess watch.
It had been crafted perfectly.
By him.
And yet—
Now, the name that wasn't supposed to matter had pulled the eyes of the capital to a single moment, and he, Reynard of House Crane, stood humiliated in the ashes of it.
A retainer cleared his throat, hesitant. "My lord… perhaps the princess has already dealt with him."
Reynard turned slowly, his jaw clenched so tight it creaked.
He didn't speak at first.
Then—coldly, quietly, with all the venom of his bloodline poured into a single breath—
"…That bitch."
He spun away, pacing to the window slit carved into the tower wall, his boots echoing with every step.
A pause.
And then, a quieter whisper, one not meant for anyone's ears but his own.
"…He will not like this."
The others heard it anyway. They exchanged glances—careful, measured.
They all knew who he meant.
The Crown Prince.
This entire night had been orchestrated to prove Reynard's usefulness—to publicly shame the so-called "princess of diluted blood." To show that she was weak, that she could not uphold imperial law, that even a mere baron could be stepped over under her gaze and she would do nothing.
It was meant to make her bend.
To make him—Reynard—look strong in the prince's eyes.
One of the final tests, the final conditions, before House Crane would be welcomed as an official ally to the most dangerous faction in the Empire.
And instead?
Instead, Reynard had collapsed in the middle of Velis Prominence, brought low in front of half the capital. A nameless boy had taken control of the scene. Of the crowd. Of her.
He hadn't exposed her weakness.
He'd exposed his own.
All because of—
"A bastard," Reynard whispered, his eyes burning now—not from tears, but from hate.
He turned from the window, his voice like steel dragged across stone.
"Find out who he is."
The attendants nodded immediately.
"And when you do," he added, voice dark as frostbite, "bring him to me."
His eyes landed once more on the trembling baron and his sister.
And this time, the look in them was colder than before.
Calculated.
Unforgiving.
******
The moment his presence slipped beyond the terrace arch, the silence he left behind felt oddly full—like a room still echoing with words that had no right to linger.
Priscilla remained seated, unmoving, her eyes still fixed on the last place he had stood. The faintest curl of steam still rose from his untouched tea.
Behind her, quiet footsteps approached with practiced caution.
"Your Highness," Idena said softly, voice carefully measured, "should we have him… detained?"
The pause before detained was not out of fear—it was formality. A question already half-answered.
Priscilla didn't reply right away.
Logically, the answer was obvious.
Yes.
He had spoken without deference, danced around provocation, even dared to mock the sanctity of her station—all without a single noble title to shield him. In any other circumstance, the guards would have seized him the moment he began his performance.
And yet—
Yet.
She didn't give the order.
Because her mind wasn't finished spinning.
If she did lock him down, what would that achieve?
A show of strength, yes. A clean return to decorum. Her image salvaged—perhaps even bolstered. A firm response to whispers about weakness. The court would nod. House Crane might simmer down.
But—
Would she be right?
That man… no, that young man—had spoken with precision. Not wildness. Not the desperate unpredictability of an agitator, or the smug confidence of a dissident. His words had been placed like stones in a river, redirecting the flow without ever forcing it.
And the strangest part of it all?
She sensed no hostility from him.
Not toward her.
Not even when he pushed.
It wasn't a game for domination. Nor ambition. It was as if he'd been testing a thread. Giving her something.
Her time in the palace had taught her to read the air around people. To listen to what wasn't said. The ones who smiled and loathed. The ones who bowed and plotted. That man—as much as he irritated her—had not radiated malice.
He hadn't come to strike.
He'd come to warn.
She let out a breath—measured, soft.
"No," she said finally.
Idena straightened slightly. "Your Highness?"
"We won't pursue him," Priscilla said, her voice even, but with that quiet finality that brokered no counter. "Not tonight."
Idena hesitated, then bowed. "As you command."
And Priscilla returned to silence, her crimson eyes drifting back toward the cooling tea, her thoughts already running again.
No name. No title. But he saw too much. Knew too much.
And somehow… despite all of it…
She couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the last time she'd see him.
And when she did—
She would demand answers.
Chapter 624: Days
The streets of the capital whispered with the remnants of festival noise—distant laughter, the chime of bells, and the rustle of silks brushing against cobbled stone. Lucavion walked with measured ease, but every few steps, his gaze flicked over his shoulder.
Nothing.
No rustle of armored boots. No shadow clinging too long at the edge of an alley.
No guards.
Just the regular mess of a city too used to spectacle.
He exhaled, slow and quiet, the sound barely brushing the cool night air. A small smirk tugged at his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
'It seems it worked.'
The white cat on his shoulder shifted slightly, her tail brushing the back of his neck with a touch of annoyance.
[Worked?] Vitaliara's voice came low, sharp, and not particularly amused. [You walked into the lion's mouth and gave it a riddle instead of a reason. Why in the world would you provoke a princess like that? Are you insane?]
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as if considering the idea.
"Well… not certifiably."
[Vitality help me—] She narrowed her eyes, ears flattening back. [You toyed with her. Not just any royal. Her. You baited her with half-truths and whispered conspiracies like it was some kind of stage play.]
He hummed thoughtfully. "Mm. Yes. I suppose it did get a bit theatrical."
[A bit—?]
He glanced at her, eyes glinting in the soft lamplight. "And yet, here we are. No blades at our back. No manhunt. No binding scrolls sealing my tongue."
[Yet.]
Lucavion's smirk returned in full. "Details."
The cat huffed softly, curling herself tighter along his shoulder, but her voice softened. [You risked a lot in there.]
"Calculated risk." His tone dropped slightly, contemplative now. "A trap like that doesn't unravel through brute force or noble decree. It needs to be seen first. She's not stupid. But she is—was—unaware."
