Chapter 791: Planned
The murmurs still lingered like smoke—heavy, cloying, desperate to cling to something solid. Faces turned, some with suspicion, others with newfound reverence. But Lucavion didn't revel in it.
Not yet.
He let the glass touch his lips again—not to drink, but to move. A subtle gesture, just enough to keep eyes from noticing the pause in his breath. The room saw poise. Confidence. But behind his eyes—
He was calculating.
Exactly as expected.
From the moment he stepped onto that terrace weeks ago, when the festival's laughter still masked the rot beneath, this had been his intent. Not rage. Not vengeance. Structure.
'The world calls it instinct,' he mused, 'but it's just well-read memory. All of this—every line, every look, every silence—it was written before any of them knew they were actors.'
The girl—the one they harassed. She wasn't random, nor the baron that was around her. After all, they were the actors that Lucien planned the scene to proceed. This was something that Lucavion has already talked with Priscilla before.
He had been expecting it.
That moment was mentioned in the novel briefly, and he didn't have the exact knowledge. So he had to wait for nearly the whole month for the scene to happen in that terrace.
It cost him. Dearly.
A fifth of his total reserves—gone. Liquidated quietly through dummy channels, passed into the hands of a discreet artificer with no name and too much ambition. The result?
A [Recorder].
An innovation even the tower hadn't named yet. A crystalline whisper bound by spatial rune-threads and memory seals, delicate and almost mythical. Experimental. Unsanctioned. Unknown.
Perfect.
Lucien had never seen it coming. Because he couldn't.
Because Lucien didn't think like Lucavion.
Because Lucien—arrogant, brilliant, blind—had already decided what Lucavion was.
A commoner.
'And that,' Lucavion mused, letting his eyes drift lazily over the trembling nobles, 'was the root of it, wasn't it?'
Lucien hadn't protected the scene. He hadn't warded it, hadn't cloaked it in illusion. He hadn't needed to. After all—
Why would a mere commoner have access to something even the royal family can barely touch?
'He didn't guard his secrets,' Lucavion thought, the taste of amusement faint on his tongue, 'because he never believed I could steal them.'
And that—that—was the mistake.
He had known Lucien would interfere.
From the moment he stepped into this confrontation, from the instant he drew Priscilla into the storm, he knew the Crown Prince would descend. Because Lucien always moved to protect control.
'This was too perfect for him,' Lucavion thought. 'Two problems—one blade. If he could discredit her and me in a single stroke, he'd never let that moment pass.'
And he wasn't wrong.
In words alone, Lucien would've destroyed them. Priscilla's status was brittle. Lucavion's—nonexistent. A sister with no power and a boy with no name. Compared to the Crown Prince?
It wouldn't even be a contest.
'He thought I was playing with words,' Lucavion reflected. 'That I'd come with passion and outrage, and nothing else. That I would dance for a moment, then break under the weight of "truth."'
He smiled now, faintly, as if the thought itself were worth a toast.
'But I didn't bring a dance. I brought a loaded stage.'
And beneath that stage?
A Recorder still slept.
Waiting.
For the right moment.
Lucavion's fingers loosened slightly around the stem of his glass. Not in nervousness. In recognition.
It could've ended here.
Lucien could have prevented this.
One order. That's all it would've taken. A simple command to the guard detail: "Scan for illicit artifacts. No personal conduits allowed." It would've been standard protocol if he'd so much as entertained the idea of risk.
This was, after all, the Imperial Academy Entrance Banquet.
No artifacts were allowed.
None.
The entire banquet was sealed in ceremonial wards. Magic was regulated. Detection runes were imbued in every wall. The guards at the entrance? Trained to identify aura disturbances, spell-imbued trinkets, mana laced through threads.
And still—
Lucavion had walked in untouched.
Unnoticed.
Unquestioned.
Because Lucien hadn't ordered it.
And Lucavion knew exactly why.
'Because your pride wouldn't let you,' he thought, eyes gleaming with a cold, quiet clarity.
The Crown Prince of the Empire, son of the first flame, heir of the red banners…
To a man who believed blood determined worth, how could he see a commoner as anything but beneath him? A bug. A pawn. A shadow in the hall.
He didn't just miss the play.
He didn't look for it.
'If he'd known,' Lucavion mused, 'if he had even suspected I carried something of value—he would have stopped it. Instantly. Efficiently. Brutally.'
But Lucien hadn't suspected.
Because Lucien couldn't imagine a world where someone like Lucavion—nameless, titleless, unblessed by lineage—could outmaneuver him.
'That's your flaw,' Lucavion thought, watching the fire behind Lucien's mask begin to crack. 'Your crown is what holds you back.'
His grin widened—slow, deliberate, infuriating.
Not mockery. Not triumph.
Pity.
The blood-red eyes across the room bore into him now—blazing, furious, sharp enough to flay marble. But Lucavion didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
Because the murmurs were rising again.
They always rose after silence.
This time, it wasn't fear.
It was doubt.
It was interest.
It was the sound of nobles recalibrating.
Lucien's hand twitched slightly at his side—too small for most to catch. But Lucavion did.
'Now you see it, don't you?' he thought. 'That one of your shadows walked in with a blade you didn't see. That while you painted your scene with crimson perfection—I rewrote the ending in invisible ink.'
The silence fractured—not with shouts, not with accusations, but with something quieter.
Sharper.
The rustle of silk. The soft clink of a wine glass set too quickly on marble. The flutter of a fan folding a heartbeat too fast.
And then—whispers.
Barely more than breath.
But deadly.
"…did you see his face just now?"
"…never thought she'd speak like that. The princess, I mean."
"…is it true, then? That Reynard—?"
"…Lucien… misstepped?"
Each one thin as a reed. A syllable here, a glance there. But together? They gathered like smoke under a closed door—slow, spreading, impossible to contain.
Lucavion didn't move.
He didn't need to.
Because the room was shifting around him.
Not overtly. No one dared raise their voice above decorum now. Not with Lucien still standing there, back ramrod straight, jaw clenched like a vice. Not with that aura of command simmering around him like heat above fire.
But that was the problem.
He was still standing.
Still silent.
And silence—in a room like this—was as good as surrender.
'Now you understand,' Lucavion thought, watching a lord at the eastern table lean subtly toward his companion, his lips moving behind a gloved hand. 'This isn't about proof. It's about perception. And you're bleeding it out by the second.'
A woman near the center—the widow of Duke Argonne—lowered her goblet with precise elegance. Her brow was furrowed just slightly. Enough for others to see. Enough to suggest.
"…surely the Crown Prince wouldn't shield someone so brazenly if…"
"…but if there is evidence…"
"…this could be a setup. Against her. Against him."
Lucien heard it. Of course he did.
Every whisper was a dagger.
He had crafted a court built on fear, on reverence, on a truth so solid it need not be questioned. And now—now—that very structure had begun to hum with fault lines.
They didn't need to yell.
They just needed to wonder.
Lucavion tilted his head, a picture of languid interest, as if he were listening to the orchestra instead of the slow-blooming ruin beneath it.
'It's starting, Lucien,' he thought, letting his gaze meet the prince's once more. 'They won't say it to your face. Not yet. But give it time. They'll turn.'
And what's more—
They'll pretend they never stood with you to begin with.
Chapter 792: Hatred
Lucien's world tilted—not with noise, but with silence.
