Music drifted down the eastern corridor long before Emperor Carlos reached the door.
Not court music, nothing as ceremonial or restrained as that may have been, but something lighter. A delightful melody, one that rose and dipped like gulls over the harbor. Playful and bright, threaded with wind.
Carlos paused for a moment outside the lacquered doors of Prince Victor's chambers and listened. If he were being honest, the Emperor much preferred this over the incessant chatter of the weekly finance meeting that he just walked out of.
The notes were accompanied by laughter. A laughter that the man was slowly becoming accustomed to. A particular kind of sound that only one person in the palace seemed to be capable of producing.
He knocked only once.
"Enter!" Came the reply from beyond the door, smooth and unbothered.
The room itself was already less a chamber and more of a studio. An area where sunlight spilled in through tall windows, stirring linen curtains that fluttered unnaturally by wind shaped by magic rather than weather. Sheets of music were scattered across a wide desk. A lute lay abandoned on a velvet chair. A polished pianoforte stood open near the balcony doors. And a silver flute hovered in the air before its master, turning slowly as if considering its next phrase.
Victor Rego de Messena, Second Prince of the Empire, stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled, hair falling artfully into his eyes.
The boy looked up, and Carlos saw instantly saw himself in his son's face.
Not the emperor he had become, carved into restraint and ceremony, but the young man he once was. The same dark hair, the same easy smile, the same bright, unguarded confidence that made people lean closer without realizing they had done so.
Out of all his children, this one looked the most like him. So much so that the man himself had to wonder how no one managed to put the pieces together until recently. It was like looking into a mirror, one that managed to perfectly capture the boy he once was. Back before duty and responsibility had taken their toll on him.
Victor grinned upon seeing his father. "Your Majesty."
There was respect in the words, but mischief in the tone.
Carlos allowed himself a small smile. "Must we begin there?"
Victor tilted his head, amused. "I suppose not."
The boy dismissed the floating flute with a flick of his fingers, causing it to settle gently onto the desk. "Father, then."
The word landed softly between them.
Carlos stepped fully inside. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"You are. But only because I was stuck." He then gestured toward the scattered sheets placed haphazardly across the floor. "The second verse refuses to cooperate. It insists on being tragic."
"And you disagree?"
"I prefer something hopeful. Sure, tragedy sells these days, but hope lingers."
Carlos crossed the room slowly, careful not to disturb the ordered chaos. "May I?"
Victor blinked in mild surprise but handed him a page.
The melody was clever, that much was true. Light on its surface, yet layered beneath. Carlos could almost hear the tunes woven into the structure of it, the way certain notes were meant to be carried farther than others, designed for open-air performance. Designed for crowds.
"You've written for the harbor festivals before." Carlos observed.
Victor's expression brightened as he leaned back against the desk. "Twice. Under a pseudonym. But I do wonder if anyone would've treated the songs differently if they knew it came from a prince."
"And?"
"They certainly will this time." Victor said simply. "Especially since everything is so different now."
He did not sound bitter. Only thoughtful.
Carlos set the page down. "Are you unhappy with that?"
Victor considered the question seriously, more seriously than Carlos expected.
"No." He said at last. "I like the palace. I like the attention. I like that people listen. And I have no intention of pretending otherwise."
Honesty. Unashamed. Exactly the kind of thing to expect from a boy who was all of seventeen years old.
Carlos felt something loosen in his chest. Of all his children, Victor seemed least displaced by his sudden elevation. If anything, he seemed naturally accustomed to it. He moved through court like he had been born to it, laughing with young nobles, charming ministers' daughters, and complimenting even the older duchesses with effortless grace. The boy had the kind of natural charisma that people only dream about having. And his good looks certainly did him more favors than anyone would say out loud.
"You've adjusted quickly, I'll give you that." Carlos said.
Victor laughed lightly. "I was raised backstage in theaters and salons. Courtiers are less dramatic than actors, I assure you. Though not by much."
Carlos chuckled despite himself.
Victor's mother was a famous actress, one whom many around the nation adored. So his affinity for the pageantry that was the royal court wasn't totally unexpected. Back when Carlos had met her, the woman was still just a struggling artist trying to make her way in life. Nowadays, she was the talk of the town. Something that the Emperor was glad to know, although he would never admit that part out loud to anyone.
The wind stirred again around Victor's shoulders, playful and obedient. It caught a loose strand of his hair and lifted it back from his eyes. Not a display of power, merely comfort. The magic responded to him like a companion. The boy was a remarkably talented wind mage. And the fact that he could use it to further bolster his musical talents only showed how good he was with it.
"You control it well. Your powers, I mean." Carlos said, nodding to the air.
Victor shrugged. "It likes music. Wind carries sound. I simply ask it to help. But I do wonder what I could've done if I had been born a fire mage like you."
"It is an interesting thought experiment, isn't it?"
"It is. However, it does explain quite a bit about you now that I think about it."
"Oh?" The man raised an eyebrow at that statement. "Like such as?"
Victor smiled, almost shyly now. "Why you burn so brightly in public."
Carlos stilled.
It was not flattery. It was an observation.
Victor stepped closer, studying him with frank curiosity. "I've watched you at court these past few days. You know precisely when to smile. When to pause. When to let silence speak. It's a performance, but a sincere one."
