Chapter 727: Transition
[You went too far,] Vitaliara said, her voice emerging from the shadows like mist slipping through a cracked window. Not harsh. Not condemning. Just… there. [He'll remember that. His House will remember that.]
Lucavion didn't turn. His hands were still loose at his sides, the air still tinged faintly with the scent of ozone and scorched brass from the sealing flame. His breath was calm. Even. Controlled.
"I wanted him to remember it."
He stepped forward, the soft click of his boots against the marble sounding almost out of place in the silence that followed the thunder of that slammed door. The tea sat forgotten. His presence had been challenged. The civility of the space broken.
And yet…
There was no regret in his posture. No tension in his shoulders. No fear rippling through the silence.
Only certainty.
"They entered without courtesy. Spoke without respect. And presumed I would accept it—because of blood. Because of name." His fingers brushed the edge of the table, light, thoughtful. "They expected me to fold because they believed I was still beneath the table."
[Still, you didn't have to provoke him. You could've let him walk away without flame. Without that last—sting.]
He let out a breath. Not a sigh. More like an exhale sharpened into shape. "And what would that teach him?"
[A little patience? A little subtlety?]
"No," Lucavion said simply, "that would've taught him that I can be condescended to without consequence. That I'm something they can tame."
He finally turned, meeting Vitaliara's gaze now—his black eyes steady, not cold, but measured. Like someone who had weighed the blade before the cut.
"I gave them every chance to walk in with dignity. To treat this as a dialogue between powers. But they brought a whip to my door and expected me to kneel."
[And instead, you scorched the floor.]
"I didn't start the fire," he murmured. "I just reminded them I don't sit near it without knowing how to command it."
Vitaliara rolled onto her side on the couch, tail flicking idly across the cushion. [And when they bring the weight of their House down on you? When they frame this as rebellion? Insolence?]
Lucavion's gaze dropped to the faint glow of the runes set into the floor—soft and shifting, still catching the last flickers of firelight. He watched them settle back into silence.
"They won't retaliate."
[You're sure of that?]
"They can't." He turned fully now, walking back to the table with the slow certainty of someone already three moves ahead. "No witnesses. No recorded discourse. Just a noble walking into a sanctioned sponsor meeting and losing his composure."
He picked up the now-cold teacup, turning it once between his fingers. "If they claim I acted with disrespect, the Academy will ask why their envoy arrived unannounced. Why protocol wasn't followed. Why an official sponsor tried to assert control without a proposal on the table."
[So they'll lie.]
"They'll hesitate." His voice was quiet, but razor-edged. "Because any attempt to accuse me forces the Academy to make a decision. Either they admit they allowed a breach in etiquette—which insults the Sanctum's sanctity—or they defend me… which brands them biased."
Vitaliara's tail stilled. [And the headmaster?]
Lucavion's eyes flicked toward the skylight, where pale gold light still spilled down in regal silence.
"He has maintained neutrality for decades. He's balanced factions, bent laws without breaking them, and kept the throne's influence at bay longer than any archmage before him." His fingers tapped once on the rim of the cup. "He's not about to risk that image over House Varenth's bruised pride."
[So they'll swallow it.]
"They'll swallow it," Lucavion confirmed, a faint, humorless smile curling at the edge of his mouth. "Because that's what dogs do when they realize the master's watching—and he doesn't like barking in the house."
He poured a fresh stream of tea into the cup without bothering to check the temperature. Still warm. The room was still listening.
Lucavion lifted the cup to his lips again, letting the warmth pool against them before drinking. The taste wasn't important—he'd forgotten which blend it was. Jasmine, perhaps. Or white emberspice. Either way, it wasn't the tea that held his thoughts now.
'He sent them to measure me.'
He didn't need confirmation.
House Varenth didn't move without Lucien's direction. A Marquis house tied so tightly to the Crown Prince's ambition wouldn't so much as breathe on someone like Lucavion without a nod from above. And that meant this wasn't just provocation.
It was assessment.
A probe disguised in entitlement.
A test wrapped in a snare.
"He wanted to see who I am," Lucavion murmured, eyes distant. "And more importantly… who I answer to."
[And did you answer?] Vitaliara asked quietly.
"No," he said, setting the cup down with a quiet clink. "I reminded them I don't have to."
He paced slowly now, eyes drifting to the still-sealed door. The runes along its frame had cooled, but the memory of fire clung to the threshold like old smoke.
'You sent a beast with polished teeth, Lucien. But the leash showed first.'
That was the flaw. The one thing Lucavion had always noted about the Crown Prince's faction—even when reading about them in the novel, before this world had become flesh and breath.
Arrogance.
Not just personal, but structural. Baked into the bone of the faction itself.
It was the kind of arrogance born from centuries of unchallenged superiority. The idea that noble blood was not merely a privilege, but a truth. That superiority came not from merit, but from inheritance. That those born into banners were divinely aligned with power—and those who weren't? Should be grateful to even stand beside them.
That was the essence of Lucien's camp.
Not strength.
Not loyalty.
Pedigree.
And that flaw—Lucavion would carve through it like fire through silk.
He had given them the chance. Even after reading all he had, even after knowing the kind of men Lucien attracted, Lucavion had been willing to test the theory. To see if there was anyone among them who might step forward without assumption. Without condescension.
But no.
Khaedren hadn't entered as a diplomat. He'd walked in like a warden to a cell that didn't exist.
And Lucavion would never, never play prisoner.
"I don't care for crowns," he said quietly, gaze distant now. "But I'll never kneel for one borne on the back of inherited arrogance."
[Then what will you kneel for?] Vitaliara asked, watching him without blinking.
Lucavion didn't answer immediately.
He let the silence sit.
It wasn't hesitation.
It was memory.
Of flame.
Of blood.
Of another world.
Of a reason still unspoken.
And when he finally replied, his voice was quieter.
Sharper.
And colder.
"I'll kneel for no one."
[Gerald used to say the same thing,] Vitaliara scoffed, her voice dusted with amusement and something quieter beneath—recollection, maybe, or regret.
Lucavion's laugh came low and without strain. "I'm not Master."
He turned, a faint curve rising at one corner of his mouth.
"I'll surpass him."
[Yeah, yeah,] she muttered, stretching across the lounge like a feline claiming the sunspot. [That's what you all say until you start quoting him in your sleep.]
"It is just your imagination." Lucavion replied dryly, walking toward the central display again.
A soft knock interrupted the air—polite, this time. The doors did not open without permission, a welcome change.
Lucavion flicked two fingers.
"Enter."
The attendant from earlier stepped in, not a thread of emotion on her face, but her gaze briefly flicked to the lingering scent in the air, the faint shimmer where flame had sealed the entrance. Observant, but careful.
"Apologies for the intrusion," she said with a bow. "I was informed the sponsor meeting had concluded. Earlier than expected."
Lucavion didn't blink. "We couldn't reach an agreement."
No elaboration. No tone.
The attendant, to her credit, didn't ask. She merely nodded once, crisp and smooth.