The kind of silence that bled behind the eyes.
He stood in the center of his own scene, crafted with such precision, and watched it fracture in slow, deliberate slices. Not a sudden collapse. No. It was worse than that.
It was a symphony unraveling by the note.
The whispers didn't slice. They corroded—soft and persistent, like rot in polished wood.
And Lucien… didn't know how to stop it.
His fingers clenched once.
Then again.
Too tight. Too still.
Because for the first time, he couldn't recalibrate. Couldn't reset the tempo.
There's always a way. That was the mantra. The truth engraved into his spine by tutors, handlers, the Father himself.
But not this time.
His mind searched for it.
Desperately.
A new angle. A redirection. A scapegoat, a technicality, something.
But it all slid through his fingers.
Every calculation unraveled by a single impossibility.
A Recorder.
A device that shouldn't have existed in this room.
A truth that shouldn't have had a voice.
And a boy who shouldn't have mattered.
'A commoner…'
The word wasn't just insult now.
It was confusion.
It was denial.
It was betrayal.
Lucien's eyes locked on Lucavion—and for the first time, they didn't see a bug beneath a boot.
They saw a blade.
'He… outplayed me.'
No. No. No.
The thought struck, raw and venomous.
I am Lucien Lysandros.
The name wasn't title anymore.
It was armor.
It was gospel.
I am the heir of flame. The highest manifestation of imperial blood since the Founder. My mana scorched the sanctum walls before I could speak. My will bends cities. My word is policy.
And yet—
He stood there.
Mute.
While they whispered.
While he stood untouched.
Smiling.
Mocking.
Alive.
'I've been outplayed… by a lesser blood?'
The bile rose fast. Acidic. Sharp.
He could feel his hands twitch again, the aura beneath his skin threatening to crack the illusion of calm.
One order. One flick of the wrist. One surge of mana—
And this entire hall would remember who holds the right to burn.
And then—his eyes met them again.
Those eyes.
Lucavion's.
Pitch-black. Reflecting nothing. Consuming everything.
They didn't flinch. Didn't break. They didn't recoil from Lucien's fire—they welcomed it.
No... they invited it.
That damn smile—faint, calm, mocking—carved into his face like it had been etched in iron.
And in that curve of lips, in the unnatural stillness of his expression, Lucien saw something more than arrogance.
He saw challenge.
Not desperation.
Not recklessness.
Invitation.
'Dare to burn me,' the smile said.
'Strike now.'
'Prove me right.'
And Lucien…
Couldn't.
His hand hovered—silent, furious, frozen.
Not from fear.
No.
Not fear.
Never fear.
But something deeper.
Something older.
A voice in the back of his mind—not spoken, but known. Instinct etched in bone and blood. A command passed down not by words, but through the very marrow of survival.
Do not.
And it shook him.
'What…?'
He tried again. To raise his hand. To summon flame. To give the order. To end it here.
But the motion wouldn't come.
Why?
Lucien's eyes narrowed, but the breath in his chest went shallow.
Why won't I move?
He could feel it—the pulse of mana ready to rip open the air, the spell-threads aligned and coiled. He had never been stopped before. Never restrained. Every instinct had always obeyed the crown, the will.
But now?
His mind screamed for action.
And his body—
Refused.
It wasn't physical.
It wasn't fear of punishment, or decorum, or retribution.
It was something else.
A feeling he could not name.
A knowing.
If I strike first… it will be the end of something.
As if that was what his body is telling him.
Then he understood the reason why.
Yes…
Lucien's fingers flexed again, still empty, still motionless.
It's not weakness. It's not hesitation.
Of course it wasn't.
It was his discipline. His breeding.
Superior blood doesn't flail in desperation. It doesn't descend to the level of rabble. It waits. It calculates.
This restraint—it wasn't fear.
It was refusal.
A refusal to grant a common-born illusionist the satisfaction of witnessing the Crown Prince break decorum.
That had to be it.
'You used underhanded means,' Lucien thought, the words like cold iron tightening around his sense of self, 'as expected from a lesser born.'
A trick. A cheap artifact. A setup months in the making. All just to catch one moment, to spring it like a trap during the banquet.
Desperate.
Insidious.
Exactly what a gutter-born would do.
And I…
He drew a long breath through his nose.
I will not be dragged into the mire by a smiling worm with a toy.
Yes.
That was it.
He was above this.
Even now, when the ground shifted. Even now, when the illusion cracked.
And then—
The whispers returned.
But this time, they didn't ripple beneath him.
They rose.
"…he didn't deny it…"
"…and she looked so certain…"
"…could he really have known, and still—?"
"…this changes things."
Lucien's spine stiffened.
He stood motionless, but the rage in his bones hummed like a song just shy of screaming.
They were shifting.
Not just glancing. Not whispering behind gloves and fans.
They were turning.
Not all of them.
But enough.
Enough for the weight of command to feel... lighter in the room.
Lucien's eyes flicked—east to west, duke to daughter, instructor to whispering heir.
And that's when he spoke again.
Lucavion.
His voice warm. Pleasant. Poison dipped in honey.
"Now, now…" he began, tone as light as snowfall, "dear Lucien."
Lucien's teeth ground silently.
"You clearly stated something just now, didn't you?" Lucavion continued, all wide-eyed innocence as he tilted his head. "Let me see…"
And then—
He clapped.
Not loud.
But sharp.
Mock applause.
"Ah, right!" he said brightly. "It seems dear sister has a problem with her memory."
His tone shifted—suddenly silked with an imitation so crisp it bit into the air.
He lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes slightly, and in a voice chillingly close to Lucien's own:
"Whatever she believes she saw—whatever sentiment clouds her vision—it is incorrect."
The room stiffened.
Lucien didn't move.
But his hand—curled, cold, clenched.
Lucavion let the silence thrum for one beat.
Then smirked.
"Was that what you said just now?" he asked, feigning a thoughtful tap to his chin. "I do remember hearing it."
He leaned back ever so slightly, as if giving Lucien the stage again—offering it, wrapped in barbed silk.
And then, sweet as rot:
"Ah, right… maybe I have a problem with my memory too."
He turned, hand splayed theatrically.
"Since, apparently, remembering the truth seems to be such a 'problem' for you, isn't it?"
Chapter 793: A new person appeared!
Lucien's vision dimmed—not from magic, not from fury, but from something more primal.
A single, foreign thought eclipsed the calculated storm of his mind:
I want to tear him apart.
The sensation crawled beneath his skin like embers under silk—intimate, savage, intoxicating. It was not anger. Lucien had known anger since birth. This was different.
This was the urge to maim.
To desecrate.
To feel flesh split beneath his hands.
To gouge out those insolent black eyes that stared through him. To rip that smirking mouth from his face, one arrogant syllable at a time. To peel the truth from his tongue and leave the carcass of audacity behind.
'How dare he speak to me like this.'
The blood in Lucien's veins no longer ran—it seethed.
No noble had dared. No foreign emissary. No court scholar or imperial senator. Even his father had never heard this voice from below and let it go unpunished.
And yet this—
This thing, born of nothing, sired by no name, cast in mud and dressed in irony—
Dared mock him.
Dared expose him.
Dared turn his court against him.
Lucien's nails bit into his palms, silent and bloodless.
The hall around him faded.
