The corridors of House Ardelion stretched wide, hung with banners that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Deep crimson silk bore the crest of his line: a silver phoenix rising from flame. Once, Lucian had looked upon that emblem with childish pride.
Now, it looked like a cruel jest.
The phoenix had not risen. It had burned, and the ashes had been scattered by laughing hands.
Lucian walked the hall slowly, fingers brushing the stone. The walls smelled faintly of wax and polished wood, but beneath it he sensed the rot. His memories whispered of servants who would one day sell secrets, guards who would abandon their posts when coin clinked louder than loyalty, and ministers who smiled now only to carve daggers later.
"Brother?"
Elara's voice pulled him from thought.
She approached with her usual grace, silver-blue gown sweeping the floor, every step measured. She was only sixteen, yet already carried herself as though the world was watching. Her beauty was the kind that turned heads in court, though Lucian knew it would also paint a target on her back.
"You look troubled." She tilted her head, studying him. "Is something wrong?"
Lucian masked the storm inside with practiced ease. "Only tired. The council gathers today, doesn't it?"
Her lips curved faintly. "Yes. Father insists on reminding everyone of our standing. As though words can bind loyalty where fear loosens it."
Lucian's chest tightened at her tone. She had always been perceptive—too perceptive. In another life, her sharp tongue had been used against her, her confidence turned into "arrogance" in whispers that spread like wildfire until her marriage sealed her fate.
"Speak less freely in the halls," he murmured.
Her brows rose. "Since when do you play the cautious one?"
"Since I've learned that walls have ears," he replied, voice quiet but firm.
She studied him a moment longer, eyes narrowing, as though searching for the boy she knew. He forced himself to hold her gaze with calm steadiness.
At last she laughed softly, though not unkindly. "Perhaps you're finally learning."
If only she knew.
The council chamber brimmed with tension.
Lucian stood beside his siblings as their father, Emperor Kael, presided from the high seat. Nobles and ministers filled the benches, their silks rustling, their jewels glittering. But Lucian's eyes did not see wealth or dignity.
He saw snakes.
There was Chancellor Malrik Veynar, face smooth and unreadable, robes cut in sharp black. To the court, he was a loyal servant. To Lucian's memory, he was the spider who wove every silken thread that strangled the Ardelions.
There was Duke Renard Kaldros, heavyset and smiling broadly, laughter booming as though he were everyone's friend. But Lucian remembered the smug curve of his lips as Lucian knelt in chains, the whispered bargain he had struck for Ardelion lands.
And beyond them, scattered through the chamber, lesser lords and ladies. Some swayed with whichever wind promised power. Others despised House Ardelion openly, waiting only for weakness to bare their fangs.
Kael spoke, his voice steady but worn. He praised loyalty, demanded vigilance, declared that the empire's strength rested on unity.
Lucian listened in silence, but what struck him most was not his father's words—it was the absence of weight behind them. The Emperor still believed he commanded loyalty by birthright, blind to the fact that the nobles already bartered his crown in whispers.
Lucian's gaze swept the chamber. He could almost hear their thoughts: The Ardelions grow weak. Their coffers thin. Their influence wanes.
And worst of all—he remembered what he had not seen at fifteen. The way servants traded looks with ministers, the way messages slipped from hand to hand, the way Chancellor Veynar's expression never once flickered with respect for his father.
The house was already crumbling. He had been too blind then to notice the cracks.
Not this time.
When the council ended, Lucian lingered near the pillars, pretending disinterest while ears sharpened. Nobles muttered as they filed out.
"…the Emperor speaks, but the treasury bleeds dry…""…and what of the academy placements? If his son fails again, their line falters further…""…House Ardelion has phoenixes on their banners, but they've grown more like dying embers."
Lucian's hand clenched behind his back. Dying embers…
He caught Malrik's voice then, low, smooth. The Chancellor was speaking to Duke Renard, the two men's steps slow as they left the chamber.
"…patience. A house does not fall in one day. But a single spark can guide the fire."
"And the spark?" Renard asked.
Lucian's blood chilled.
Malrik smiled thinly. "We wait. The boy is young. Young princes make mistakes."
Lucian lowered his eyes, masking the fury that surged. They had already marked him as the weak link. They had already planned to use him.
Not this time.
That evening, Lucian returned to his chambers with a weight heavy on his chest. He lit a candle and unfurled his parchment again. The web of names grew. More threads connected, more faces marked.
This house, his family, had once been his world. He had trusted that crest on the banner, that phoenix. He had believed loyalty was enough.
Now he saw the truth.
House Ardelion was already a house of ashes.
But from ashes, fire could rise again.
Lucian dipped his quill, his hand steady though his eyes burned with cold resolve.
"If fire is what they want…" he whispered, "then fire is what they'll have."
And with each line drawn, each name circled, the boy once blind to betrayal began building the mind of a predator.
The House of Ashes would not fall again—not while Lucian Ardelion lived to weave his own web.