"Understood. Then I am to inform you—Her Highness the Princess will be arriving shortly for her private audience."
Lucavion's brow lifted, just slightly. "Alone?"
"She has requested discretion. No guards will enter the room unless ordered otherwise."
Hearing that Lucavion will just shake his head.
Things were about to get interesting after all.
Chapter 728: First Princess
Lucavion's fingers drummed once on the edge of the table, slow and thoughtful, as the silence of the suite resumed its hold.
Selienne Vermielle Lysandra.
First Princess of the Empire.
Older than the Crown Prince by four years, and yet the difference between them was far greater than that modest number suggested. While Lucien was still clawing his way through succession politics, she had already carved her place in the world and stepped beyond the academy's shadow. Graduated. Decorated. Established. Not just a noble with a title—but a tactician, a diplomat, and a wielder of influence shaped with terrifying precision.
In the fractured strands of memory he still held from Shattered Innocence, her presence had always been... thin.
And the reason for that was simple. Obvious, even.
Shattered Innocence wasn't her story.
It was Elara's.
A tale carved in revenge, loss, and rebirth. A journey rooted in academy grounds, mentor relationships, and conspiracies crawling through the cracks of noble legacy. And Selienne—being four years older, already graduated, already wielding her own circle of power—had no reason to linger in that narrative. She wasn't a mentor. She wasn't an enemy. She wasn't even an obstacle.
She was peripheral.
Not because she lacked presence, but because the story simply had no room for her.
And yet, Lucavion remembered the fragments that were there. Brief notes. A passing scene. A single quote attributed to her in the war council before the Third Border Crisis:
"Victory secured through compromise is still victory. The grave does not care who knelt first."
Efficient. Strategic. Unsparing.
No flourish. No speeches. Just outcomes.
Selienne Vermielle Lysandra had been, by every metric, a remarkable tactician. She ascended through the diplomatic ranks faster than any of her siblings, built an extensive intelligence network under her own banner, and was one of the few imperials to earn negotiation rights with the elder councils of the Sealed Territories.
One of the main reasons where she could still match with the Crown Prince even now.
That much Lucavion knew.
And yet...
She was falling behind.
Why?
Because the throne did not belong to the brilliant.
It belonged to the beloved.
And Lucien—his half-brother, born of the Empress, shaped in the fire of visible victory—was beloved. The people loved his flair. His presence. His dramatic reforms. His loud promises and louder victories. He made them feel seen. Heard. Led.
Selienne made them feel... controlled.
And the nobles? The older ones? The entrenched ones? They backed her—yes. But even they were beginning to shift. Lucien was easier to predict. Easier to flatter. Easier to shape, in theory.
Selienne did not bend.
She measured.
Calculated.
And like Lucien, she was power-hungry. That much was clear even in her limited profile. But unlike Lucien, she didn't gild her ambition in idealism or rhetoric.
She wanted the throne because she believed it should be hers.
Because of her preparation.
'At least that was how it has explained by the writer.'
These were not words whispered by characters in tension-drenched rooms. Not rumors passed through taverns or stitched into footnotes of imperial history.
No.
These were the words of the author.
The narrator of Shattered Innocence had described Selienne with clinical precision. Measured admiration. Detached authority. Like even the story itself knew it couldn't afford to give her more than that—because more would demand attention. And Selienne was not the kind of presence that stayed quietly in the wings once acknowledged.
'She was dangerous in silence,' Lucavion thought, narrowing his eyes. 'And because the writer gave her so little space… I have no choice but to see the rest for myself.'
He didn't know what her voice sounded like. Didn't know the way she walked. Didn't know if she wielded charm like a scalpel or if her diplomacy was just another sword in her sheath.
What he did know was that she didn't come here on a whim
She came here with intent.
And that—above all—made this meeting dangerous.
A crisp knock at the door.
Not forceful. Not impatient. Just… exact.
The kind of knock that didn't ask for permission. It announced readiness.
Lucavion's head turned slightly. A pause. And then:
"Enter."
The door opened—silently this time. No flame. No dramatics. Just the soft glide of hinges maintained with meticulous care.
The attendant stood in the frame, and Lucavion didn't need to read her aura to understand what had changed.
Her spine was straighter. Her tone was hushed—but reverent. Eyes downcast. Posture perfect.
"Her Highness," the attendant said, with careful articulation, "has arrived."
Not Lady Selienne. Not the guest from the First Court. No qualifications. No elaborations.
Just Her Highness.
And the difference from the last visitor was unmistakable.
There had been no such announcement for House Varenth. No bowed head. No ceremonial diction.
Lucavion's lips curved faintly—not a smile. Just the acknowledgment of a shift in the air.
'Even the room knows who it's bowing to.'
He rose from his seat, casual but deliberate, brushing a hand once along the hem of his coat. His tea remained behind. His smirk—faint, restrained—did not.
"Well then," he murmured, almost to himself. "Let's meet our older sister, shall we?"
[You should know your place,] Vitaliara muttered, voice low, but not joking. [That woman will be able to have your head lopped off before your tea goes cold.]
Lucavion adjusted his collar with idle precision. "She could," he admitted, nonchalant. "But then she'd have to admit I made her flinch."
[Your head is not worth the punchline.]
He let out a quiet breath that may have passed for a laugh. "We'll see about that."
Another knock—this one not like the first.
It wasn't announcing readiness. It was requesting entrance. Formal. Respectful. The kind of knock that didn't force its way in—it waited for the world to align around it.
Lucavion glanced once toward the door.
"Come in."
The door opened again.
And this time, it wasn't an attendant who entered.
It was her.
She didn't sweep in like a noble seeking attention, nor glide like one trained to seduce a room. She simply stepped inside—with control. With presence. With the quiet finality of someone who belonged wherever she stood.
Her posture was impeccable. Shoulders back, chin poised, each step measured with the kind of grace that didn't beg to be noticed—it demanded it by existing.
Her hair, a cascade of ocean-blue silk, fell just past her shoulders—neatly trimmed, subtly layered, catching light with each movement like still water rippling under moonlight. The robe she wore wasn't lavish, but its cut and weave were unmistakable—imperial tailoring, high-thread ceremonial silk. Black with accents of wine-gold, the colors of direct royal standing. A brooch at her collar shimmered in the shape of an eclipsed star.
But it was her skin—smooth as porcelain, unmarred by the weight of battles most nobles only read about—and her body, athletic beneath the drape of dignity, that whispered of discipline rather than decoration.
And her eyes—
Ah, her eyes.
That red.
Not crimson like fury, nor scarlet like passion. It was deeper. Older.
The red of blood bound, not spilled. A color that marked only one line in the empire.
The Lysandra Line.
The royal blood.
She stopped exactly six paces from Lucavion—far enough for decorum, close enough for dominance. And when she inclined her head, it was neither a bow nor a condescension.
It was a statement.
Recognition. Not of his rank.
But of his presence.
Lucavion didn't speak first.