It no longer mattered what the others saw.
Not the lords with uncertain eyes.
Not the women hiding smiles behind silk.
Not even the guards, too frozen to move.
All Lucien could see—was him.
Lucavion.
Still smiling.
Still breathing.
Still untouched.
And for the first time in years, Lucien wanted not control.
He wanted pain.
Lucien's rage was a noose tightening around his own throat.
He could hear his own breath—each inhale serrated, each exhale trembling beneath the pressure of unshed fire.
He was burning, but the flame had no direction. No target.
Because if he moved, if he acted now—it would not be justice.
It would be violence.
And the Empire would see it.
They would see what lies beneath the polish of his name. The monster. The truth.
And Lucavion—curse his bones—knew it.
The boy turned away from him now, deliberately, as if Lucien no longer merited even his full gaze.
He turned to Priscilla.
And the gall of it—the audacity—Lucavion didn't even raise his voice. He let it ring out like it belonged to the room.
"Now, everyone," Lucavion said, his tone theatrical, almost weary with false pity. "Apparently, our dear Lucien regards the truth as a problem."
He glanced at the gathered nobles with that same unreadable calm.
"I wonder… is this a habit of his? Or just a one-time slip-up?" His lips curved. "Anyone want to take a guess?"
Laughter didn't follow.
Not because they disagreed.
But because no one dared be first.
The silence teetered, a coin in the air.
And then—
"Stop this this instant!"
The words rang clear—not shouted, but carried with the force of someone unaccustomed to being ignored.
Heads turned.
And there he stood—just inside the ring of nobles, flanked by the golden light of the candelabras—Rowen Drayke, son of the Knight Commander. The Second Sword of the Empire
His hands…..They bore the scuffs of use, the polish of discipline. The man himself—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed—was a monument to pragmatic authority.
Rowen's boots struck the marble with unhurried weight as he stepped forward, parting the nobles like a blade sheathed in resolve. His presence wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It commanded.
He halted just paces from Lucavion, the glow of chandeliers glinting off the faint wear of his armor. His posture was flawless. Measured. As if sculpted from a lifetime of oaths and expectations.
His gaze dropped onto Lucavion like a verdict.
"How dare you speak of the Crown in that tone," he said, voice flat but forged in steel. "To mock the heir of the Empire, in his own hall, in front of his people—"
He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
His fury was not like Lucien's—scorching and volatile. It was colder. Institutional. The fury of a man bred to protect a system that didn't ask for forgiveness.
"You are no court jester," Rowen said, eyes narrowing, "and this is not a tavern for you to parade your 'truths'."
The nobles leaned in, listening. Some hopeful. Some horrified.
Lucavion?
He smiled.
Not broadly. Not cruelly.
But with that same maddening, infuriating calm.
"I see," he said lightly, head tilted as if Rowen had just asked a riddle. "So truth, when it's inconvenient, becomes disrespect?"
He stepped forward—not challenging, but steady.
"And here I thought the Academy stood for merit. That once we wore its crest, we were equals. Or am I mistaken, Sir Drayke?"
The use of his title was deliberate. Iced in mock respect.
Rowen's jaw tightened.
Lucavion's voice dropped lower, intimate but projected enough for the crowd to catch the shape of it.
"Am I not a student of the Academy, as of today?" he asked. "Have I not passed the entrance trial? Was my name not read aloud with the rest?"
He raised a brow, ever so slightly.
"Or does equality end the moment it becomes… inconvenient to nobility?"
The room stirred.
A ripple of something dangerous.
And in that breath of silence, Lucavion offered one last dagger—tucked in velvet.
"I'm merely voicing my opinion. Stating what I witnessed. Sharing a truth. Surely the Empire isn't afraid of a few honest words…?"
Rowen's reply came fast—measured, but unmistakably sharp.
"No," he said, his voice cutting clean through the hum of unsettled nobles. "It is not wrong to speak the truth."
His words rang with conviction, not concession. He would not be painted a blind sword.
"But it is wrong," he continued, stepping forward once more, "to dress it in barbs and call it virtue. To smear the Crown while pointing fingers at others. To lace every syllable with disdain and expect it to pass as integrity."
Lucavion's smile didn't waver, but something in his posture stilled—just slightly.
Rowen pressed on, his voice rising by a fraction, clear enough to be heard by every ear in the hall.
"You accuse a noble of misconduct and provide proof—fine. Let the Academy judge it. Let the Imperial court see it through."
He turned, just enough, to include the nobles in the reach of his words.
"But to stretch that accusation into a strike against the Crown itself—to suggest the Prince shares in the guilt of another—that is slander."
He met Lucavion's eyes again, unflinching.
"Is that clear?"
Lucavion's laugh came low and quick—sharp, sudden, ringing with a theatrical clarity that defied the weight of the moment.
He clapped, once, loud and deliberate.
"Wow…" he breathed, gaze sweeping the hall. "Such loyalty. Defending the one you serve instantly. The Empire would be proud."
Then his eyes settled back on Rowen, all pretense of restraint dripping with mock reverence.
"But there seems to be some kind of… mix-up, doesn't there?" he said lightly. "A little miscommunication. Maybe I'm the problem here."
He tapped a finger to his temple.
"Oh right… that's it. I have a memory issue, don't I?" he mused, grinning wide. "Clearly. That's the only explanation."
His tone turned sugar-sweet, and he projected his voice again to the room—each word wrapped in velvet and razors.
"I must've imagined it—when someone very recently answered the question…"
He pivoted just slightly, mimicking the posture of Lucien moments ago, and in a voice chillingly close to the prince's measured cadence, repeated:
"'Do you testify, here and now, before these guests, that the Daughter of the Crown—Priscilla Lysandra—is lying? And that the heir of House Crane, Reynard Crane, did not commit the act of harassing a lower-ranked noble?'"
He let the silence breathe—just long enough for everyone to recall it.
And then he snapped back to his own voice.
"Did someone not respond with—"
Now his words came with deliberate gravity, every syllable enunciated like a blade being drawn.
"'I testify, before this hall, before its nobles, its scribes, and its echoes, that the account given by my dear sister is flawed. And that Reynard Crane, heir to House Crane, has done no such thing.'"
Another beat of silence.
Lucavion spread his arms, almost apologetically.
"Or was I the only one who heard that?"
He turned, slowly, gaze grazing the crowd, letting their silence confirm the echo.
Then he looked back to Rowen, all innocence poisoned with irony.
"So forgive me, Sir Drayke. I may not know court etiquette… but when a prince publicly defends a harasser and calls his own sister confused—is it really slander to point that out?"
His smile curved, just barely.
"Or are we just pretending that never happened, too?"
Chapter 794: Move
Lucien's fury pulsed now—not in wild flares, but in sickening, silent waves.
The kind that scorched the ribs from the inside out.
His jaw clenched so tightly the bones groaned beneath the strain. Eyes fixed forward, but not seeing. Not truly. Just the blur of noble faces—watching. Whispering. Judging.
'He won.'
No one said it aloud.
They didn't need to.
It was in their silence.
In their refusal to meet his gaze.
In the slow, smirking poison Lucavion had poured into their wineglasses and left them to sip.
Lucien had lost his face. Before the banners. Before the bloodlines. Before the empire itself.
And what made it unbearable—unthinkable—was who had caused it.
