Chapter 783: Choice
The corridors leading to the banquet hall were too polished. The kind of pristine that didn't invite presence—it erased it. Every step Priscilla took echoed not with grace, but with warning. Her heels tapped out a rhythm that wasn't hers. Not tonight.
The hem of her gown whispered across the marble like a reluctant breath. Silver thread, muted navy silk. Regal. Restrained. As always. She had dressed as they expected—not to please, but to avoid notice. Blending into the seams of the empire, like she always had.
But fate, as it often did, had other plans.
She rounded the final bend toward the upper wing—and stopped.
She rounded the final bend toward the upper wing—and stopped.
Selienne stood alone beneath the arch of moon-crystal glass, her figure outlined in the soft gold of lanternlight. Regal, poised—flawless in the way statues are flawless. Her gown shimmered with restrained opulence, every thread humming of imperial expectation. But it was her eyes—sharp, discerning, too aware—that caught Priscilla first.
They met her like a mirror she hadn't asked to look into.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Selienne smiled.
Not warm. Not cruel.
Just perfect.
"Priscilla," she said, her voice silk over steel. "You look… appropriate."
There was a pause—barely the width of a breath—before she added, "Congratulations. On your admittance."
Priscilla inclined her head, spine taut, mouth neutral. "Thank you."
Selienne's gaze lingered—not on the dress, not on the poise, but on her eyes. Searching. Weighing.
And then the smile returned, just a shade sharper.
"Enjoy tonight," she said. "It's rare for the curtains to open on your kind of story."
She turned with the grace of someone who never needed to rush—and walked away, leaving only the faintest echo of perfume and politics in her wake.
Priscilla didn't watch her go.
She didn't need to.
The cold left behind was telling enough.
She took one breath—
—and froze again.
Because Lucien was already there.
She hadn't heard him approach.
He stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect. A portrait of princely restraint.
His eyes—those chilling, intelligent eyes—ran over her once. Not assessing. Not curious.
Just confirming.
That she was still beneath him.
"I see Selienne was playing the part," he said smoothly. "That makes sense. She's always been more charitable with the less… essential."
Priscilla said nothing.
Lucien stepped closer. Not enough to invade. Just enough to remind.
"You do understand, I hope," he said, voice low and calm, "that your presence tonight is a formality. Not an opportunity."
Priscilla's fingers clenched at her side.
Lucien's lips tilted—not quite a smirk.
"If you're wise," he continued, "you'll do what you've always done best. Stay silent. Stay still. And let your betters work."
His voice dropped another note, like cold steel against the back of her neck.
"If you embarrass yourself… if you so much as glance in a direction I disapprove of—"
He leaned slightly forward.
"—I will make your time at this academy a memory you will spend your life trying to forget."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
Because the truth in it was absolute.
He stepped past her with the same air he might pass a shadow on the floor.
And Priscilla…
She stood there.
Alone again.
Not trembling.
Not broken.
Just still.
But inside—beneath the silk, beneath the silver—something coiled tighter than ever.
The doors ahead opened with choreographed ease.
Not for her.
For him.
Lucien stepped forward, and she followed—because that was what one did when walking beside a sun. They did not shine. They did not speak. They simply survived the heat.
The steward's voice rang out into the banquet hall with all the ceremonial weight the empire could wrap in syllables.
"Announcing—His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Lucien Lysandra."
And that was it.
Just him.
Not them.
Not even her title. Not even her name.
As though she hadn't walked the same corridor, bled the same blood. As though she didn't exist at all.
She kept her face still.
Still.
The moment they stepped into the banquet, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The low hum of conversation dipped, like a tide bowing to gravity. All eyes turned.
Not toward her.
Only toward him.
Heads lowered with reverence. Some hands went to hearts. Courtiers and nobles arranged themselves like dancers waiting for their cue, every smile curated, every breath measured. The air thickened with awe.
Lucien didn't acknowledge them.
He didn't need to.
His presence was already doing the work.
And Priscilla?
She walked half a step behind, as tradition dictated.
She could feel the eyes flick over her—quick, indifferent. Some curious. Most calculating. But none respectful.
Not really.
To them, she wasn't a Princess.
She was a shadow trailing behind a coronet.
A name without weight. A legacy without favor.