He met her gaze—unflinching, unbowed—and waited.
Chapter 729: First Princess (2)
Her gaze, steady and silent, met Lucavion's with the chill of polished steel. No warmth. No malice. No amusement. Just the eyes of a woman used to reading men like ledgers and moving kingdoms like chess pieces.
Not once did they flicker to his crest, or his coat, or the chamber around him.
They stayed fixed.
On him.
And yet, there was no intent behind them. No obvious aim. No anger. No curiosity.
Just the void of calculation.
'Just like Thaddeus,' Lucavion thought.
He'd seen it before—more often than he liked.
Duke Thaddeus, the old warhawk of the North. A man whose words could start conflicts before swords were drawn. His eyes were always the same: unreadable. His tone, measured. His presence, absolute.
And Madeleine.
The Duke's headmaid—at least in title. But in function? She was far more. One of the coldest strategists beneath silk hair.
Her smile never reached her eyes, and her eyes never told you what she wanted.
If not for his knowledge from the novel….Well, it would be hard to read her….
But then again.
Now, here it was again.
That same mask.
That same stillness.
'Poker face,' Lucavion mused, watching her. 'The look of someone who never lets you see what piece they're about to move—because they're already thinking three turns ahead.'
Selienne Lysandra was no different.
She wasn't here to greet him.
She was here to assess him.
To seize him—if she could.
Her eyes didn't plead or pressure. They simply observed.
Not as if she were deciding whether he was useful.
But as if she were confirming that he already was—and that the only thing left was the matter of leverage.
He had no doubt the same calculations were being written behind that gaze. Quiet, seamless thoughts stitched together like fabric:
Is he loyal?
Can he be bought?
Will he bow?
And—
If not… how do I make him kneel anyway?
Lucavion let his smirk rise just a fraction. Just enough to show he'd recognized the game.
Selienne was the first to speak.
"Where is my greeting?"
The words were not cold—but they held no softness either. They were measured, precise, and spoken with the exact weight required to test the air between them.
Lucavion blinked.
Then, quite suddenly, he shook his head once, a half-laugh catching in his throat.
"Ahem… I am sorry… Your beauty made me nearly breathless."
He offered the line with the most disarming sincerity he could muster, knowing full well how rehearsed it sounded—and how deliberate he meant it to be. The weight of the moment had not escaped him. But neither had the opportunity to turn the table slightly. To make her respond.
Selienne didn't react for a full second.
Then, her lips curved into a smile.
But it did not reach her eyes.
"Nearly," she echoed, voice smooth as ink on glass. "How near is it?"
Lucavion coughed lightly, his hand brushing past his collar.
"Ahem…"
He straightened, expression settling back into its composed, razor-edged balance.
"My apologies, Your Highness," he said, this time bowing properly—no dramatics, no overplaying it. Just the right dip of the head, the right cadence in his tone. "I welcome you to my chambers. It is both an honor and a curiosity to host the First Daughter of the Empire in such private fashion."
Selienne didn't respond immediately.
But that smile lingered—still shallow, still unreadable. Still not reaching the place where truth lived behind her eyes.
The game had begun. But it wasn't just chess.
It was diplomacy.
Measured, surgical, and soaked in the quiet gravity of two minds probing each other's fault lines.
Selienne took a step closer.
And Lucavion?
He stayed precisely where he was—waiting to see which mask she chose to wear first.
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
Selienne let the silence stretch just long enough to register. Long enough to taste the tension in the air, to let her presence weigh down the space with deliberate poise.
Then—
"I accept your greeting," she said, her tone calm and sovereign. "And return it in kind."
She offered no bow. Only words. But in this setting, they were enough.
"Mister Lucavion," she continued, her eyes narrowing just slightly, "I've been reading your name far more often than I'd expected to this early in the term."
Her voice, though pleasant, moved like a scalpel. Clean. Dissecting.
Lucavion gave a shallow nod, just enough to acknowledge the overture. "Then I suppose I should be flattered that Your Highness chose to read between the lines."
"Flattery," she echoed, voice dry. "A convenient shield. I wonder how often you use it."
"When the blade isn't worth drawing," he said simply, his eyes sharp but not aggressive. "Some opponents fall faster to wit than steel."
Selienne studied him for a breath longer, then stepped further into the room, the hem of her robe gliding softly across the polished floor. Her gaze wandered—not in distraction, but in quiet claim. Observing the room, the layout, the scent of cooling flame, the lingering mana that hadn't fully dispersed.
She knew.
Of course she knew.
But she said nothing about it.
Instead, she stopped near the projection glass and turned back to him.
Selienne's crimson eyes lingered on the faint smudge of soot along the archway—the only real sign of the earlier exchange. She didn't comment on it. She didn't have to.
Instead, she turned back, her expression unchanged, the weight in her gaze heavier now. Not in anger. Not even disappointment.
Just… claim.
"Apparently," she said, tone edged with glass, "someone was summoned here before me."
The statement was soft. But not subtle.
Not a question.
Not a curiosity.
A judgment.
Lucavion didn't flinch. He didn't let his shoulders tighten or his eyes shift. But internally, he catalogued it—the precise way her words twisted around protocol like a velvet noose.
She hadn't said how dare you. She didn't need to.
This was the First Princess of the Empire.
And he, a commoner, had received someone else first.
As if they mattered more.
As if she was second.
Lucavion let the silence hang for a breath—long enough to recognize the tension, not long enough to let it settle into guilt.
Selienne's fingers brushed against the edge of the armrest, her nails too perfectly shaped to make a sound. Her expression remained still—but her voice, when it came, slipped beneath the skin like frost.
"You seem to not know your priorities," she said softly, almost conversational. "Taking in someone from a mere Marquis family… Khaedren Varn, before…."
There it was. The jab—not at Khaedren, not at Lucavion directly, but at the choice. At the hierarchy he had disrupted, however briefly. And it wasn't just a statement.
It was a demonstration.
She knew. Not just who had arrived. But what house, what rank, and why it mattered.
Lucavion inclined his head faintly, acknowledging the depth of her insight—without apology. "There are those," he said evenly, "who arrive at the door before they've earned the right. And others…" his gaze flicked to her, "who deserve the grace. As Your Highness must surely know."
Selienne didn't respond.
Didn't blink.
Didn't smirk.
Lucavion continued, tone low, casual—calculated. "I am, after all, a mere commoner. I can hardly go against the wishes of the empire's strongest faction, now can I?"
That did it.
Her eyes narrowed.
Not a glare. Not outrage.
But that kind of narrowing that said don't think I didn't hear you.
He'd drawn blood—not by bragging, not by challenging. But by playing the role of the obedient peasant just long enough to imply something sharper.
Lucien's faction is stronger.
The message, beneath the mask of humility, was unmistakable.
And the fact that he'd said it so cleanly, so deliberately?
It told her something else.
That he knew.
Not just the power structures.
But their cracks.
Their tempo.
Their reach.