Not a rival duke.
Not a political opponent.
Not even a rogue noble with House behind him.
But a boy.
A commoner.
'He doesn't even have a name.'
And yet he stood there—smiling still, smug and untouchable.
Lucien's vision blurred at the edges, not from power summoned, but from pure, soul-clawing indignation.
He deserved to be crushed.
An insect like this should never have risen.
Lucien's shoulder twitched.
And then—
Rowen moved.
Just half a step, smooth as muscle memory. Just enough for Lucien to feel the quiet shift of steel near his side.
Their eyes met—brief, sharp.
Rowen leaned in slightly.
Voice low. Lethal.
"Should I deal with him?"
It wasn't a question of capability.
It was a question of permission.
Of escalation.
Of whether to end this now, here, before it spiraled into something even the Crown could not walk back.
Lucien's fingers trembled at his side—half from restraint, half from the urge to give the word.
To finally burn this worm to ash.
But something—again—made him hesitate.
'Should I?'
Lucien's lips barely moved, but the word passed like a blade across a throat.
"Yes."
A breath. A command.
And just like that, the leash snapped.
Rowen's stance shifted, not loud, not violent—just precise. The kind of stillness that comes before an execution. Lucavion would fall. Must fall.
Lucien didn't care if it played into some contrived scheme. Let the lowborn bask in his clever trap. Let him gloat. Let him think this was victory.
Because once he was broken, there would be no one left to remember his name.
But then—
"Stop it."
The voice came like silk through fire. Smooth. Clear. Measured.
And it didn't belong to a guard. Or a noble.
It belonged to her.
Priscilla.
Lucien's head turned before he could stop it. Rowen froze mid-step.
Lucavion?
He looked too.
"What?" he said, the word light, surprised, almost curious.
But his eyes narrowed as they found hers.
Priscilla stood—tall, poised, but not untouched. There was steel in her posture, and something quieter beneath it. Weariness. Restraint.
"This is enough, Lucavion," she said, her voice calm, stripped of drama.
Lucavion tilted his head, eyes studying her like one might study a fine crack forming down the spine of a priceless mask.
Then—he smiled.
Not mocking.
Not triumphant.
Just… knowingly.
"Ah…" he breathed.
His gaze swept across the room again. Nobles still trembling between judgment and relief. Guards who'd held their breath. Scholars with ink-stained fingers trembling beside scrolls.
He clicked his tongue.
"It appears the show's gotten a bit dull, hasn't it?" he murmured, as if offering the audience an apology.
Then he turned back to Lucien, one final barb on his lips.
"I suppose," Lucavion said softly, "even dear Lucien makes mistakes. One can't always judge character so easily."
He smiled wider.
"Seems even the Crown Prince misjudged the character of his followers."
Lucavion took a leisurely breath, letting the silence linger just long enough for the tension to thicken again—not into chaos, but implication.
He looked at Lucien—not as an enemy, not even as a rival. But as something else. Something he allowed to stand.
"It happens, truly," he said, with a soft, almost apologetic shrug. "To the best of us."
The words were feathered in false humility. But each syllable was precision-forged.
"I mean… managing so many followers, so many voices, all clamoring for your trust—" he smiled faintly, "—it must be exhausting. I can't even imagine."
There was no venom in his tone. Only sincerity. That unbearable, unprovable kind.
"And sometimes," he added, gaze flicking subtly toward the nobles, "no matter how noble the crown, a few rotten roots slip in. Unnoticed."
The implication slithered through the room like perfume in smoke.
"Of course," he continued lightly, "to expect absolute clarity in judgment? Perfection in loyalty?" He chuckled, almost warmly. "Even the Crown can't claim that."
Then he turned slightly, as if the thought just struck him.
"And yet…" His eyes found Priscilla's again, softer this time. "Despite it all, Her Highness still shows such grace. Such restraint."
He nodded to her.
"To speak so plainly… and still forgive so much." A pause. "Even what was done to her."
The weight of that line settled like a blade balanced on thread.
Then—Lucavion looked back at Lucien.
"As I said," he murmured, tone mellow, almost forgiving, "we all make mistakes."
He let the words hang.
An exit.
A door.
A chance for Lucien to step through it—clean, unchallenged.
But only if he left something behind.
Reynard.
The cost of dignity would be the cutting of dead weight.
Lucavion's smile never faltered.
"But what we do next…" he said, just loud enough for every ear, "that's what defines a ruler, isn't it?"
Lucavion turned toward the center of the room again, hands open in faint apology, his voice sliding like silk over wine-soaked nerves.
"Surely," he said, gaze sweeping across lords, ladies, and lingering guards, "the Crown would never allow such rot to run rampant. Not in the Empire. Not under the banner of the Flame."
He gave a light, almost cheerful clap of his hands.
"That's all I wished to say. I do hope no one minded the little… drama." His smile widened. "Every banquet needs some entertainment."
Polite laughter followed—but thin. Uncertain. Drenched in tension.
Rowen's jaw was locked so tightly it looked carved from iron. His hand hovered near the hilt at his side—not to draw, but to feel control again.
And Lucien.
Lucien—
Felt the words crawl beneath his skin like a disease. The look Lucavion gave him before turning away—subtle, smug, as if Priscilla had granted him clemency, as if they should be grateful.
As if the Crown should thank her for not pressing charges.
'How dare he.'
The insult was veiled in courtesy, wrapped in silk, laced in irony so sharp it bled without showing wounds.
And then—
Lucavion turned to face him.
To him.
Lucien stiffened.
But Lucavion only smiled, gracious and composed, extending a hand.
A formal gesture. Between nobles.
"I hope His Highness won't mind my little… preach of truth."
His voice was honeyed, respectful. As if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn't just watched him unravel the Crown in full daylight.
Lucien's heart thundered like war drums in his chest. Every cell screamed to reject the hand, to incinerate the touch before it reached him.
But he couldn't.
Not here. Not now.
He took it.
And the moment their palms met—
Lucien's grip snapped shut like a vice. No warning. No mercy. Not a handshake—an assertion of absolute, physical dominance.
The strength in Lucien's hand wasn't simply noble.
It was monstrous.
The raw force of someone blessed by the Founder's legacy. A prodigy whose magic and martial capacity were whispered in awe across all provinces. A storm barely leashed.
No one at Lucien's age could match it.
No one.
Yet, this guy didn't move at all.
Chapter 795: Crown
Lucavion didn't even flinch.
No gasp. No twitch. No flicker of pain across his expression.
He met Lucien's burning eyes with calm, unblinking black.
Not defiance.
Not arrogance.
Just—
Stillness.
As if he had expected it.
As if this grip meant nothing.
Lucien's fury spiraled.
He pushed harder.
Just enough that the bones in most men's wrists would scream.
Still—
Lucavion's hand remained steady. His smile remained faint.
And his gaze?
It never left Lucien's.
Never blinked.
Never bowed.
Lucavion's hand remained still—unyielding, calm, unnaturally unwavering beneath Lucien's crushing grip.
And then—
He smiled.
Subtle. Quiet. Like the tilt of a dagger under velvet.
His lips barely moved. A whisper shaped not for ears, but for comprehension alone.
"You should have listened to Seran."
The words landed like poison-tipped arrows behind Lucien's eyes.
'What…?'
His breath caught.
It couldn't be.