And she hated that she knew it would be this way.
Hated more that it still stung.
Her gown, which had taken hours to prepare, was barely glanced at. Her posture—flawless—ignored. The nobles didn't approach her with questions. They didn't angle to stand closer. If anything, they turned slightly away, as if avoiding a seat too cold to warm.
Lucien moved through the hall like a blade gliding through silk—smooth, clean, inevitable.
She trailed him like embroidery no one had asked for.
But even still—
Her gaze flicked through the crowd, sharp and discerning.
Her gaze drifted through the banquet like a blade in its sheath—quiet, patient, but never dull.
The nobles lined the hall in elegant formations, golds and silks blooming like poisonous flowers. Sons of dukes, heirs of marquises, daughters of ministries—all of them adorned with old pride and newer ambition. Their eyes met hers.
And slid away.
Or worse—lingered.
Not in admiration. Not in recognition.
In appraisal.
The boys looked at her like she was a misplaced ornament. Pretty, perhaps, but unsanctioned. Their gazes didn't ask her name. They measured her worth against a dowry, a name, a usefulness. Not one of them bowed.
And the girls—some smiled. But not kindly.
Theirs were the smiles that said, "I know what you are. I know you don't belong."
And they weren't wrong. Not in the Empire's eyes. Not here.
The edge of her breath caught as another group passed—older daughters of Counts, arm-linked with cousins of minor royals. They bowed to Lucien, voices light, words dipped in reverence.
Then, their eyes flicked to her.
And the bow never came.
One girl gave a half-tilt of her head—barely movement at all. More acknowledgment than respect. Another allowed her lips to part in an almost-smirk. Like she was witnessing an inside joke.
'You're nothing.'
That's what their expressions said.
That's what they'd always said.
Priscilla had worn this indifference like a second skin for years. She had grown under it, folded into its cold silence, molded herself sharp enough not to bleed when it scratched.
So why?
Why did it feel different now?
Why did her skin feel too tight?
Why did her chest feel like it was caught between breath and blade?
The ballroom hadn't changed.
She hadn't changed.
And yet, as the nobles passed—each look dripping with superiority, each voice just a shade too loud when dismissing her presence—it was harder to breathe than it used to be.
As if their dismissal was crawling up her arms, under her collar, making a home in her lungs.
It should not have mattered.
It never used to.
But maybe…
That maybe was a curse, in fact….
Chapter 784: Choice (2)
Maybe it was the fact that someone had looked at her differently. Recently.
Not like she was invisible.
Not like she was pitiable.
Lucavion.
The storm-touched boy who didn't bow, who didn't flatter, who didn't even use her title properly—and yet, in that maddening irreverence, there had been something sharp. Something seeing.
He had insulted her, teased her, challenged her.
But never once… dismissed her.
And then—she saw him.
Not at the center of the hall where titles danced and toasts flowed, but in the corner, near the high-arched window where moonlight gathered like a quiet audience. He was alone, of course. Lucavion never needed a court. He made solitude look intentional.
He wasn't watching the nobles. Not truly.
His gaze—dark, pitch-black—was locked on Lucien.
Sharp. Unflinching.
Challenging.
No bow. No softening. No veil of awe like the others wore when faced with the Crown Prince. Lucavion's eyes didn't yield.
They refused.
There was something cold in that refusal, but not cruel. Calculated. Measured. Like someone marking a fault line and waiting—not to strike, but to let it break on its own.
And for a moment—barely a breath—Priscilla could see it.
The truth of what he had said to her.
"Look forward to the festival."
"You'll see a lot of interesting things."
Really?
She hadn't believed him. Not fully.
But now, watching him like this—still, calm, and yet somehow the most volatile thing in the room—she wondered.
Their eyes met.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
Lucavion's lips curved—slowly, deliberately—into a smirk. The same smirk he wore when baiting her, needling her, pulling at threads she didn't know she'd exposed.
But this time, it didn't feel mischievous.
It felt… ominous.
Like the prelude to something. A flicker of a plan already moving beneath the floorboards.
And just as quickly, he looked away.
As if nothing had passed between them at all.
Priscilla's heart gave a strange, uneven beat.
What was that?
A warning? A signal? Or just his usual chaos wrapped in too much silence?
She clenched her hand beneath the folds of her gown and forced the thought away.