And that—coming from someone with no noble blood, no official backing—was the kind of dangerous awareness that made most lords twitch in their chairs.
Selienne didn't flinch.
But her reply came quieter, slower.
"Apparently," she said, her tone clipped, "it was far too heated for a mere… 'courtesy.'"
Chapter 730: First Princess (3)
Selienne's eyes drifted once more toward the faint soot lining the archway, the shimmer of mana residue still clinging like an aftertaste of conflict.
"Something," she said smoothly, "seems to have happened here."
Lucavion didn't miss a beat.
"Nothing important for you to care about."
A pause.
Then—
"Really?" Her voice dipped, sharp with amusement. "And who are you to decide what I will care about and what I will not?"
Lucavion's head tilted slightly. A glint flickered behind his eyes.
"Who am I?" he echoed, voice dry. "The person who experienced it, maybe?"
Selienne's brow rose—not in surprise, but in subtle provocation.
"Interesting," she murmured. "You seem to have quite the quick mouth to run. I imagine it causes you trouble."
"Anything is trouble when one struggles against it," Lucavion replied without pause. "To those who do not struggle, trouble becomes… entertainment."
There was silence for half a breath.
Then—
"Ahahahaha…"
Her laughter broke the air like a knife through silk—clean, startling, and strangely melodic.
This time, when Selienne smiled—
It reached her eyes.
Fully.
Not forced. Not calculated.
But genuine.
And far more dangerous.
"I knew," she said, stepping closer, her eyes gleaming now, "that you were an interesting prospect."
She stopped just within arm's length, her gaze not just reading now—but indulging.
"But who knew I would meet someone like you… in here of all places?"
Lucavion didn't move.
But his smirk widened—slightly.
"Neither did the last man who walked in," he said. "And he left through fire."
Selienne exhaled, the last trace of laughter fading into something more... deliberate.
"Well then," she said, her voice warm as it was lethal. "Let's see if we can finish this dance before the room burns too."
"There's no need for the room to burn," Lucavion replied, smooth and measured, the flicker of amusement still playing at the corners of his lips. "I'm not a savage."
He stepped past the projection glass with a casual ease, his fingers grazing the edge of the polished table.
"My fire only burns those who try to suppress me."
Selienne's eyes didn't blink. But something in them settled—a quiet acknowledgement.
"They tried to suppress you," she said softly, almost as if tasting the words. "I could see that."
Lucavion smiled.
"Then it's good we're on the same page."
Selienne tilted her head just slightly. "We may be on the same page…" Her tone dipped again, laced with something cooler. "Or we may not. We'll see about that."
"Careful, aren't we," Lucavion mused, voice low.
"Being careful," she replied, "is the basic necessity to run the politics."
"And too much of it," he countered, "becomes paranoia."
"Too much of anything is wrong," she said simply, unbothered. "Doesn't mean we should have nothing."
Lucavion gave a small nod, his smirk folding back into something thoughtful.
"Fair enough."
With his face softened—just slightly—as he let his gaze rest on her without veiling it in charm or provocation, he thought.
'Sharp woman,' studying the contours of her expression. 'Not just intelligent. Dangerous. Measured. Like someone who doesn't draw her blade unless she's already certain the first cut will land.'
There was no movement wasted in her stance. No idle gesture. Even her breaths seemed timed to the rhythm of conversation—as if her body refused to betray anything her voice didn't authorize.
'She really does carry that imperial blood,' he mused, letting his eyes drop to the eclipsed star brooch for half a second. 'No heirs born of that line lack ambition—but only a few can wear it without letting the weight sink them. She's walking just fine.'
Still, there was something else. Something deeper than pedigree or training.
Something more difficult to read.
He gestured smoothly to the seat across from him, the same chair that still held the ghost of heat from Khaedren's brief, ill-fated presence.
"Would Your Highness care for a seat?" he asked, polite without deferring. "Unless you prefer to speak on your feet."
Selienne's eyes flicked to the chair, then back to him. Not because she needed permission. But because she was weighing the invitation.
After a pause, she stepped forward and sat—precisely, not delicately. Back straight. Ankles crossed. As if the act itself was part of the negotiation.
Lucavion remained standing a moment longer, just enough to acknowledge the dynamic shift before taking his own seat.
He leaned back slightly, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other tapping once against the resonance table's edge.
"Well then," he said lightly, though his eyes never lost their depth. "Now that the pleasantries are—mostly—out of the way…"
He met her gaze again, unblinking.
"Why are you really here?"
Selienne's expression didn't shift immediately—but then a professional, perfectly practiced smile unfurled across her face. Polished. Controlled. The kind of smile that was carved rather than born.
"Isn't that something you already know?" she asked, voice smooth as ever. Not evasive. Just… positioned.
Lucavion gave the faintest shrug, letting one fingertip drag idly along the table's edge as he met her gaze.
"Isn't it better to hear from you directly," he said evenly, "rather than make assumptions?"
He leaned in slightly—not in challenge, but in deliberate engagement.
"It's better to avoid any misunderstandings right from the start."
Selienne's lips curved a touch further, the kind of shift that didn't promise sincerity so much as curiosity.
"Misunderstandings," she replied softly, "depend more on the person listening than the one speaking, I believe."
"True," Lucavion agreed. "But clear communication still makes it better, doesn't it?"
That made her pause. Just for a heartbeat. Not long enough to imply hesitation—only long enough to confirm she had heard the point, filed it, and found it… reasonable.
She shifted her position slightly, not to relax but to signal she would entertain the line of dialogue.
And when she finally spoke again, her words came smoother. Colder.
"Very well," she said. "Let's speak clearly then."
Selienne didn't give him the luxury of buildup.
Her voice cut through the pause like drawn steel.
"Become mine."
The air between them sharpened. Not with threat. Not with heat. But with precision.
Her words were direct—undiluted by metaphor or diplomacy. Her posture matched them: poised, still, and honed like a weapon unsheathed. She didn't lean forward. She didn't blink. She simply was—every inch of her carved into imperial intent.
And for a heartbeat—
Lucavion's expression cracked.
Just a fraction.
Barely enough to register.
But enough.
'That wasn't from the script,' he thought. 'Not even the hidden ones.'
He recovered quickly, of course—mask slipping back over bone like a second skin. But that sliver of surprise had already echoed in the silence.
Selienne, of course, saw it.
And allowed herself the faintest twitch of satisfaction.
"You didn't expect that," she murmured. Not a question. "Not from a princess, I suppose."
Lucavion didn't answer. Not yet.
So she continued—her tone no longer coy, no longer testing.
Just clear.
"The performance you gave at the entrance examination was seen by every major house in the empire," she said, voice low but resonant. "Every noble. Every guild. Every contender worth their bloodline watched it unfold in real time."
She paused, eyes catching the faint glint of aetherlight from the projection glass.
"And I did as well."
Those words didn't carry admiration.
They carried confirmation.
"You did not display potential," she said, gaze returning to him. "You displayed threat. Mastery. And control."