'No. That name…'
The name Seran—a ghost from hidden corridors. A mistake buried. A pawn erased. A traitor consumed by shadows and silence.
Except—
In Lucien's palm, something soft brushed his skin.
A folded square of cloth.
No weight to it. No sound.
Just presence.
He looked down.
Slowly.
A simple handkerchief. Pale. Unmarked—at first glance.
But as the light caught it, the fabric shifted—and there it was.
Faint. Barely stitched.
A sigil.
A [Crown].
*****
It was only a sentence.
A single, measured phrase from Lucien—spoken with all the poise of royalty and the cruelty of someone who had mastered the art of dismissal.
But it shattered her.
The moment the words left his lips, the hall turned. Not in noise—but in gaze. Like a thousand threads of attention suddenly wrapped around her neck.
She felt it.
The weight of their eyes. The nobles. The students. The professors who smiled too much and listened too little. They weren't just looking.
They were judging.
Mocking.
She could feel it behind the stillness in their lips—the curling disdain, the muttered whispers behind fans and goblets.
'She really thought she mattered.'
'Imagine siding with him…'
'Foolish girl. Desperate for relevance.'
And for one terrible, breathless moment—Priscilla believed them.
Her throat tightened. Her fingers curled around the silk at her sides. She wanted to vanish. She wanted to undo the last five minutes, the last decision, the last time Lucavion had looked at her like she was more than what they said she was.
She had believed him.
Believed there was another way.
And now… she was being dragged down with him.
Lucien's voice echoed again—measured, dismissive, gilded with the crown's weight. There was no heat in it. No fury.
Only scorn.
The kind she had known all her life.
Her brother had turned the room against her with a few simple words. And for a heartbeat—she hated Lucavion for it.
'Why did you make me choose?'
Her breath caught in her chest, shallow and fractured.
Until—
The sound.
Not loud.
Just distinct.
A flicker. A whisper. A shift in the air.
And then—
Lucavion's voice. But not from his lips.
From the air itself.
Projected.
Recorded.
Undeniable.
"…Baron lineage… boot on the bench… threats…"
Her heart stopped.
The recording.
Her eyes widened—not with fear. Not now.
With realization.
The scene from the terrace poured into the hall like a blade drawn from velvet. Every voice. Every word. Lyon. Davien. Reynard. Clear. Unmistakable.
And Lucien—
Lucien's composure broke.
Not fully. Not visibly. Not yet.
But she saw it.
The flicker behind his eyes. The way his fingers stilled just slightly on his goblet. The way the muscles around his jaw twitched like someone trying not to scream.
She knew that expression.
She had worn it.
For years.
The fury you weren't allowed to show. The shame you weren't allowed to name.
And now, it was on his face.
Lucien—the one who had made her life a silent battlefield—was standing in her shoes.
The power he wielded so effortlessly had been stripped, if only for a moment. And it wasn't because she begged for it.
It was because Lucavion forced the world to see.
To listen.
And in that moment—something inside her shifted.
The regret, the doubt, the ache of humiliation—it didn't vanish.
But it turned.
Into something steady.
Something sharp.
Vindication wasn't loud. It wasn't noble. It didn't sweep the room like a triumphant tide.
It was quiet.
It was in the way Lucien didn't look at her.
It was in the way the crowd, for once, didn't look through her.
She stood taller.
Not because they respected her now.
But because, for once, they saw.
Lucavion didn't stop.
Each word was a scalpel. Precise. Cold. Irrefutable.
He wasn't shouting.
He didn't need to.
He spoke like someone who had waited for this moment—not to explode, but to dismantle. Not to prove himself, but to show everyone else how far they had already fallen.
And Lucien—
Lucien was unraveling.
Not in voice. Not in posture.
But in the fury simmering behind his perfectly carved expression.
Priscilla saw it.
The tremble in his jaw.
The twitch in his knuckles.
The flicker of something primal in his gaze—rage barely bound in flesh and silk.
The nobles sensed it too. Their masks didn't slip, but their eyes did. Wide. Unsettled. Like prey realizing the predator has bled.
And Lucavion… was still smiling.
Not with glee.
With purpose.
Relentless.
Ruthless.
As if the Empire's golden son wasn't a prince—but a stone in his path to kick aside.
'He's not stopping,' Priscilla thought. 'He's not going to stop.'
And in that moment—she understood the fear.
Not Lucien's.
Theirs.
The nobles.
Because Lucavion wasn't behaving like a challenger.
He was behaving like someone who didn't care about the rules at all.
Even now, as truth vindicated him—he wasn't trying to reclaim dignity.
He was burning the stage.
And they didn't trust that.
Not from a commoner.
Not from a boy with power and nothing to lose.
Because that made him dangerous.
And suddenly—
He wasn't just the boy who saved two children from noble cruelty.
He was the storm they hadn't prepared for.
The kind that didn't knock politely at the gates.
Priscilla's chest tightened.
'They won't side with him. Even if he's right.'
And worse—
'Lucien's about to lose control.'
Her heart pounded louder. She saw the twitch in his fingers now, the faintest shimmer of mana cracking along his skin, like light bleeding from a cracked mask.
Lucien didn't like to be embarrassed.
Lucien never tolerated being cornered.
And Lucavion had him against the wall—and was still stepping forward.
This wasn't triumph anymore.
It was provocation.
Calculated, deliberate provocation.
Rowen moved.
Not with haste—but with inevitability.
The kind of step that didn't ask permission. That didn't need introduction. The nobles parted instinctively, the way air makes way for a blade.
Priscilla saw him before he reached the center.
The gleam of armor dulled by years, not polish. The steady eyes—gray like the weight of truth. The walk of someone trained not to posture, but to finish.
'Rowen…'
He wasn't just a protector. He was Lucien's protector. The boy who used to trail behind her brother with a practice sword too big for his hands and a heart too loyal for his own good.
And now—he was moving toward Lucavion.
'No. No, no, this can't happen—'
Not here. Not now. Not when everything was shifting. Not when the Empire had finally, finally seen Lucien falter.
Because this wouldn't be a defense.
This would be erasure.
Lucavion would be removed. Not argued with. Not corrected.
Erased.
"Stop this this instant!"
She didn't remember crossing the space between.
Didn't remember stepping into the breath between Rowen's judgment and Lucavion's retort.
But her voice rang—clear, crisp, and immediate.
It silenced the room again.
Lucien turned.
Rowen paused.
And Lucavion… tilted his head.
"What?" he said lightly, curious.
But she knew that look.
He had been ready to go further. To end it.
"This is enough, Lucavion," she said, tone even. Measured. No cracks.
But inside?
'They're going to kill you.'
Not with blades. Not with spells.
With protocol. With hierarchy. With everything they had built to protect boys like Lucien—and destroy boys like Lucavion.
And Lucavion?
He smiled.
Not at her. Not for her.
But because he understood.
"Ah…"
He stepped back—not in surrender, but in grace.
"It appears the show's gotten a bit dull, hasn't it?" he murmured.
'No, Lucavion. It never was a show. You were never just entertainment. You were the lesson they didn't want to learn.'
And then—he turned the blade back toward Lucien. Softly. Casually. Viciously.
"I suppose," Lucavion said, "even dear Lucien makes mistakes. One can't always judge character so easily."
She watched Lucien stiffen.