No. Just my mistake.
Just his face.
Just that smile.
But it didn't sit right.
And then the lights dimmed, just slightly—enough to draw attention, enough to gather the room's breath into one unified silence.
The Headmaster stepped forward. Cloaked in ceremonial silver, voice calm and measured, bearing the weight of the academy's creed as if it were gospel carved into marble.
He spoke of tradition.
Of legacy.
Of growth and harmony between noble and common-born.
And then he said it—the words that always came, always meant to tie ribbon around rotted fruit:
"Within the bounds of this academy, all students are equal."
Priscilla nearly laughed.
Not loudly. Not visibly.
Just a soft, breathless sound buried in the back of her throat. It didn't make it past her lips—but it burned there, bitter and cold.
Equal?
Is that what this was?
She glanced around—at the sea of bodies angled toward Lucien like flowers turned toward the sun. Nobles and professors and delegates, all orbiting his presence like he was the one gravity answered to.
And her?
She stood beneath the same roof. Walked the same corridors. Wore the same crest now.
But no one approached.
No one offered a toast in her name.
No one met her gaze unless it was to measure her silence, her status, her position beside—not within—the Empire's light.
Was she equal to Lucien?
Was she equal to Selienne?
Was she equal to the sneering girl who'd barely tilted her head in acknowledgment before walking off with a Marquis' heir on her arm?
No.
And she knew it.
Because this world didn't end at the edge of the academy.
When they graduated, when the banners came down and the corridors emptied—they would return to thrones and councils and armies.
And what would she return to?
A wing of the palace no one visited.
The laughter in the hall had risen again, light and polished, every sound sculpted to impress and charm. It moved like wine—sweet, superficial, meant to blur the truth beneath its surface.
Priscilla stood at the edge of it all, a silent outline carved into the corner of empire's grandeur. The music swelled, and the nobles moved as if choreographed—not by practice, but by blood. Like it was something they'd inherited rather than learned.
She didn't join them.
But she listened.
"Oh, I heard his father's estate invested directly in the northern trade lines—he'll be untouchable next season."
"I know, and did you see how gracious the Crown Prince was to the chancellor's daughter? So tactful, so refined."
"Truly—he's the image of the Empire's future. He makes everyone else fade, doesn't he?"
They spoke of politics the way poets spoke of love. Like it mattered. Like it was beautiful.
But beneath it all, she could hear the daggers—too small for steel, but sharp enough for skin.
"Is she really here? I thought it was a rumor."
"I heard they had to allow her. You know… for appearances."
"She looks… decent. But that's all. Barely passable."
"And that gown? I mean… does she think navy still impresses anyone?"
A soft ripple of laughter followed.
And Priscilla said nothing.
Her face didn't move. Her hands didn't shake. She'd trained too long for that. The court taught silence like it was a weapon, and she had mastered it.
But inside?
Inside, the silence was heavier than steel.
She didn't turn. Didn't confront. Because if she did—if she met those smiles, those words, that tone—she might not be able to stop herself. And they wanted her to. That was the game. That was always the game.
That was how it always was.
The sneers behind silk fans. The polished insults dressed in etiquette. The way the air shifted not when she entered—but when they realized she wasn't leaving.
Priscilla exhaled, slow and quiet. A single breath to keep the mask in place.
Her plate lay before her, untouched. The feast was extravagant—roasted quail in honey-glaze, marinated fruits soaked in summerwine, silver-laced goblets brimming with wine older than most of the academy's new inductees.
She picked up her fork, turned a sliver of fig over once, and placed it back down.
There was no hunger.
No interest.
No reason to play along except the one that ruled her entire life: survival.
She reached for the wine instead. It tasted like silence.
And then—
A voice cut through the hum of polite conversation.
Sharp. Loud. Indignant.
"You dare? Is this your way of disregarding House Crane?"
Priscilla's gaze snapped toward the sound, her fork stilling in mid-air.
There was a sudden shift in the room's atmosphere—not dramatic, not chaotic, but focused. Like a hundred tiny strings had all pulled toward a single knot in the far corner.
People turned, eyes narrowing, voices dropping to whispers. Nobility didn't shout. Which meant someone had made someone very angry.
And as she leaned slightly to see past the decorative pillar—
She saw him.