A breath.
"I want that mastery aligned under my banner, not someone else's."
Lucavion's fingers had stopped drumming. His body remained relaxed—but his mind was already stitching the edges of her strategy together.
'She didn't come here to seduce. She didn't come here to negotiate.
She came here to claim.'
And the fact that she did it so openly—so publicly, so early—
That meant she was either supremely confident…
Or already playing a deeper game.
Chapter 731: First Princess (4)
Lucavion's silence held for a beat longer than comfort would allow.
Then his lips curled—not wide, not mocking, but with a composed mirth that shimmered just beneath the surface of his control. A smile of acknowledgment. Of calculation.
"You're rather direct," he said, voice smooth but edged with a note of bemusement. "I didn't expect that wording."
He leaned back slightly, eyes not leaving hers.
"But… your words were clear. As I asked." He gave a small nod, more to himself than to her. "I suppose that is true."
Selienne remained still, the air around her pulsing with quiet authority. She didn't answer. Didn't explain. She simply allowed the moment to breathe—as if her demand required no defense.
But Lucavion wasn't finished.
He turned his body a fraction, one elbow resting lazily along the armrest while his fingers steepled together before him.
Then he looked into her eyes. Fully. Unflinching.
"Why should I choose to be under you, Your Highness?"
The words fell like a stone into still water.
Not loud. But undeniable.
For a moment, the air in the chamber stilled further—tightened. Like breath held behind velvet.
Selienne didn't speak.
But her eyes narrowed.
Just slightly.
Not fury. Not insult.
But the slow coiling of tension beneath pride.
She was a Princess of the Empire. A daughter of the Lysandra bloodline. One of the ruling heirs of a realm that had known no defeat on its soil for centuries.
And he had asked her why.
'You'll either earn her fury or her attention now,' Lucavion thought, keeping his gaze level. 'Maybe both.'
But he didn't retreat.
He couldn't afford to—not now, not with her, and not in a world where everyone bowed before asking.
He needed more than position.
He needed understanding.
The kind that couldn't be bought with favors or titles.
He needed to know the kind of woman who asked him to become hers without blinking.
Was she a tyrant in waiting?
A tactician bent on legacy?
Or something else entirely?
He had danced in shadows before.
But now he was probing the edge of a throne.
Lucavion's gaze held, unbroken, as the seconds coiled between them like tension in a drawn bow.
He could feel her eyes weighing him again—fitting him not for a position, but for purpose. And yet he remained, spine straight, expression calm.
"I've had many offers," he said again, the air cooling slightly around the deliberate cadence of his words. "A lot of them that I had yet to even negotiate and talk about."
Then came the question—delivered not with arrogance, but with clarity.
"What's in it for me?"
Direct. Honest. Dangerous.
And Selienne did not look away.
She stared into him—not at him. Her posture remained perfect, her fingers laced in her lap like she were seated at a council war table rather than across from a student.
"What is in it for you?" she echoed softly. "That is a rather broad question."
And then, with a breath that didn't belong to hesitation but authority, she began listing.
"You can have position—true position. Not the scraps these lesser houses offer to flatter themselves. A seat at my table. My inner circle."
Her tone remained pristine, but each word carried its own blade.
"Money, of course—unmeasured, unrestricted. More than any adventurer's purse could sustain. Fame that reaches beyond the broadcasted exams, into halls where names are etched into law."
She paused briefly, her eyes never leaving his.
"Power. The kind that doesn't ask permission. Access to the Empire's restricted archives. Influence over guilds. Command of forces—military or arcane, as you choose."
Another breath.
"Women," she added, with all the casual weight of a dagger sliding into velvet. "Or men, if your tastes lean that way. Or neither. You'll find the throne does not judge—only grants."
Lucavion's lips parted just slightly—ready to speak.
But Selienne lifted a hand.
Her index finger hovered—not quite in command, not quite in threat. But enough to silence.
"But none of those," she said quietly, "are what you want. Are they?"
Lucavion stilled. Eyes sharp. Brows lifted just enough to show interest—and something deeper beneath.
'She reads fast,' he thought. 'Or she's been reading longer than I assumed.'
"You're a rather interesting man," she continued, her voice softer now, but more cutting. "You already have fame. That title they apparently had been screaming about you before. Sword Demon, wasn't it?"
A smile tugged at the edge of her lips. This one? Measured. But tinged with something else—genuine amusement. Admiration. Curiosity.
"Quite a fitting name."
Lucavion said nothing, but the way his fingers drummed once against the table betrayed that he was listening. Closely.
"And not just from the Sanctum's little trials, either," she added. "You're an adventurer. Or were."
Her head tilted faintly, and for the first time, her voice carried something close to wonder.
"Apparently someone with black hair, an estoc, and a silver tongue once turned the entire Stormhaven skirmish into a private campaign. The records list the name as Luca—but the eyewitness reports mention a white cat on his shoulders."
She gave a small, quiet laugh.
"And that adventurer also happened to appear right before a battlefield turned into a massacre. I suppose that's coincidence too?"
Lucavion's smirk curved, faint but real.
Selienne watched him, then added, almost as an afterthought:
"And according to the financial records—yes, I had them pulled—you're already one of the wealthiest independent adventurers currently in circulation. Which means…"
Her voice dipped again—this time thoughtful.
"…money isn't your concern, either."
She leaned back, fingers resting against the lacquered wood of the chair's arm.
"So. If you don't want power, or wealth, or fame, or pleasure…"
Her crimson gaze narrowed with surgical interest.
Then—
"Isn't I the one who's supposed to be asking that question?" she said, her tone returning to a familiar sharpness, though now laced with something far more personal.
Her eyes narrowed—not in threat, but in intent.
"What is it that you want, Lucavion?" she asked. "For what reason would someone like you bother with an academy?"
She let the word bother linger just a little too long, just enough to make it clear she didn't buy the act—not entirely.
And then, Selienne smiled.
It wasn't mocking.
It wasn't regal.
It was curious.
"That," she said softly, "is something I'm trying to find out."
And then, without warning, she rose from her seat.
Her movement was graceful—deliberate—not fast, but unhesitant, like a ruler rising before a decree. She took three measured steps and came to a halt before Lucavion's chair.
She stood tall, not to impose—she didn't need to impose—but to offer perspective. Her shadow fell softly across his legs. Her eyes bore into his, level and poised.
The kind of gaze that didn't plead or threaten.
It invited.
"I can't promise you riches," she said quietly, "because you have them. I can't offer you glory—because you've already tasted it, and seen its emptiness."
She folded her hands behind her back.
"But I can promise you one thing."
Her voice lowered, almost a murmur—but it carried the weight of certainty.
"I'm fair."
Lucavion's brow twitched—slightly. Not with doubt. But with attention.
"And I treat those with me with care," she continued. "Not because I need loyalty. But because I believe in those I choose. I don't use people like tools. I build with them. I elevate them."
Then her voice sharpened—not in harshness, but resolve.