Watched the words seep like slow poison beneath the skin of Empire's heir.
She almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
"Seems even the Crown Prince misjudged the character of his followers," Lucavion added.
'That's the cut he's choosing. Not the crown. The followers.'
She understood the tactic. He was giving Lucien a way out. A door. Sacrifice Reynard, preserve the mask.
"And yet…" Lucavion's voice softened as his eyes found hers again. "Despite it all, Her Highness still shows such grace. Such restraint."
A nod.
"To speak so plainly… and still forgive so much. Even what was done to her."
She didn't flinch. She didn't blink.
But inside—
'You saw me.'
Chapter 796: Crown and Loneliness
And then—
He looked at her.
Not the crowd. Not the guards. Not Lucien.
Her.
Just for a breath.
But it was enough.
The way his gaze lingered—not cold, not triumphant.
Warm.
Proud.
As if this had been the plan.
As if this—her voice, her command, her presence—was what he'd been counting on.
'Don't tell me…'
She felt her breath catch.
'You… wanted me to stop you?'
Had that been it all along?
That steady escalation. That inching closer to the edge. The blade sharpening, not just against Lucien—but the entire court.
Had Lucavion been daring someone to pull him back?
Had he been waiting for her to do it?
'No. That's ridiculous.'
But the thought wouldn't leave.
Because now, standing there, in the space she had carved between him and judgment—he looked content.
Not relieved.
Certain.
Like the piece he had placed on the board had moved exactly as intended.
'You manipulative, impossible—'
And then—
Lucavion leaned in toward Lucien.
Barely.
A whisper's distance.
His lips moved—too faint for her to hear.
But Lucien's reaction—
Was immediate.
His eyes widened—not in fear.
In recognition.
In shock.
Like something had just clicked into place. Something ancient. Something buried.
Lucien didn't speak. Didn't strike. Didn't shout.
He just stared—at Lucavion. At nothing.
Like he'd seen a ghost in the face of the boy he thought he could crush.
'What…?'
Priscilla's chest tightened again.
She didn't know what Lucavion had said.
But whatever it was—it hit deeper than any blade.
And then—
Lucavion turned.
He walked away.
Calm. Unhurried. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just turned the Empire's gaze upside down and then declined to claim the aftermath.
No backward glance.
No parting words.
Just—
Exit.
And yet the silence he left behind rang louder than any proclamation.
Lucien remained frozen.
The crowd remained stunned.
And Priscilla?
She couldn't stop staring at the space where Lucavion had stood.
Not in anger.
Not in confusion.
But in wonder.
'What did you say to him?'
Because whatever it was—
It had shaken the Crown Prince more than any public humiliation ever could.
And then—
Rowen moved.
Not forward.
Not back.
But up—shoulders squaring, spine straightening, his presence sweeping across the hall like a blade unsheathed.
His eyes, steely and sharp, scanned the frozen crowd. Noble after noble—each one caught mid-thought, mid-judgment, mid-flick of their fans and masks.
And when he spoke—
It cracked through the silence like a hammer to stained glass.
"What are you looking at!"
The words boomed—not with fury, but with command. As if the room itself had disrespected the Empire.
Several nobles flinched.
One lord dropped his goblet.
A duchess near the fountain turned her eyes downward, her fingers tightening on her clutch.
Priscilla didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
She had seen Rowen furious before—but never like this.
Never cornered by it.
He turned next—not toward her. Not toward Lucien.
But to the three still trying to remain invisible.
Reynard.
Lyon.
Davien.
Their faces had gone pale. Not with guilt. With fear.
"You will face the consequences."
Rowen's voice was low now—but colder. Final. Like the click of a prison door before the light vanished.
Reynard opened his mouth—perhaps to protest, to plead, to shift the blame.
But one look from Rowen silenced him.
Not with power.
With certainty.
The kind that didn't leave room for appeal.
No trial would save them now.
And Priscilla?
She watched them—all of them—knowing the tide had finally turned.
And then—
Rowen looked at her.
Not in greeting.
Not in respect.
Not even in acknowledgment.
Just—
Down.
His eyes, cold and unflinching, locked onto hers as if she were another problem on the parchment. Another name on a list. Another variable to control.
It wasn't contempt.
It was worse.
Disappointment.
The kind that didn't accuse you of treason, but questioned whether you still belonged.
Priscilla felt it. That flicker of fear in her spine. The urge to look away.
To flinch.
To fold.
But she didn't.
She kept her eyes level.
Even as her lungs tightened.
Even as every instinct screamed to retreat.
Because if she blinked now—
If she showed weakness now—
The court wouldn't remember the command in her voice.
They'd remember the girl who couldn't meet a knight's stare.
So she held.
Held.
And Rowen, after a long, chilling moment, said nothing.
Just turned.
And that silence—
Was the verdict.
Then—
The doors creaked open.
Not loudly.
Not ceremoniously.
Just enough.
And the musicians entered.
Their jackets slightly askew. Their hair windblown. One of them still adjusting a cuff. They were early—clearly rushed. Forced.
But their expressions stayed smooth.
Professional.
Perfect.
The lead violinist raised his bow.
The harpist settled her hands.
And just like that—
Music.
A soft, elegant swell of strings and harmony spilled into the space like water poured over fire.
The shift was immediate.
Nobles exhaled as if on cue.
The tension—still sharp and fresh—was muffled beneath the orchestral pretense.
A few began murmuring again.
Smiling.
Pretending.
As if the last twenty minutes had been a dream best forgotten.
The court was good at that.
And the Empire?
Even better.
And yet—
Priscilla stood still in the tide of renewed laughter, flutes, and clinking goblets.
Her spine straight.
Her gaze fixed not on the stage, not on the nobles.
But to the edge of the hall.
Where he stood.
Lucavion.
Leaning casually against a marble column just shy of the archway's shadows, half-lit by the golden glow of chandelier light and half-swallowed by distance.
Alone.
Unapproached.
Untouched.
No one dared go near him—not yet. Not after that.
And yet, even in exile from the revelry, he didn't look isolated.
He looked—
Content.
His arms folded loosely across his chest, weight rested on one foot, the air of someone not banished—but observing. Like the court was just another page in a book he already knew the ending to.
Priscilla blinked.
And then—
His eyes met hers.
Perfectly.
Casually.
As if he'd been waiting for her to look.
Her breath stuttered.
She didn't move.
Didn't react.
But—
Wink!
He winked.
A single, unhurried blink of one eye. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing crude.
Just—
Audacity.
Pure, distilled audacity in a flick of a lash.
Her fingers tightened on her goblet.
Her balance swayed.
For a terrifying moment, she thought she'd drop the damn glass.
'He really is someone strange.'
Because he wasn't smirking.
He wasn't mocking.
He was—
enjoying himself.
Like none of what had just unfolded—Rowen's fury, Lucien's silence, the full dissection of a political bloodline—had bruised him in the slightest.
And worse?
She could feel the corner of her mouth—
Twitch.
Not a smile.
Not quite.
But the beginning of something dangerous.
Something amused.
And before she could stop herself—
She looked away.
Not to retreat.
To recover.
Because Lucavion hadn't just dismantled her brother.
He had—somehow, impossibly—disarmed her.
*****
Lucavion sipped from his glass, letting the fine wine linger on his tongue—not for taste, but for texture. It was too sweet, too indulgent. Nobility liked their vices soft and saccharine.