Lucavion.
And he was smiling the same.
'What is this feeling?'
A bad premotion arose from her heart…
Chapter 785: Choice (3)
She watched as Reynard Crane stepped forward, posture composed, voice threaded with a wounded sort of elegance, speaking as though truth had personally betrayed him.
He denied everything.
Of course he did.
Priscilla's jaw clenched—just barely. Just enough that the muscles behind her ears began to ache. She kept her posture impeccable, her chin slightly lifted, her shoulders steady. But inside—
Inside, the anger was already stirring.
She had seen it.
She had been there.
The terrace. The bench. The arrogant tilt of Lyon Halcrest's chin. The smug amusement in Davien's half-lidded stare as he loomed too close to a girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen. And Reynard—
Reynard, with his honeyed words and cruel smile, watching it all with the satisfaction of a man stepping on something he considered filth.
Lucavion hadn't exaggerated. If anything, he had softened it.
She remembered the coin. The pressure. The silence of the bystanders. How no one stepped forward—not even the server who trembled behind the counter. Because House Crane's name carried weight. Enough to bend the room.
And now? They dared?
They dared stand in this hall—beneath a roof woven with ceremonial ideals—and speak as though they'd been slandered?
Priscilla's fingers tightened around her goblet. Her eyes never left Reynard. Not even as Lord Elric spoke, not even as Lady Brienna followed, their words smooth, calculated, dripping with the same controlled outrage that masked cowardice as order.
It was all a farce.
A beautiful, gilded lie. The kind the Empire thrived on.
She should have been used to it. And she was.
She was.
This wasn't new. She had heard worse. Endured more. She had learned, long ago, what it meant to bear a truth no one wanted to hear.
But still…
Still, the rage coiled in her like a serpent. Because this wasn't just cruelty—it was shamelessness.
And because—this time—it wasn't her being silenced.
It was someone else.
Someone who, for once, hadn't turned his eyes away from injustice just because it was inconvenient.
Lucavion had stood. Spoken. Challenged.
And now the empire's whispers wanted to strip him down like they always did. Like they always tried to do to her.
And here she stood, hidden by silk and ivy, as they began building the pyre around him.
'No...'
Her breath was sharp. Quiet. Her heart loud.
'This is not right.'
And then—
He turned.
Called her name without saying it.
"Isn't that right, Princess?"
Every head turned. Every gaze cut through the distance between them.
The moment hung—suspended in breath and gold and silence.
Every gaze in the banquet hall turned, carving a path of expectation directly to her.
Priscilla stood still.
Too still.
Like a statue cast in frost.
Lucavion's words still lingered in the air, ringing like the aftershock of a bell that had struck something deeper than bone.
And now?
Now they all waited.
Eyes from every corner—nobles, students, officials, and worse—Lucien himself.
Her lungs struggled to draw in a full breath. She didn't show it. Not outwardly. But her chest felt tight. Like something was pressing from the inside.
She hadn't expected this.
She hadn't expected to be seen.
And she hadn't expected Lucavion—to pull her in like that. To throw her into the center.
Not with a command. Not even with a plea.
Just a statement.
"You were there."
He hadn't asked.
He had trusted.
Or worse—he had gambled.
And now the weight of that gamble was suffocating her.
What was she supposed to do?
Speak?
And what then?
If she confirmed it—if she said, yes, she was there, yes, she saw everything—then she would be standing beside Lucavion.
And against House Crane.
Against the nobles rising now in polished formation.
Against the tide.
But more than that…
She would be standing against Lucien.
Her brother.
The Crown Prince.
And in that moment—her breath hitched.
Because she remembered it.
The words Lucien had whispered to her before the banquet, quiet and cold and precise.
"If you so much as glance in a direction I disapprove of…"
She remembered the look in his eyes.
Not rage.
Worse.
Promise.
"If you embarrass yourself… I will make your time at this academy a memory you will spend your life trying to forget."
Her hand trembled—just once—beneath the fold of her sleeve.
She was not stupid.
She knew what it would mean to speak now.
Lucien wouldn't just retaliate.
He would erase her.
Quietly. Thoroughly. And without a single mark on his pristine record.
Because that was what the Empire taught.
Power wasn't about being loud.
It was about being undeniable.