"So I'll ask again. Not as a Princess…"
She stepped a fraction closer, until her silhouette eclipsed the edge of his chair.
"…but as Selienne Lysandra, the woman building the next throne."
Her crimson eyes locked with his.
"Will you stand by my side?"
Chapter 732: Refusal
Lucavion remained seated, eyes tilted upward, fixed on her silhouette as it loomed before him—imperial, poised, unshakably composed.
But not unreadable.
Not to him.
Not anymore.
His vision—no, his sense—had sharpened since he has been polishing his [Flame of Equinox].
And the ability that he ahs recently learned….It was the time to use it.
This wasn't just instinct or intuition. It was a honing of perception, a tuning to the pulse of human nature itself.
He saw the veil of her words, wrapped in regality and laced with intention.
And he saw past it.
When she spoke of fairness, her vitality remained even.
When she mentioned care, the flow of her presence didn't stutter.
But when she spoke of bringing him to her side?
There. The briefest tremor.
Not in her voice.
But in the rhythm of her essence. The subtle change in her vitality. A flicker.
'She's hiding something…'
And he understood.
Not that she lied outright—but that she had omitted something important. There was more to her offer. More to her need.
'She doesn't just want an ally,' he thought. 'She wants control. Of me. Of this outcome. She sees the throne already—and she's choosing her pieces to place around it.'
He let the silence hang, like a blade just before the strike.
Then he spoke—soft, but cutting.
"Stand by your side…"
He repeated her words slowly. Tasting them.
Then he tilted his head—just slightly—and asked the one question that cracked through the air like a whip.
"As equals?"
The shift in Selienne's face was so subtle most would have missed it.
But Lucavion didn't miss it.
Couldn't.
There, behind the careful mask of nobility—the perfect posture and sculpted smile—a single line of tension drew beneath her eyes. Barely perceptible. A flicker of thought rising too fast to bury.
She masked it, of course.
Quickly.
Elegantly.
But not well enough.
'That was the crack,' he mused. 'The insult she didn't speak aloud. The offense she swallowed like poison.'
And now?
Now she stood straighter. Too straight.
The weight of her title settled between them again, even if she hadn't said a word yet. Not quite anger. But the kind of quiet assertion that said be careful where your ambition points, commoner.
Lucavion watched her, calm, unrattled.
He hadn't raised his voice.
He hadn't disrespected her.
He'd just… asked.
But in a world built on hierarchy, asking was often the most dangerous act of all.
Selienne's pause was brief—but in that pause, a thousand instincts refined by generations of court survival fired behind her eyes.
Then came her answer, voice clear, clipped, and cleanly spoken:
"Of course," she said. "We would be equals."
A practiced smile returned to her lips—not one of warmth, but of principle, of stance. "I don't believe in bloodline superiority. That kind of thinking belongs to the Crown Prince's faction. The Blood Faction," she added, with the faintest trace of disdain curling beneath her otherwise controlled tone. "They are relics clinging to the illusion of legacy. A fortress of noble houses desperate to preserve the empire as it is."
She turned slightly, arms folding with care behind her back, her gaze drifting just over Lucavion's shoulder before returning to him again.
"I can't be like that," she said. "I won't. I've built my platform differently. On merit. On vision."
It was smooth.
It was clean.
It was almost convincing.
But Lucavion could see it.
Feel it.
The rhythm of her presence stuttered at the edges, barely visible to any other soul in the empire. But to someone attuned to the [Flame of Equinox]—to someone watching her vitality, reading her energy with surgical attention—it was all there.
The truth twisted at the very end of her words.
And then—confirmation.
A soft whisper, like a breeze through glass, spoke beside him.
[She is lying.]
Vitaliara's voice entered like a thread through velvet. No judgment. Just observation. Truth laid bare.
Selienne stood there, regal and still, cloaked in certainty.
But she was lying.
Even if she didn't want to be.
Even if she told herself she wasn't.
She couldn't mean it.
A Princess of the Empire—raised above crowds since the moment she first opened her eyes. Fed on etiquette, surrounded by expectation, bathed in unspoken supremacy. Even if she rebelled against it, it was her. And in her heart of hearts, the very idea of true equality with a mere commoner—even a powerful, dangerous, famous one—was absurd.
Lucavion didn't flinch.
Didn't react.
He'd already expected it.
He hadn't asked to believe her.
He'd asked to see.
And now?
Now he had.
'Indeed,' he thought, gaze drifting downward for a moment, before returning to her crimson stare. 'Different side of the same coin.'
Lucien built his world with chains.
Selienne?
With ribbons.
But in the end, both wanted the same thing.
Control. Victory. The throne.
And Lucavion?
He smiled faintly to himself, the corners of his mouth curling like the edge of a blade being drawn.
He had no intention of being anyone's piece.
It was clear now—crystal, even beneath the polished haze of diplomacy.
Selienne hadn't come to negotiate.
She had come to press.
Not with threats. Not with brute force. But with presence.
Royalty, distilled into silk and certainty. Her silhouette, her gaze, the cadence of her words—they were designed to remind. Not persuade. To weigh down those who sat before her and make them feel smaller for not standing.
She had wanted him to feel the enormity of her. Of her name. Of her future throne.
But Lucavion?
He didn't bend.
Not to weight.
Not to names.
And certainly not to legacies sewn into blood.
'I've felt the gaze of monsters with no eyes. Fought against those who command legions with a flick of will. You think I'll flinch because a girl wrapped in silk says "stand by me" like it's fate?'
She had tried to wrap the conversation in velvet. To trap him not in a cage—but in a promise.
A quieter kind of chain.
And though it was elegant, refined, and full of calculation—
It hadn't worked.
Lucavion slowly rose from his seat.
Not with flourish. Not with defiance.
Just quiet, unshakable intent.
A show of balance.
Of respect.
And of refusal.
He met her gaze directly. There was no mockery in his eyes. No dismissal. Only the kind of calm resolve that made even silence sound final.
"You've shown me courtesy," he said.
The words were simple, but carried with them the gravity of something deeper. A recognition of her title, of her presence, of the effort she had made—even if veiled in tactics.
"And so I'll return it in kind."
He paused.
Then, clearly, without hesitation—
"I will respectfully decline."
The air shifted.
Selienne's body didn't move—but her eyes did.
There it was again—that flicker. Barely a breath of time.
But it was a reaction.
Not rage. Not shock.
But something colder.
Offended?
No. Not quite.
Disappointed?
Possibly.
But more than anything—surprised.
She hadn't thought he'd say no.
Selienne's lashes lowered, just enough to shadow the gleam behind her eyes. The silence stretched between them like drawn silk—elegant, taut, dangerous.
Then, with the slow deliberation of someone not used to being refused, she spoke.
"For what reason?"
No longer wrapped in offer.
No longer veiled in charm.
Just a question. Direct.
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, and for the first time since she stepped into his room, the tone of the exchange shifted—he shifted it.
The edge in his posture softened, but only to make room for something else.