He preferred something with bite.
Still, the weight of it was satisfying. It grounded him.
Around him, the music swelled like polite denial. A lullaby for scandal. The nobles danced with careful steps and false laughter, pretending nothing had happened. Pretending Lucien hadn't been peeled back like gilded fruit and left raw before them.
Lucavion leaned slightly against the marble column, the coolness of the stone pressing into his shoulder. His gaze drifted lazily across the hall—not watching, not judging.
Just… enjoying.
The silence within him stretched like silk—clean, untarnished, victorious.
Until—
[Now you have done it. Was that really worth it?]
Chapter 797: Crown and Loneliness (2)
[Now you have done it. Was that really worth it?]
Vitaliara's voice echoed in his mind. Soft. Steady. Disappointed.
Lucavion didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just kept sipping.
'Yep. Didn't you see the look on his face?'
He smirked behind the rim of the glass.
[Lucavion.]
There was that slight edge in her tone. Not anger. Concern, tempered by something older. Wearier.
[I did. And it was not good. He was ready to kill you.]
Lucavion exhaled slowly through his nose. Not annoyed. Just… humored.
'He always was,' he thought, setting the glass down gently on the edge of the stone. 'He just never had a reason until now.'
[That is not clever.]
'I'm not trying to be clever.'
[You're provoking him.]
'I'm provoking the idea of him. There's a difference.'
[He doesn't see that difference.]
Lucavion's gaze drifted back toward the center of the hall. Toward Lucien. Still stiff. Still standing. Still surrounded by silence thicker than any courtly applause.
'He does now.'
For a breath, neither of them spoke. Not aloud. Not in thought. Just the hum of strings and the careful laughter of the damned.
Then—
[You do realize what comes next, don't you?]
Lucavion nodded once to no one.
'Of course. That was the point.'
A pause.
[And you're ready for it?]
Another sip. He let it wash over him.
The answer, when it came, was not cocky.
It was quiet.
'Let him come.'
[Vitaliara sighed.]
It wasn't sharp. Wasn't scolding. Just tired.
[But you're all alone again.]
Lucavion's smile didn't falter. He let the silence stretch a moment longer before he shrugged—light, almost indifferent.
'Not all alone. I still have you to talk to, don't I?'
[That's not the same.]
'Isn't it?'
He glanced toward the clusters of nobles laughing a little too loudly, sipping wine they didn't like, trading words that meant nothing. Their movements were rehearsed. Eyes sharp, not for truth—but for leverage.
'Honestly, it's better than entertaining that parade of silk-throated vultures. I've never had much taste for peacocks and porcelain masks.'
[Still…]
'Now,' he said, tipping his glass once more, 'I've done myself a favor. I've filtered the field.'
He gestured subtly to the room with a slight tilt of his chin.
'The ones who wanted to approach me for profit, for whispers, for the shine of novelty—they'll vanish. Good. Let them.'
[So what's left?]
'Guts,' he murmured. 'Honor. Or maybe desperation. But they'll have to mean it now. No more hollow smiles. No more velvet daggers.'
He turned his gaze toward the far end of the ballroom, where the light faded just enough to blur intentions.
'Only those who have the spine to walk through fire will come to speak to me now.'
A pause.
Then he chuckled, soft and low.
'If no one does…'
He looked up at the chandelier, golden light catching just faintly in his eyes.
'Then it's a pity.'
Another sip.
'For the Empire.'
Lucavion's eyes lingered on the chandelier a moment longer, then dropped—slowly—back to the people.
The masks were back on. The laughs had returned. But none of it mattered.
Not anymore.
'If those in power,' he thought, the taste of wine forgotten, 'if those who hold responsibility can only bow their heads when someone stronger snarls…'
His jaw tightened—not visibly, but just enough for the truth to press between his teeth.
'Then screw this world.'
He wasn't angry.
He was done.
With the performance. With the games. With the pretense that strength and justice had anything to do with one another.
'If justice only bends to power,' he mused, eyes trailing over polished boots and jewel-draped collars, 'then what's the point of submitting?'
The nobles hadn't condemned Reynard.
Not until it was safe.
Not until someone stronger had made the first move.
Lucien hadn't protected Priscilla.
Not because she didn't matter.
But because she was an easier pawn than the shame of being challenged.
And the professors, the guards, the voices of the Empire? They had all waited. Measured. Calculated.
Not one of them moved until the tide shifted.
'They call it politics,' Lucavion thought. 'I call it cowardice.'
He didn't need the applause.
He didn't crave allegiance.
What he needed—was clarity.
And now he had it.
The Empire bowed to power.
Not truth. Not principle. Not conviction.
Just power.
'Then let them fear it,' he thought. 'If that's all they understand—then I'll speak their language. Louder. Sharper. Unmistakably.'
Because he wasn't here to win favor.
He was here to make sure that next time, when another "commoner" stood alone—
They wouldn't be.
And if that meant burning the rules to light the way?
So be it.
*****
The crystal goblet in Valeria's hand remained untouched, the wine within it catching the chandelier's glow like garnet frozen in time. Around her, the voices of the nobles began to rise—not in celebration, but in low, shocked confusion, like wind stirring after lightning strikes too close.
"…did he mean to do that?"
"I think he did. It wasn't a mistake."
"He stared down Lucien. In public. In that way—"
"Madness. Absolute—"
"But he didn't falter. And did you see the Headmaster? He didn't interrupt. He let it happen."
The chatter circled her like coiled threads, each more incredulous than the last. Lord Bartolini's face was pale from too much wine and too little certainty, while Lady Fiorenza pressed her fingers to her mouth like someone watching a masquerade turn into a duel.
Eventually, one of them turned to Valeria—she wasn't even sure who, perhaps Ameline, perhaps someone new entirely. The voice felt distant.
"Lady Olarion," they said carefully. "What… do you make of it?"
Valeria blinked once. Not visibly caught off guard—but internally? She felt that familiar, infuriating tangle.
Because Lucavion had done it again.
He had broken the rules—shattered them, really—at a table meant for diplomacy and performance. The very same way he had at Andelheim, when he challenged the Cloud Heavens Sect to their faces in open combat, uncaring of the risks or politics. And just like then, it should have ended badly.
It still might.
Going against the Crown Prince?
What in the stars' names was he thinking?
She lifted her gaze slightly, watching the aftermath settle in the hall like dust after a collapse. Lucien was gone from view—his retinue thinned, his supporters hushed. But Lucavion? He was still standing. Still present. Like the storm hadn't even brushed him.
And he didn't gloat. He didn't strut.
He simply was.
Valeria's fingers tightened ever so slightly around her glass.
Because part of her—the trained, political part—was screaming. What he'd done was reckless. Stupid. It placed a target squarely on his back. It would cost him allies, paint him as volatile, dangerous—
But the other part?
The part forged not in salons but in field camps, in war councils, in battlefield silence before the charge?
That part respected it.
Because only he would do this.
Only he would take a place built to bind and use it to challenge the very structure that gave it power.
She looked back at the nobles around her. Their expectant faces. Their nervous glances.
And in the end, her answer came out low. Cool. Measured.
"…he always does what no one else dares."
Chapter 798: Dare ?