And Lucien—
Lucien was the crown's will wrapped in velvet and fire.
And yet…
Lucavion had looked at her.
Not with reverence.
Not with pity.
Just… truth.
And he had given her a choice.
A soundless tremor threaded its way through her chest.
Lucavion's voice still hung in the air.
"You watched it all."
And every face now looked to her—not in welcome, not in belief, but in hunger. For decision. For spectacle.
Her heartbeat wasn't fast. It was slow. Too slow. Like it had dropped into some deeper rhythm, pulled down by the weight of everything she wasn't allowed to be.
Her fingers had gone cold. Her lips parted, just slightly—enough to breathe, not enough to speak.
What do I do?
She didn't know. Truly didn't. This wasn't just about Lucavion's words. Or House Crane. Or even Lucien's threat.
It was the question beneath all of it.
Who am I standing with?
Because she remembered.
The Sanctum. The chessboard.
That pawn, moved into a space it shouldn't have reached.
And the queen—placed beside it, not above.
She remembered Lucavion's words. So calmly spoken. So… different from the Empire's. He hadn't asked her to betray anyone. Hadn't begged for allegiance.
He had simply… offered.
"Not to command... but to be a part of."
That rogue move still sat in her mind—silent and defiant.
You'll have a chance, he had said.
Was this it?
This awful, suffocating moment?
This silence with all eyes on her?
Was this the chance?
Her lips moved. Barely.
No words yet.
But her thoughts were unraveling, one strand at a time.
Lucien's voice rang again in her ears:
"If you embarrass yourself…"
His eyes had promised ruin. Quiet, irreversible ruin.
And yet—
Lucavion hadn't spoken with menace. Not even expectation.
Just… inevitability.
She could still lie. Still look away. Still pretend she hadn't seen anything at all.
It would be safe.
It would be survival.
But it would not be a choice.
It would be surrender.
And that, she realized now… was what Lucavion had offered her that day.
Not defiance.
But the right to choose what she became.
Not just another pawn.
Not just a leftover princess.
But something else.
Her breath trembled.
And her eyes—slowly, steadily—lifted.
She didn't need to say anything yet. Not to the crowd. Not even to Lucavion.
But inside her chest, something had already moved. Quietly. Irrevocably.
This was the chance.
Not glory. Not power. But choice.
That impossible, dangerous luxury.
Lucien had always spoken in commands. Even his silence carried consequences. His gaze had made her walk narrow paths in shoes that never quite fit.
Lucavion… had never told her what to do.
He had simply moved the board.
You will see a lot of fun things in the future…
That's what he'd said.
But this—this wasn't fun.
This was terrifying.
And thrilling.
And true.
Because she saw it now—clearly.
Chapter 786: Choice (4)
If she remained quiet, if she looked away, if she allowed this room to swallow her voice… then Lucavion's side of the board would move without her. He would never look back. He wouldn't be cruel. But he would no longer wait.
And the moment would pass.
She would remain a shadow in a dress.
But if she stepped forward now—
She wouldn't just be choosing Lucavion.
She would be becoming someone else.
She'd be renouncing the quiet survival that had defined her since her exile from Lucien's inner circle.
She'd be declaring that her silence was not submission.
'…You really played well, didn't you?' she thought, her fingers flexing slightly at her sides.
Not bitterly.
Not even begrudgingly.
Just… aware.
She hadn't understood that day in the Sanctum.
Not fully.
But now?
Now, as her gaze met his across the hall, something ancient and cold inside her cracked.
And something brighter stirred underneath.
She stepped forward.
Not grandly.
Not theatrically.
Just enough.
The curtain of whispers behind her shifted.
She could feel the room breathe differently now.
The red of her eyes caught the chandelier's glint.
And then—her voice came.
Clear. Unshaking.
"I was there."
A pause.
And then, quieter—just loud enough to burn.
"And everything he said… was true."
*****
She stood alone.
Not by accident, nor oversight.
But by design.
Lucavion's eyes didn't just see her—they registered every fine detail. The contrast between the scarlet velvet curtain and the soft shimmer of her silver-white hair. The stillness of her figure, the way her back resisted the instinct to shrink beneath the banquet's weighty silence. She didn't flinch. Didn't move. She simply stood there, as if the scrutiny of hundreds were no heavier than autumn wind.