Something far more Lucavion.
He gave a slow, theatrical blink, then clasped his hands lightly behind his back. His eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that always danced with danger, and his voice—when it came—held no weight of formality.
Just that signature grin.
"Miss First Princess."
The title was deliberate.
Stripped of deference. Dressed in charm.
Selienne's eyes narrowed. Not in offense. In attention.
Lucavion continued, casually, as though they were discussing the weather and not dismantling a royal alliance offer.
"I don't like the world to be played by the rules."
The smile that followed was all teeth—clean, charismatic, and completely untamed.
"Rather than walking the predetermined paths," he said, his gaze never leaving hers, "I like to carve my own."
There it was.
The refusal wasn't just no.
It was an assertion.
A declaration.
He wasn't just stepping away from her throne.
He was stepping into his own.
And no one—not even the Princess of the Empire—could draw the map he'd walk.
Chapter 733: He rejected me ?
Selienne's eyes narrowed—sharply, precisely.
The temperature in the room didn't fall, but it felt like it did. Her once smooth poise held a new texture now—tension curled into the corners of her stillness, like the press of a blade resting just shy of skin.
She didn't raise her voice.
She didn't lash out.
But the absence of warmth was unmistakable.
Her gaze—no longer the inviting weight of royalty—became the cold, unyielding stare of someone who had just been denied. And didn't appreciate it.
"You're serious?" she asked flatly, with a disbelief that wasn't feigned.
Lucavion gave her his most maddening, most maddeningly him smile.
"Terribly," he said, folding one arm across his chest, the other gesturing lazily outward. "Unless, of course, I'm dreaming all of this, in which case I'd rather wake up before taxes are involved."
He winked.
The kind of wink that could unravel tempers and charm thieves in equal measure.
Selienne stood.
No rustle of skirts. No fanfare. Just a single, fluid rise—like the unsheathing of a sword with no intention of returning to its scabbard.
Her crimson eyes sharpened.
The smile was gone.
The diplomacy was gone.
Only Selienne Lysandra remained—the imperial daughter. Not amused. Not pleased.
"Then," she said, tone clipped, "you wasted a very big chance."
She stepped toward the threshold, but not before leaving her final words behind—low, sharp, and deliberate.
"You're walking on a thin line, Lucavion."
No title now.
Just the name.
"You may dance along its edge for now. But no matter how talented they are… everyone slips. Eventually."
Lucavion didn't blink.
Didn't even shift.
He let the silence settle just long enough.
Then—voice relaxed, even cheerful—
"True," he said lightly. "But when you know the fall is inevitable… it's far more entertaining to see how long you can balance on the edge."
He offered a shallow bow—more performance than protocol.
"And sometimes, Your Highness…" his smile returned, devil-may-care, gleaming like duskfire in his eyes, "it's not about avoiding the fall."
He straightened, gaze gleaming beneath that calm exterior.
"It's about choosing how you land."
Selienne said nothing more.
She didn't argue.
She didn't threaten.
She just looked at him—one last time.
And that look held volumes.
Not fury. Not scorn.
But something colder than either.
Disappointment, maybe.
Or calculation reshaping itself.
Then, without another word, she turned.
Each step she took echoed across the polished stone like a metronome counting down—imperial, poised, exact.
The door didn't slam.
It didn't need to.
It closed behind her with the quiet, deliberate precision of a judgment rendered.
A curtain falling.
And in the stillness left behind—
Lucavion stood alone.
No tension.
No regret.
Just that same grin, softening at the corners now, slipping toward reflection.
'So that's how she reacts to "no," huh?'
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
'Sharp woman. And dangerous… But still a blade honed for a throne. Not a battlefield.'
Behind him, a low flicker of flame licked up from the hearth—the residue of the magic still clinging faintly to the walls.
[She will remember this.]
Vitaliara's voice, low and distant, like breath from the hollow between silence and wind.
Lucavion glanced toward the closed door.
"I hope so," he murmured. "It means I didn't waste her time."
He turned back to the room.
Back to his fire.
And, as always,
back to his path.
*****
The corridor was colder than it should have been.
Selienne's steps echoed through the marbled hall like punctuations—measured, deliberate, sharp. Her heels did not falter. Her expression did not crack. But to those attuned to her rhythm, there was something off—a stiffness in the swing of her arms, a restraint too taut to be normal.
And her attendant noticed.
"Your Highness," the young man greeted, bowing deeply with one hand pressed to his chest. He was a thin, wispy thing, always impeccably composed, always two steps ahead of court etiquette. But now, his brows twitched as he rose. "Is everything alright?"
Selienne didn't answer.
Not immediately.
He stepped closer, concern drawing his voice into a quieter register.
"…Did he anger you?" he asked carefully. "I've heard Lucavion can be… insolent."
That word hung in the air like smoke.
Selienne's gaze remained ahead.
But inside her, the thought stirred.
'Was he insolent?'
Yes. Without question.
'The way he sat—relaxed, like the weight of her crown didn't matter. The way he spoke, each word too free, too tailored to his own tempo rather than the rules of discourse. And that gaze—direct. Untempered. As though her bloodline, her power, her future throne... were just details.'
That was insolence.
She should have been furious.
She should have felt the sting of humiliation, the ire of refusal.
But—
'He didn't mock me.'
'He didn't belittle the offer. He didn't scoff, or smirk with the arrogance most of his ilk would wear like perfume. He refused me, yes. But not with cruelty. Not with disdain. With clarity. With intent.'
'And somehow… with respect.'
A contradiction.
But Lucavion was contradiction made flesh.
He had said no.
But not because he was trying to win. Or outplay.
He simply didn't want to be owned.
Selienne's breath drew quieter, more measured.
She did not look at her attendant.
"It is fine."
The words were calm. More than calm—composed with the kind of quiet that silenced all further questions.
The attendant hesitated, lips parting once more. But she turned then—just slightly. Enough to let the weight of her gaze settle on him without raising her voice.
"He rejected the offer."
A simple statement.
But the way she said it… it landed like steel on silk.
The attendant's mouth closed.
"Understood," he said with a bow, retreating half a step, wise enough not to press.
Selienne continued walking.
But her thoughts didn't.
She continued down the corridor, each step echoing in rhythm with thoughts she had no intention of voicing aloud.
'I watched him.'
'From the moment the entrance exams began, I watched.'
Not out of idleness. Not because of curiosity.
But because of certainty.
Lucavion had stood out before he even stepped onto the field. Not with name. Not with lineage.
But with force.
His mana control. His understanding of terrain. His psychological read of every opponent—even his restraint. It wasn't just raw talent. It was practiced chaos. Refined unpredictability.
There had been no hesitation in her assessment.
'As a weapon, he would be devastating.'
Not just for her faction, but against anyone foolish enough to stand in their path.
That's why she had made the decision.
To come herself.
To extend the offer personally.
Because unlike Lucien—her ever-theatrical half-brother, who wouldn't stoop to speak to a commoner unless it served a headline—Selienne believed in tactical investment.
