Lucien's POV
Power is a patient thing.
It slithers, it coils, it waits until the prey is distracted, until the predator's teeth are at the throat. I have waited for years in this castle, watching Adrian stumble beneath the weight of a crown that should have been mine. Watching him rule as if his calm composure and quiet strength make him untouchable.
But tonight… tonight I saw a crack.
The wolf left, but the stench of him lingered in the halls like rot. And Adrian my dear, noble cousin had not been the same since their meeting. His face betrayed little, but I knew him too well. He carried something behind his eyes, something he thought he could hide. Desire. Shame. Weakness.
And weakness… that was where I thrived.
I paced the balcony overlooking the council chamber, my hands clasped behind my back. Below, the remnants of the day's arguments still clung to the air like smoke.
The wolf had stormed out, his council in tow, leaving fury and insult in his wake. I should have been pleased, it should have given Adrian reason to despise him. Yet instead, Adrian vanished with him, alone. And when he returned…
He returned looking altered. Disheveled, unsettled, his voice carrying an edge I had not heard in years.
Something had passed between them, I was certain. Not words of peace. Not the tidy negotiations of kingdoms. Something darker.
And I would find out what.
Later that evening, I slipped through the corridors like a shadow. Adrian had retreated to his chambers, dismissing the court early, claiming exhaustion. That alone was unlike him. He thrived on endless nights, on meticulous planning and long discussions.
To dismiss us so abruptly only confirmed what I already suspected, he needed solitude because he was rattled.
I paused outside his door, pressing my ear to the carved wood. Silence. Then the faint scrape of a chair, the rustle of parchment.
Perhaps he was reading. Or perhaps he was staring at nothing, replaying whatever passed between him and the wolf.
A low growl escaped my throat. The very thought disgusted me.
How could he, our king, our symbol of restraint, of supremacy stoop so low as to entangle himself with that barbaric creature?
Did he not see how dangerous it was? Did he not see that such indulgence could fracture the very kingdom he claimed to protect?
Or did he simply not care?
I withdrew before the guards could notice my lingering. Let Adrian think himself untouchable, I would not confront him directly, not yet. No, patience would serve me better. A serpent does not strike while the prey still has strength. It waits for fatigue, for distraction, for weakness.
And Adrian had shown me all three.
The next morning, I joined the court as usual. My role, as ever, was that of the dutiful cousin, the watchful advisor. I bowed when required, I offered measured opinions, I played my part as the loyal servant of the throne.
But my eyes never left Adrian.
He entered the chamber later than usual, crown slightly askew, robes drawn carelessly over his shoulders. Only I noticed. Only I would dare notice. His expression was schooled into serenity, but his eyes, ah, his eyes betrayed him. They carried shadows, restless and haunted.
The council spoke of trade, of border disputes, of ravens received from Blackthorn. Adrian listened, nodded, even offered small corrections, but his mind was elsewhere. I could see it in the way his fingers tapped absently against the table, in the way his gaze drifted when he thought no one was looking.
And once, just once, his eyes flicked to the door, as though he expected someone to enter. Someone who never came.
The wolf.
My suspicions hardened into certainty.
As the meeting dispersed, I lingered. Adrian rose from his seat, prepared to leave, but I stepped closer, my voice smooth as silk.
"You seem… troubled, cousin."
He paused, his back to me, his shoulders rigid. "I am tired. Nothing more."
"Mm." I tilted my head, studying him.
"Strange. You've ruled tirelessly for years, yet now you suddenly discover fatigue? One might think something, or someone weighs upon you."
His head snapped toward me then, eyes flashing. But he said nothing. He never does when I prod too close. Silence is his shield, and he wields it well.
I smiled. "Be careful, Adrian. Even kings are allowed to be human, but humanity has its dangers. A single misplaced attachment can topple empires."
His jaw tightened. "You speak as though you know something."
"Do I need to?" I let the words drip with insinuation. "The wolf has already given us cause enough for mistrust. If you allow him closer, he will sink his fangs into this kingdom's throat. And if you allow him closer still…" I let my gaze trail deliberately over him, "…he will sink them into yours."
For a heartbeat, silence burned between us. Then Adrian turned away, dismissing me with a flick of his hand.
"Leave, Lucien. I've heard enough."
But I saw it. In the faint twitch of his fingers, in the flicker of his breath. I saw the truth: I had struck a nerve.
Later, in the solitude of my own chambers, I poured myself a goblet of bloodwine and considered my next move.
Adrian believed himself a master of control, but control is a fragile thing. A single passion, a single desire, could unravel it completely. And he was unraveling, thread by thread, before my very eyes.
If I could not yet seize the throne, I could at least prepare. I could whisper in the ears of the council, remind them of the dangers of wolves and the instability of a king ruled by his heart instead of his head. I could stoke the fires of doubt until they burned bright enough to blind them to Adrian's so-called wisdom.
And when the time came, when the wolf either destroyed him or left him broken, I would be there. Ready to step in. Ready to lead.
I raised the goblet, crimson liquid gleaming in the candlelight.
"To patience," I murmured, lips curling into a smile. "And to weakness."
But even as I drank, I could not shake the image of Adrian's eyes when I'd accused him. That flicker of something raw, something almost… tender.
I hated it. I hated him for it. And yet, deep down, I almost admired the wolf. For he had done what I could not. He had made Adrian falter.
And that falter would be the first stone in his downfall.