Ghost in the Velvet, Mireilla had called her just now.
And now, the name settled over her like a crown she never asked to wear.
No attendants at her side. No nobles clinging to favor. Just her, watching from the fringe—seen only when one remembered to look.
Lucavion's lips curved—not mockingly, but knowingly. He raised his glass slightly, like a toast no one else deserved to witness.
'Now, the choice is up to you.'
Not a demand.
And then—her voice cut through the banquet air.
Not trembling.
Not soft.
Not lost in polite tones or veiled courtesies.
But loud.
Louder than it should have been from a girl who had been taught to whisper, to watch, to wait.
"I was there."
The room stopped breathing.
Every goblet paused mid-lift. Every conversation strangled in its throat. Every noble, every student, every instructor turned not toward Reynard—not even toward Lucavion—
—but toward her.
And she did not falter.
Her chin lifted. Her red eyes, gleaming beneath the chandelier's frostlight, locked forward with a steadiness that left no space for question.
"I was there," she said again, clearer. "On the terrace. I saw House Crane's men approach the baron's children. I saw the threats. The arrogance. The cruelty."
Her voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
It struck like iron shaped into truth.
"They weren't protecting tradition. They weren't guiding anyone. They were humiliating children because they could."
A tremor passed through the court—not chaos. Not yet.
But the shift had begun.
Because the girl who had always stood silent—
—was no longer hiding.
"They used their name to silence protest. Their status to justify dominance. Their strength… to belittle."
She turned, just slightly—enough to face Reynard.
Not with hatred.
But with honesty.
The kind he couldn't spin.
"And when Lucavion stepped in… he didn't harm them. He simply refused to yield. It was they who lost control. Who struck first. Who were seen."
Her eyes flicked across the hall. Over Elric. Over Brienna. Over the ones who had tried to paint Lucavion as the villain.
"You all speak of honor. Of civility. But none of you were there."
Then—
Silence.
Weighty. Real.
Until—
Lucavion smiled.
That slow, unhurried, razor-line smile that never tried to dazzle—only to cut.
'You made the right choice indeed.'
He lifted his glass—not in gloat. Not in victory.
But in acknowledgment.
To her.
To the lone rose that had bloomed not in sunlight… but in fire.
And inside, Lucavion allowed himself the smallest exhale.
To be frank… that was a gamble. Even for him.
But—
One could say...
It paid off.
*****
The silence remained, brittle as ice.
And into it, Priscilla stepped further.
Not hurriedly.
With purpose.
Her voice, now calmer—softer than before—nevertheless carried through the vaulted chamber like silk dragged over glass.
"After that day… I said nothing," she said. "Not because I doubted what I saw. But because I doubted whether truth still mattered in places like this."
She turned now to the Academy officials, to the nobles whose lips had tightened with the beginnings of protest.
"But if tonight, we are to measure truth not by influence, but by witness—then allow me to be that witness."
A hush passed again.
Then—
Another figure rose.
A lean man in a weather-stained coat, standing at the edge of the banquet like a shadow too stubborn to vanish. The attendant from the terrace—one of the few who had stood back but watched everything.
He stepped forward slowly.
"I was there too," he said, his voice roughened by age but clear. "I saw the confrontation. I saw the boy step in. I saw the heir of Crane strike first."
He nodded once toward Priscilla, then to Lucavion.
"What they say is true."
Gasps broke like dropped glass.
Someone at the Vaumont table whispered a curse. Brienna turned pale. Even Cassiar's smug air cracked just enough to betray a sliver of discomfort.
Lucavion tilted his head, one eyebrow raised—not smug, not arrogant.
Just patient.
And then he turned.
To Reynard.
Smile soft. Dangerous in its elegance.
"Now, Reynard," Lucavion said, his tone light, each word carved from measured clarity. "Just like then… we will not speak over the authority of the Crown, will we?"
He let the words hang.
A string with noose at the end.
Then, just as softly—
"Or…"
He stepped closer, the space between them humming with implication.
"…do we question the authority of the royal family itself?"
Reynard's expression didn't break—but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.
The room waited.
Lucavion didn't press. Didn't need to. He stood with the weight of testimony and truth at his back.
The game was already over.
Reynard could deny.