And Lucavion?
He was potential unclaimed.
'It was a move I knew Lucien would not make. Not personally. He'd send someone. A proxy. A letter gilded in royal pretense. But not himself.'
And that gave her the opening.
To see the boy for herself.
To weigh the sharpness of his eyes against the shape of his name. To draw her own conclusions.
And she had.
'He's everything the reports said.'
'And more.'
Which was why—
'Why in the Empress's name did he say no?'
She really couldn't understand his reasoning at all.
Chapter 734: He rejected me ? (2)
'Why in the Empress's name did he say no?'
The thought refused to leave her. It looped behind her gaze like a ribbon caught in wind—silent, but constant. Selienne Lysandra, First Princess of the Empire, did not obsess. She calculated. She predicted. She anticipated.
And Lucavion had violated all three.
She had not come to gamble.
She had come to win.
Every word, every angle of her presence had been measured—lowered just enough. Not to appear equal, no. But to appear willing to offer equality. A carefully painted illusion, tailored for his ego, precise enough to feel like truth. She had smiled, even. The kind of smile that cost bloodline and pride to produce.
And he—
'He looked me in the eye… and declined.'
Not with disrespect.
Not with rebellion.
Worse.
With certainty.
'He doesn't care about the throne.'
That was the knife twisting now. He wasn't fighting her. He wasn't trying to outplay her.
He just… wasn't interested.
It wasn't his "no" that struck her.
It was the implication.
That she, Selienne, was not enough.
'That bastard. That maddening, insufferably composed—'
She stopped mid-thought, a breath catching behind her clenched jaw.
Then, another piece slid into place.
The Varenth incident.
She hadn't seen it firsthand, but she'd heard. Word traveled fast in the academy—especially when someone like Khaedren stormed out of a chamber with rage painted so openly across his face it might as well have been scrawled in ink.
'He went to meet with Lucien's side first.'
Well, not directly. Not officially.
Marquis Varenth had sent Khaedren.
But everyone who mattered knew the truth. Varenth's name might be on the seal, but the voice that echoed through that man's lips was Lucien's.
And apparently, Lucavion had refused him too.
Not just refused.
Confronted.
The boy had left Khaedren shaken. Furious. Afraid.
'He defied Lucien.'
'And then he defied me.'
Her hands, folded neatly behind her, tensed slightly.
That was what made no sense.
He wasn't aligning with either faction.
He wasn't playing between them, baiting offers to raise his value. She would have respected that. Even admired it.
But this—
'He's doing something else.'
'He turned both of us away, without even looking for leverage. No demands. No hedging. Just… no.'
That wasn't manipulation.
That was conviction.
And that was troubling.
'What is he planning, then?'
She stood beneath the colonnade now, the stone casting long shadows across the manicured gardens. The empire's banners fluttered lazily in the breeze—symbols of legacy, of power, of certainty.
And yet, none of them offered clarity for the one question still clawing at the edges of her thoughts.
'What is he planning?'
Selienne Lysandra, who had spent years navigating the serpentine corridors of imperial politics, who had broken rivals with a phrase and swayed ministers with a breath—she couldn't read him.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
And that was the most infuriating part.
Not his refusal.
Not even the subtle way he had rejected her offer without drawing blood.
But the void he left in his wake.
'He's… unreadable.'
No tells.
No hesitations.
No missteps in posture or tone that gave away hunger or hesitation or ambition.
And yet—
She knew he had ambition.
He had to.
A man like that, with eyes like that, did not walk quietly just for the sake of it.
Which is why—
'I warned him.'
She had meant every word.
He was walking a thin line.
Refusing Lucien was a risk. Bold, but survivable.
Refusing her—after refusing Lucien?
That wasn't bold.
That was isolation.
'No allies. No backing. No noble name. No imperial bloodline. He's just a weapon… without a sheath.'
'And what happens to unclaimed weapons in this empire?'
They're used.
Broken.
Or buried.
She narrowed her eyes.
'No matter how powerful he is. How talented. Without support, without protection, how far does he think he can go?'
Even prodigies get swallowed whole.
Unless...
Her gaze shifted slightly, her breath catching mid-thought.
'Does he have someone behind him?'
That would make sense.
A shadow patron.
A faction working in silence.
A third player.
But even as the theory took form, she dismissed it.
She knew.
She had already run the background reports. Personally ordered the data pulled from the central registries. The ones reserved for blood-verified census and guild alignment.
Lucavion—
—appeared from nowhere.
Records placed him as an orphan of a village from outskirts which was wiped out after a monster attack.
Too clean.
Too vague.
And that was the problem.
'His identity is likely forged.'
Not that he was the first to do it.
But most who wore masks had someone behind the curtain.
Lucavion?
Didn't.
No nobles claimed him.
No guilds listed him.
No secret donors, no covert scholarships, no hidden imperial stipends.
He was a ghost with a file.
And her intelligence division, one of the most ruthless networks in the empire, had come back with nothing conclusive.
Which meant either one of two things.
Either he was just a remarkably talented commoner with falsified credentials—
Or he was someone else entirely.
Selienne's fingers twitched faintly at her side.
Not from fear.
From calculation.
'He's either reckless or he's playing a game so deep we haven't even seen the board yet.'
Selienne's gaze dropped to the garden stones beneath her heels—polished, pristine, each one laid by design, by order.
Just like the empire.
Just like her life.
Just like everything Lucavion had, in the span of a single conversation, chosen to ignore.
Her lip curled—only slightly.
'No.'
She refused to accept it.
'He's not that deep. He can't be.'
There were whispers, of course. Conspiracy-chasers would love the idea of a hidden heir, a false identity cloaking some forgotten line of royalty, a weapon raised in the shadows to strike at the empire's heart.
But Selienne Lysandra did not believe in fantasy.
Not when her entire life had been lived in reality—cold, sharp, and edged with iron.
'He's not hidden royalty. He's not a secret project. He's not some genius tactician orchestrating an invisible faction.'
'He's just… a reckless fool.'
'Talented, yes. Dangerous, possibly. But a fool all the same.'
She straightened her shoulders, allowing her breath to flow smoother, lighter, as though the finality of that thought brought clarity.
'He's going to fall eventually. I warned him.'
And with that, her mood began to lift—her pulse easing, her steps returning to their usual deliberate grace.
But then—
Her eyes caught movement in the courtyard ahead.
Two figures.
Walking side by side, framed in the soft glow of the sun filtering through the ornamental glass arch.
She didn't recognize the first immediately—tall, formal, likely a newly promoted aide from the Central Academy staff. Unimportant.
But the second—
Ah.
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. Genuine, this time.
Not court polish. Not political veneer.
Genuine.
Because the second figure—graceful, familiar, wholly out of place—had not been seen publicly in quite some time.
"Priscilla," Selienne murmured, her voice warming as her steps slowed.
And then, louder—crisp, melodic, just loud enough to carry across the open air:
"What is our little sister doing here?"