The knock came only once.
Arrogant. Certain.
The kind of knock that belonged to someone who never expected to be refused.
The servant flinched. "Your Highness—"
"Open it," he said.
His voice was still weak, but it was steady.
She hesitated only a heartbeat before obeying.
The heavy stone door slid open to reveal a young man dressed in embroidered crimson robes, dragon-thread stitched into the cuffs. His posture was lazy, his smile sharp. Behind him stood two guards in silver armor, their gazes already dismissive.
The Second Prince's attendant.
Officially.
Unofficially, his master's eyes and knife.
The attendant inclined his head in a mock bow. "Your Highness, the Second Prince sends his regards."
Liar.
The Second Prince sent warnings, not regards.
"I heard you collapsed," the attendant continued, stepping inside without permission. "The palace was quite entertained."
The servant clenched her fists.
The Third Prince said nothing.
He stood with support from the bed frame, back straight despite the trembling in his legs. His black hair framed a pale face—but his eyes were calm. Too calm.
That unsettled the attendant.
"I'm here on my lord's behalf," he said, clearing his throat. "After your… performance at the ceremony, concerns have arisen."
"Concerns?" the prince echoed softly.
"Yes. A royal who cannot resonate with dragonblood brings shame to the dynasty." The attendant smiled thinly. "His Highness worries for your safety."
Of course he does.
"In the interest of preserving harmony," the attendant continued, "the Second Prince suggests you withdraw from court affairs. Permanently."
The meaning was clear.
Exile.
Or death disguised as mercy.
The servant stepped forward. "You cannot—"
The prince raised a hand.
She froze.
His gaze never left the attendant. "And if I refuse?"
The attendant laughed. "Refuse? Your Highness, you misunderstand your position."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You are a prince without fangs. A dragon without fire. Even servants pity you."
Silence fell.
Then—
The Third Prince smiled.
Not weak.
Not nervous.
Cold.
"I see," he said. "Then tell my brother this."
The attendant arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I will withdraw," the prince continued calmly. "From his expectations."
The servant sucked in a sharp breath.
The attendant's smile faltered. "What does that mean?"
"It means," the prince said, meeting his eyes, "that if I die, the court will remember the Second Prince's concern."
The air thickened.
That was not a threat shouted.
It was a statement.
Measured.
Deliberate.
The attendant stared at him, suddenly unsure.
"…Are you accusing His Highness?"
"No," the prince replied softly. "I am informing you."
He took a step forward.
His legs shook.
But he didn't stop.
"For now, I will remain in the palace," he continued. "I will attend ceremonies. I will live."
A pause.
"And if an accident occurs—poison, illness, falling debris—"
His eyes hardened.
"I promise my death will be loud."
The guards shifted uneasily.
This was not the broken prince they expected.
The attendant forced a smile, though sweat beaded at his temple. "You speak boldly for someone so… fragile."
"Yes," the prince agreed. "Which is why you will leave."
Silence.
Then the attendant bowed stiffly. "I will convey your words."
He turned sharply and left.
The door shut.
The servant collapsed to her knees, trembling. "Your Highness… that was dangerous."
He exhaled slowly, gripping the bed as his strength gave out.
"Yes," he said. "But necessary."
He sat back down, chest heaving.
In the palace, weakness invited slaughter.
But unpredictability?
That bought time.
As the servant helped him lie back down, his gaze drifted to the ceiling.
I've drawn a line.
Not in fire.
Not yet.
But in blood.
And blood, in this world, always answered.
Deep inside his sealed core, the black-gold warmth pulsed once.
Slow.
Patient.
Like a dragon opening one eye.