But to deny her now—Priscilla Lysandra, daughter of the throne—was to accuse royalty of fabrication.
To challenge her word was to challenge the blood of the Empire.
And even Reynard Crane… wasn't that stupid.
Lucavion's voice fell to a murmur, just for Reynard.
"But do speak clearly, dear Crane. The nobles would love to hear your answer."
Chapter 787: Crown's meddlement
Reynard stood frozen.
Not visibly. No tremble touched his fingers. No sweat marred his brow. He still looked every bit the refined noble son—the crest of House Crane gleaming proudly on his collar.
But inside?
His mind fractured in a dozen directions.
He dragged her in.
He actually dragged her in.
Lucavion's voice still echoed like a dagger dropped on stone. And Priscilla—gods-damned Priscilla—had chosen to answer.
That was the part he couldn't comprehend.
Not the witness from the terrace. That old man could be buried later.
Not even the crowd's whispers, rising now like an uncertain storm.
But her.
The daughter of a commoner. The living embarrassment the Crown quietly tolerated but never endorsed. The discarded bloom.
He had expected her to stay silent. Like she always did. Like she was meant to.
She had no power, no faction, no noble backing.
But she had blood.
Royal blood.
And that… was enough.
'Did they plan this beforehand?'
His throat was dry.
'No. That's impossible. There was no way they could've known the banquet would turn this direction. Unless… unless this bastard knew me. Knew how I would act. Knew I'd take the bait.'
His fists clenched behind his back.
This is bad.
Too many eyes on him now. And not the reverent ones he was used to. They didn't see the wounded noble anymore. They saw hesitation. Cracks. Doubt. Lucavion had flipped the script so violently it was all Reynard could do to keep his posture from shattering.
He glanced—briefly—to Davien and Lyon.
Neither moved.
What could they say?
They'd denied the event under oath just minutes ago.
And now… a princess had spoken against them.
Even if she was a half-shadow in the court, her word still bore weight. It was the chain no noble could tug without drawing blood.
A flicker passed behind Reynard's eyes.
'Daughter of a whore she may be… but she's still a daughter of the Crown. And that means I can't fight back. Not directly. Not without risking everything.'
He couldn't lie anymore.
He couldn't deny.
And he certainly couldn't call the princess a liar without implicating himself in a far worse sin.
The silence pressed harder now. People were watching. Waiting.
Reynard could feel the air tightening around his lungs.
Not with fear.
With certainty.
This wasn't just a misstep. This wasn't a stumble on the ballroom floor he could laugh off with well-practiced charm. This was a rupture. A tear in the script. And worse—
The Crown Prince.
'He's going to skin me alive,' Reynard thought, bile rising in his throat.
Lucien wasn't known for patience. He was known for precision. He tolerated no failure. And certainly not this.
To lose control of the narrative was one thing. To lose it in public, at the Academy, and have a royal witness testify against his faction?
Unforgivable.
Unsurvivable—depending on his mood.
'This wasn't supposed to happen,' Reynard's mind screamed. 'It was a simple discrediting. A commoner. An upstart. That's it. And now…'
The tension had crested into something volatile. He could feel it in the way the nobles had stopped whispering. In the way his own name, once murmured with reverence, now hovered like a guilty echo.
'He played me. That son of a—'
A voice cut across the hall.
Not loud.
But resonant.
"What are we doing," it said, "in front of our guests?"
****
He hadn't spoken yet.
He didn't need to.
Lucien Lysandra had arrived with no trumpets, no flame-ribboned fanfare—but the room bent anyway. The silence shifted the moment the guards at the double doors straightened their posture. The conversations, no matter how gilded, died without resistance. And every noble head turned, not from obligation, but instinct.
Because presence didn't need volume. It needed legacy.
And Lucien wore it like a second skin.
The red of his eyes, glacial and unflinching, swept the banquet hall as he entered—half a beat slower than expected. Deliberate. The kind of pause that made lesser men feel watched even when his gaze hadn't touched them yet.
Every fold of his black-gold robes moved as if choreographed by sovereign will. Even the light obeyed him—casting shadow and shimmer with unnatural precision. The crest of the Lysandran line gleamed cold on his shoulder: a lion crowned, claws dipped in blood.
He made no speech. No grand announcement.
