Lucien's POV
"I've told you time without number not to act reckless," Mother hissed, her voice cutting through the hall like the blade of a dagger.
The echo of her heels was sharp, furious, a queen's wrath wrapped in silk. "Have you completely lost your senses, Lucien?"
I said nothing.
The council doors closed behind us with a deep thud, swallowing the whispers of the elders. The air between us was heavy, the scent of old wood and incense pressing down like judgment itself.
"You stood before the court, before him, and dared to challenge the king like a common fool!" she continued. "Do you intend to draw suspicion upon yourself? Do you think this is a game?"
Her tone was icy, precise, the kind of anger that didn't need to shout to wound. I clenched my jaw, biting back the bitterness that threatened to spill.
"Mother..." I began.
"Silence."
She turned, her crimson gown sweeping the marble like spilled wine. "I have taught you to be patient. To be strategic." Her eyes cold, green, and venomous pierced me. "And yet you behave like a dog snapping at its leash. Do you want everything I've built to crumble?"
My fists tightened at my sides. "Everything you've built?" I repeated quietly, struggling to keep the venom from my own voice. "You mean everything we've built."
Her lips curled. She stepped close, grabbed my jaw with sharp, manicured fingers, and forced my gaze to hers. The pain was quick, like a warning.
"I mean what I've built," she whispered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "And I won't let anyone ruin it. Not even you."
Her breath brushed my cheek. "If anyone tries to ruin my plan, anyone, I will bury them myself."
Then she released me, shoving my face aside with a violent grace before turning away. Her perfume, roses and iron lingered long after she was gone.
I watched her back retreat down the corridor, her figure a blur of elegance and menace. My jaw ached. My thoughts burned.
What plan does she have, besides clinging to the illusion of a throne she'll never sit on? She talks about legacy, about empire but all she wants is power. All she's ever wanted is to be the mother of the king.
And she thinks I'm reckless.
She forgets where I learned it from.
"Perhaps we could have Malrec spread rumors about His Highness," came a familiar, teasing voice behind me.
I didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Only one person in this cursed family had the audacity to walk into a storm and laugh.
Isolde.
She leaned against the doorway, a half-smile tugging at her lips. She was dressed in a black velvet cloak, her dark hair unkempt, falling over her shoulders like ink. Around her neck hung an old pendant, the kind the priests once said could ward off evil though in our family, it likely invited it.
She carried her usual rough leather satchel, worn and scratched, dangling carelessly from her fingers.
"I see you've been listening," I muttered.
"Hard not to," she said, pushing herself off the doorframe and walking in, smoke curling from her lips. "Mother's voice could raise the dead."
She held a long, silver pipe, the kind smuggled from the southern colonies, filled with crushed frostleaf. Its scent was sweet and sharp. Isolde exhaled lazily, a trail of pale smoke spiraling toward the chandeliers.
"You should be grateful," she went on, grinning. "She's angry because she cares."
I laughed dryly. "Mother doesn't care about me. She cares about her plan."
"True," Isolde admitted, blowing another puff of smoke. "But you know how she gets when her pieces start to move faster than she can control them. You're her favorite pawn, Lucien. Try not to break before the game is over."
I turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "You think this is a game?"
She smiled wider, sitting down and crossing her legs, one boot resting atop the other. "Of course it is. It's always a game. We were born into one."
Her tone softened just slightly as she leaned back. "Besides, I came to help. You looked like you were about to slit your own throat in there."
"Your help," I said slowly, "usually comes with a price."
"Relax." She rolled her eyes. "I'm only saying… why make things harder? We both know Father's dogs, Malrec and his little council of old men are still whispering in the palace walls. Why not use them?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You mean the same Malrec who worships Father's memory like scripture?"
"The same one, he's also a pawn of Valerius," she said, tapping ash into an empty chalice. "Father used him to spread rumors that nearly broke the old order, remember? He can do it again. Let him make the noise while you stay silent. Subtlety, dear brother. You might want to try it."
I stared at her for a long moment. She was infuriating, smug, careless, and far too perceptive for her own good. But she wasn't wrong.
"It's better than letting Mother see you lose control," she added. "Her patience is a myth, and you know it."
"I'll think about it," I muttered.
"Do that," she said, standing. She stretched, her cloak shifting around her like smoke. "And for the record," she said with a mischievous grin, "I missed you too."
Then she was gone leaving only the faint trace of frostleaf and a chill that crept beneath my skin.
I didn't waste time. I walked to my chamber
"Send for Malrec," I told the nearest servant. "Tell him his lucien summons him."
Minutes later, a knock came at the door.
"Enter."
The door opened with a low creak. Malrec stepped in, an old man draped in the long, ceremonial robes of the Crimson Council, embroidered with faded gold. His face was a map of wrinkles and memories, his silver beard falling neatly to his chest.
He bowed deeply, his voice gravelly. "You called for me, Your Majesty?"
I smiled faintly at the title. Your Majesty. It tasted good on the tongue like the future itself.
"Sit," I said. "We have much to discuss."
He hesitated, then obeyed, lowering himself into the chair opposite me. His eyes were sharp despite his age. The kind of eyes that had seen too many kings rise and fall.
"What is it you seek, my lord?" he asked.
"Rumors," I said simply. "I need you to start spreading them."
His brows furrowed. "Rumors?"
"Yes. About the King."
Malrec's eyes flickered, the faintest spark of alarm. "What kind of rumors, sire?"
"The kind that plant doubt," I said, leaning forward. "Tell your men that our noble King Adrian has grown… soft. That his heart bleeds for the wolves. That he hesitates to strike because he's fallen in love with one of them."
Malrec's lips parted slightly. He shook his head. "That is dangerous talk, my lord."
I smiled. "Exactly."
He hesitated again, his hands trembling slightly. "Forgive me, my lord, but I cannot act without the consent of Lord Valerius. My loyalty lies with..."
"With Valerius?" I cut him off. My voice was calm, but sharp as broken glass. "You forget that my father gave you life when it was almost over for you. And i am the rightful owner of the throne"
Malrec swallowed hard, avoiding my eyes.
I rose, slow and deliberate. "My father saved your life once, did he not?"
He froze. "Yes, my lord."
"Remind me how."
His throat worked. "I… I betrayed the High Council once. I leaked their plans to the wolves. Your father found out, but instead of killing me, he gave me a place at his side."
I smiled coldly. "And you served him well. Now serve me."
Malrec's breathing grew shallow. "If I do this..."
"You'll be protecting his legacy," I said, cutting in smoothly. "You'll be ensuring that the bloodline he believed in still reigns."
A long silence.
Then, finally, he bowed his head.
"As you command, my lord."
"Good," I said, stepping back toward the window. "Make it sound like more than rumor. Make it truth. Let every whisper carry the scent of treason. Let every name taste like fear."
Malrec rose shakily. "It will be done."
"Leave me."
He bowed low and exited quietly, the door clicking shut behind him.
I walked toward my window.
The night was ink-black, painted with clouds that devoured the moon. Across the courtyard, I could see the faint flicker of light from Adrian's chamber. He stood by his window, lost in thought, a thin curl of smoke rising from his hand.
I watched him for a long moment. That proud, haunted figure wrapped in guilt and weakness.
Pathetic.
"Count your days, my king," I whispered, a smile curling at the edge of my lips. "They are numbered."
Soon, the whispers will grow teeth.
Soon, the people will start to doubt.
And when they do, when they finally turn their eyes toward him with fear instead of reverence, I will rise.
I will become a god and the devil all at once