[That,] Vitaliara murmured, [is something she can see now. But that still doesn't answer why.]
Her voice laced with the rare steel she only used when something pressed too close to worry.
[Why did you do it?]
Lucavion didn't answer immediately. He kept walking, the silence between steps stretching long enough to imply avoidance. But not quite.
Not with him.
[You had no business getting involved in this mess,] she continued, her tail flicking once across his shoulder. [You said it yourself. That trap wasn't meant for you. It wasn't even meant for the baron. That was her noose. Her humiliation. And yet you threw yourself into the center of it.]
She leaned forward now, her small weight shifting against his neck like a second heartbeat. [And if things are as layered as you made them sound—if the Crown Prince really is behind all this—then he won't like it. He won't like you meddling.]
Lucavion stopped.
Right beneath an old wrought-iron streetlamp, its light pooling like spilt ink at his feet.
Then he shrugged.
"So what?"
Vitaliara's ears shot up. [So what?] she repeated, disbelief sharp in her voice. [So what? Lucavion, the Crown Prince of Arcanis is not some alley rat you can dismiss with a shrug. He will come for you. He'll track you.]
Lucavion smiled, but not with his usual mischief. This one was thinner. Sharper.
"He most likely will."
[Then you've invited unneeded trouble onto your back. Again.]
He turned slightly, eyes catching the lamp's glow just enough to give them a faint glint, like the edge of a coin flipped mid-air.
"What classifies as unneeded, my dear Vitaliara?"
She blinked, momentarily caught by the softness of his tone. [What?]
"Would you have said the same when I stepped into the Whisperer's den?" he asked, voice low, threaded with memory. "Or when I interfered with Riken and Sena's chains? When I burned a mark off a boy I didn't know?"
He paused. "Should I have walked away from you, too, that day in the Thicket?"
She was silent. Not because she didn't have an answer—because she didn't want to give it.
Lucavion's steps slowed again, boots scuffing lightly against the edge of an uneven cobble. The street curved ahead—empty, save for a few drifting petals from the leftover festival garlands strung too high for anyone to bother removing. The air was heavier here, quieter. Easier to speak without being overheard.
He stopped beneath the shadow of an old vine-covered arch, his fingers brushing the hem of his coat as he looked ahead without really seeing.
"…Or should I have walked away from Aeliana?" he said softly, almost to himself. "Should I have let her stew in that lonely little prison she calls a house, thinking no one would ever come back for her?"
His voice didn't hold any bite. Just a quiet, persistent edge. Tired. Familiar.
"These things… they can all be questioned, can't they?"
He glanced at Vitaliara now, the side of his face catching a brush of moonlight through the leaves.
"For some, the answer might be yes. I should have walked away. For others, maybe it's a shrug. A 'whatever.' They'll say I'm foolish, arrogant, meddling for no reason."
His smile returned, faint and sharp, like the memory of a wound that no longer hurt.
"But that's the point."
[You don't think it's unneeded,] Vitaliara said quietly, eyes narrowing.
"No," Lucavion replied. "I don't."
He looked up at the night sky, where the smoke of lanterns blurred the stars like smudges on parchment.
"In front of me was a spectacle about to play. A performance staged with blood and whispers. I simply… stepped in."
He looked back down. His eyes were calm. Not kind. Not cruel. Just settled.
"I dealt with it."
Vitaliara's tail twitched once, her golden gaze fixed sharply on him. Then—
[I could see that,] she said, her tone lower now. [That baron… he was acting.]
Lucavion didn't nod. He didn't need to. She'd caught it too.
[His fear was real—but not fresh. It was too refined. Like someone rehearsed it into him. The stumbles in his plea were deliberate. And his sister, she was watching you when she should have been watching the heir.]
A beat of silence.
[She knew you were the real variable.]
Lucavion's eyes glinted.
"Mm. They were both bait. Well-trained, if nothing else."
He exhaled, slower this time, and finally started walking again, hands tucked into his coat.
"As expected of a Crown Prince with a penchant for precision," he murmured. "He always did like symmetrical chaos. One thread misplaced and the whole trap unravels."
[And that thread was you.]
He smiled, and for a moment—only a flicker—it was the smirk of the man who'd once set fire to a slaver's vault just to test how fast a spellbound door could melt.
"Well, I am very good at unraveling."
Vitaliara's silence lingered behind him for several steps, until the soft clack of her claws against his shoulder fur shifted forward and her voice followed, quieter now—but edged with thought.
[You've gotten better at it.]
Lucavion didn't pause, but the corner of his mouth lifted—not in amusement. In acknowledgment.
"Mm. I have."
[It's not just the way you read the room anymore. It's something deeper.] Her tail curled slightly around his collar. [You're feeling more than seeing. Threading meaning from the cracks before they even splinter.]
Lucavion's eyes flicked toward a side alley where firelight glowed faint through a closed paper window. "I've had… practice."
[Not just practice,] she murmured. [Cultivation.]
She wasn't wrong.
In the months since leaving the south, he hadn't allowed a single day to waste itself in idleness. Travel had been a cover, but beneath the surface of slow caravans and muddy roads, Lucavion had worked. Nights spent hunting through mist-wreathed forests. Days meditating in cursed ruins where the world itself held its breath. Monsters had fallen—twenty, thirty, more. Each one a study. Each one fuel.
The [Flame of Equinox] had evolved through it all—no longer just a spark of balance between life and death, but a rhythm. A pulse. A breathing force that coiled in his veins with hunger and purpose.
While his core—[Devourer of Stars]—remained sealed, unmoving like a moon behind clouds, his flame had grown feral. Focused.
Yet he had acquired a new ability through his [Flame of Equinox].