Carlos had been called many things in his life. Calculated. Charismatic. Formidable.
He had never been so gently understood.
"Rulership is not a performance." The man said carefully.
Victor's brows lifted. "And according to my mother, everything before an audience is."
The words were not cynical. They were simple truths from someone raised among stages and velvet curtains.
Carlos studied his son in return.
He remembered the days of his youth. Restless, adored, and convinced that admiration was proof of worth. He remembered believing charm was kindness, that desire was devotion, that intensity could substitute for constancy.
He remembered leaving.
"I hear that you've become quite popular over the last few weeks." Carlos said quietly.
Victor's smile returned, a touch self-aware this time. "So I'm told."
"And you enjoy it."
"I'm not going to lie and say that I don't." Victor's tone was open, unashamed. But not arrogant in any discernible way. "It feels… good. To be seen. To be wanted."
There it was.
The same hunger Carlos had once carried like a banner.
"There is danger in that, you know." Carlos said.
Victor did not bristle. "In being liked?"
"In mistaking it for love."
The wind in the room softened.
Victor tilted his head, considering his father's words before giving his response. "Is that a warning from an emperor or from a father?"
Carlos met his gaze fully.
"From a man who learned too late that admiration fades far more quickly than consequence."
Silence settled, not heavy, but attentive.
Victor's expression shifted. The easy charm remained, but something deeper surfaced beneath it. "You mean my mother?"
It was not an accusation. It was understanding.
Carlos inclined his head. "I cared for her."
"I know." Victor said softly. "She never spoke ill of you."
That, at least, was mercy. And it was much better than what he had received from Caterina's mother.
"But at the end of the day, you still left." Victor added, not cruelly. Simply stating a fact.
"Yes."
The word tasted like iron.
Victor exhaled, folding his arms loosely. "Don't worry, I don't intend to repeat your exact mistakes, Father. If that's what you're afraid of. I've watched enough romances unravel behind theater curtains to know empty infatuation when I see it."
Carlos almost smiled. "And yet?"
"And yet…" Victor admitted with a glint of mischief returning. "I am seventeen. I still have a few years of reckless mistakes left in my life before I have to be the responsible young prince that everyone expects me to be."
Despite himself, Carlos laughed.
The sound felt foreign in his own ears, unguarded and unmeasured.
Victor grinned in triumph. "There! That expression suits you better than the one you wear in council chambers."
Carlos shook his head. "You presume much."
"I like to think of it as playful observation." Victor corrected gently. "Just as you do."
For a moment, they simply regarded one another, mirror and reflection.
Of all his children, Victor was the one Carlos understood instinctively. The thrill of applause. The seduction of being admired. The belief that one could move through hearts lightly and leave no damage behind.
But damage was rarely loud at first.
"In any case, you are a prince now." Carlos said as he tried to sound a bit more serious. "Your choices will echo farther than they once did."
Victor nodded. "So will yours."
The reminder was not insolent. Only fair.
Carlos moved toward the balcony, taking a moment to look out over the palace gardens where, earlier, Anna had sat in sunlight beside her dragon. Beyond that, the city shimmered against the sea. White towers obstruct the view of the forest just beyond the horizon.
"This empire forgives charm." The man then said. "But remember that it does not forgive scandal."
Victor joined him at the railing. "Is that concern for the throne or for me?"
Carlos answered without hesitation. "For you."
The wind stilled entirely.
Victor studied his father, searching, perhaps, for calculation. For distance. But after finding none, he gave a small nod.
"I appreciate that." The boy said with a light smile that surely would've broken any young woman in the nation. "And I promise not to cause too much trouble."
"I would prefer you not to cause any trouble at all."
"No guarantees."
Carlos sighed, but there was warmth in it.
Inside, the scattered sheets rustled as a breeze returned, gentle and cooperative. Victor stepped back toward the pianoforte and rested his fingers on the keys.
"Since you're already here…" He said casually. "Tell me if the second verse still sounds tragic."
It was not a plea. Not quite. It was an invitation.
Carlos hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding. And Victor began to play.
The melody unfolded again, but this time the second verse shifted. It rose instead of falling, the wind lifting it higher, carrying it toward something unresolved but bright.
Hopeful.
Carlos listened, not as emperor, not as strategist. But as a father seated quietly in his son's room while music filled the space between them.
When the final note faded, Victor looked up expectantly.
"Thoughts?"
Carlos met his eyes.
"It lingers." he said.
Victor smiled with a wide, genuine, and incandescent smile. And for a moment, Carlos felt uncomplicated pride. Yet as he left the chamber sometime later, the melody still echoing faintly behind him, unease followed in its wake.
Victor was just like him. Too much like him.
Charm opened doors. Applause forgave flaws. Wind carried words farther than intended. Carlos had once believed that being desired was the same as being loved. And he was determined not to let his son learn that lesson alone.
In the corridor, courtiers bowed as the man passed. The performance resumed; the crown settled back into place. But beneath it, quieter and more fragile than authority, was resolve.
If Victor was his reflection, then perhaps Carlos's task was not to dim the light, but to teach him where not to burn. The boy had something in him that was just as dangerous as it was inspiring. And he needed to make sure that such a gift properly flourished in a way that wouldn't cause too much drama in the future.