The conversation swelled again, no longer whispers but deliberate observations—each veiled enough to dodge accusation, yet sharp enough to draw blood.
"He really did it," murmured Lord Halder, his voice coated in disbelief. "I've never seen anyone speak like that to him."
"To him, in public," added Lady Grendale, eyes wide behind her gilded fan. "With proof, no less. Gods, he even mocked him."
"And he's still breathing," someone else muttered.
Valeria didn't join the noise at first. She let them ripple around her, like eddies circling a deeper current. But they were watching her now—not just as a noblewoman, but as someone who knew him. A potential translator for the incomprehensible.
She sighed softly and spoke—deliberately.
"He did go a bit far," she admitted. "All those underhanded remarks. The mockery. The showmanship."
A few nodded, half-relieved someone had said it.
"But," she continued, "he backed his words with evidence."
That stilled them. A beat. A visible shift.
Lord Sylvain frowned. "And that's what makes it worse. Or better, depending on where you stand."
Lady Ameline shook her head. "The Crown Prince vouched for him—Reynard. With all his grace and titles. And he was wrong."
"To think he vouched for a scumbag like that…" Lord Bartolini's voice dipped into contempt. "And publicly. I never thought people like that existed in our society—"
"They do," Valeria cut in, her voice quieter than before, but all the more final for it. "They've always existed. The only difference now is that one of them got caught."
There was a flicker in the air—interest shifting direction. Not away from Lucavion, but toward her.
Toward Valeria.
Eyes sharpened. Smiles thinned into something more curated. And then—
"Indeed," Lord Sylvain said, his tone laced with a measured politeness. "Lady Olarion has been hunting such nobles for quite some time, hasn't she?"
Lady Grendale's fan fluttered once, a subtle punctuation. "Before you joined the Academy, I believe. Under Marquis Vendor's direction, no?"
The implication hung lightly, like perfume in a closed room.
Valeria's expression did not shift. But inwardly, she noted the shift in posture—how several of them leaned just a little closer. Not with aggression. With interest. A tentative bridge extended across icy waters.
They were probing.
Not accusing.
Not yet.
But the undercurrent was clear: We remember what you were doing before all this. We know who benefits when Vendor's reach grows.
She set her glass down—quietly. Deliberately.
"Yes," she replied, her voice cool and composed. "I did."
She let the silence stretch—just enough to test them.
"And unlike Reynard Crane," she added, "the ones I brought down didn't need a recording to prove their guilt. They confessed. Or they ran."
Lord Bartolini chuckled, but it was the strained sort—more performance than pleasure. "Yes, well… such men do tend to run when they realize a sword is bearing down."
Lady Ameline tilted her head slightly. "Still… it must be said. Marquis Vendor has become quite active in recent years. His reach, even here, is starting to feel… prominent."
Another attempt. Polite, veiled. Suggestive.
Valeria's smile, when it came, was faint. Calculated.
"Justice isn't a matter of reach," she said. "It's a matter of follow-through. Most nobles fear exposure. Vendor simply ensured it wasn't optional."
The air shifted again—but this time, colder. Less curious. More cautious.
The ladies of the inner court—those born into silver cradles and dressed in silk not for beauty, but for armor—stiffened. Not overtly. Just the slightest narrowing of eyes. A sharper tilt of the chin. The smile that tightened instead of softened.
Lady Verisse, known for her delicate reputation and ruthless circles, lowered her teacup with a soft clink.
"My, Lady Olarion," she said lightly. "One might almost think you were threatening us."
The words were a ribbon dipped in honey—but it was the kind that wrapped around a throat.
Valeria didn't flinch. But she felt the shift. Saw the ripple in the corners of their eyes, the stiffening of shoulders. The mask of civility had cracked—just a sliver—but enough.
Tension bloomed, quiet and sharp.
Lady Ameline opened her mouth, perhaps to redirect, but Lord Sylvain beat her to it.
"Let's not mistake caution for confrontation," he said with an awkward laugh. "Surely Lady Olarion meant no such thing."
Valeria lifted her hand slightly—graceful, dismissive. A calming gesture, not submissive.
"It's fine," she said, her tone unbothered. "We may speak freely."
Still, the unease remained. The velvet air had become brittle.
And then, from Lady Verisse again, voice softer now, but no less edged:
"If your justice extends to anyone, then I suppose it doesn't matter how highborn the offender is, does it?"
A question, but not a question.
Valeria met her eyes squarely. Cool. Unmoving.
"Are you implying," she asked, voice quiet and dangerous, "that I only draw my sword for the strong?"
Lady Verisse blinked once. Her lips parted slightly, then closed again. "I don't imply that," she said.
But the pause had been just long enough.
Valeria didn't let the silence stretch. Her voice followed—measured, not defensive.
"Good. Because I never have."
Another pause. The weight of her gaze didn't lift.
"I have never swung my sword with the intention of gaining favors. Nor do I plan to."
The words settled like steel cooled in water. No fire. No theatrics.
Her words settled like steel cooled in water. No fire. No theatrics.
But even as the last syllable left her lips, something cold and unfamiliar began to press against her ribs.
Doubt.
Small, quiet—but persistent. A whisper threading itself through the armor of certainty she had wrapped so carefully around herself.
Have I really never swung my sword for favor?
The question should have felt absurd. Offense-worthy, even. But it lingered.
Would she have struck down Reynard Vale if Lucavion hadn't stepped forward first? Could she have drawn her blade in front of the entire court—against a man the Crown Prince himself had shielded?
And if Lucien had been the one standing where Reynard had stood…
Would she?
Would she truly?
Could she watch her family's name be dragged into ruin, Olarion's legacy stripped bare, just for the sake of justice?
Would she still call herself a knight then?
The thought gnawed deeper than any insult could.
And as if conjured from the shadows of her doubt, another voice slid into the circle—measured, but far from innocent.
"Well then, Lady Olarion," said Lord Halder, eyes gleaming with calculated interest, "if your sword is unbound by favor… why didn't you act today?"
A hush bloomed again—quieter this time. Not silence, but something far more piercing.
Judgment.
Lady Grendale leaned in slightly, her fan half-lowered now, her expression speculative. "It's a fair question. Reynard Vale was exposed. The Crown Prince's bias laid bare. And yet…"
"…you stood still," Lady Verisse finished, voice sweet with implication.
Valeria's spine remained straight, but her pulse had shifted—tightened.
She could feel the weight of their curiosity settling on her like frost.
"We all remember Andelheim," Lord Bartolini added, his tone light but his meaning anything but. "That year's Vendor Marital Tournament was… memorable, wasn't it?"
"Oh yes," Lady Ameline murmured. "Wasn't it there we first saw you and the boy… what was his name again?"
"Lucavion," Grendale supplied. "The same Lucavion who just brought the Crown Prince to heel with nothing but his words and a recording spell."
A pause.
Then Verisse, quietly, "You were close. Back then."
The implication wasn't lewd. It was worse.
It was intentional.
They weren't merely accusing her of sentiment.
They were building a pattern.
And now the lines were clear: Valeria, the noble huntress of Vendor's justice—had stood still. In the one moment where justice, untempered, might have demanded she act.
Why didn't you move?
The question didn't come from them anymore.
It came from within.
Valeria's fingers tightened ever so slightly at her sides, the weight of her unspoken thoughts heavier than any blade she'd ever lifted.