He simply walked.
And the room re-remembered who ruled.
Lucien took his seat not at the high table—but one step above it. A raised platform carved for one, not many. It wasn't arrogance. It was clarity. The Academy was under the Empire, and the Empire's next breath sat precisely where it should.
Everything was as it should be.
'The heir of House Crane will handle the matter,' Lucien thought, sipping once from a crystal goblet brought to him by a steward who hadn't dared meet his eye. 'He was trained for this. Coached. Warned. A simple disciplinary dressing—some verbal cornering, a reminder of station—and the boy will be dismissed for what he is.'
He hadn't even needed to glance toward the stage where Reynard stood. That's how beneath his concern the issue had seemed. A ripple, not a storm.
Until—
Lucien's hand paused mid-lift.
His gaze locked.
The goblet did not reach his lips.
Across the hall, Lucavion was speaking.
No.
Commanding.
And worse—the girl was answering.
Lucien did not rise.
He did not speak.
But the mana under his skin flared like a tide striking marble. His aura didn't expand—it compressed. Gravity shifted around him. The air turned sharp.
He watched as Priscilla stepped forward. Not by mistake. Not by chance. Not in fear.
She chose it.
And Lucien's gaze sharpened, slow and excruciating, like a blade turned over in a gloved hand.
'You dare.'
The thoughts did not burn.
They froze.
'You dare to speak when I told you to remain unseen. You dare to raise your voice, not for your bloodline—not for your House—but for a nameless nobody with gutter lineage.'
He inhaled once. Measured.
The wine on his tongue turned to ash.
'You stand beside him now? After all I gave you?'
She wasn't a sister. Not really.
She was a broken footnote the court had agreed to forget. Her mother had been the scandal, her birth the compromise, her existence the exception Lucien had chosen not to erase.
He had spared her.
That was her place.
Grateful silence.
Deferential invisibility.
But now?
He stared as her voice cut through courtly silence. As her words made nobles shift. As her stance breathed new life into Lucavion's fire.
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
Not wide with fury. Not twisted in rage.
Just thin. Focused.
'You ignored me.'
Three words.
That was the center of it all.
Not defiance.
Not loyalty to Lucavion.
But this:
'You. Ignored. Me.'
He watched Reynard unravel. Watched the air thicken around the noble boy's shoulders. The doubt. The shift. The loss of control.
'So this is how she wants to play.'
The thought wasn't bitter.
It was amused.
Amused in that quiet, surgical way Lucien reserved for miscalculations—just before he rearranged the board.
'You think this will undo me?'
He exhaled once, softly. The breath of a man unbothered.
'This situation is not a crisis. It is a draft. And I—' he rose smoothly, fingers adjusting the edge of his collar with casual grace, '—am the editor.'
There was no tremor in his movement.
No urgency.
He didn't need to demand attention—he simply took it.
The moment he stood, the room reacted. A ripple of silence. Heads turned. Bodies shifted in unconscious alignment, as though gravity itself had reasserted a hierarchy they'd momentarily forgotten.
Lucien stepped forward, slow and measured.
The sound of his boots on marble was softer than the collective breath of the banquet.
He didn't need force.
He was force.
Then—
His voice.
Not raised.
Not theatrical.
But low. Chilling. Inevitable.
"What are we doing…" he said, his tone laced with bemusement, "in front of our guests?"
Chapter 788: Crown and pride
"What are we doing…" he said, his tone laced with bemusement, "in front of our guests?"
The stillness shattered—not with chaos, but with deference. Like everyone had suddenly remembered their place in the great, gilded frame.
Eyes snapped toward him.
Lucavion's confidence didn't fade, but it tensed—like a swordsman who'd just sensed another blade unsheathing behind him.
And Priscilla—
She didn't flinch.
But her hands stilled at her sides.
Lucien's smile curved, slow and silver.
Not warm.
Not cruel.
Just inevitable.
"And it seems," he said, taking another step forward, "dear sister has a problem with her memory."
He turned slightly toward the gathered nobles, letting his crimson gaze sweep the hall—not accusing, but witnessing. Letting every face feel seen by something older and colder than power.
He wasn't shouting.
He was shaping.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
Lucien simply turned toward the table of accusation—where Lucavion sat, poised, calm, as if the weight of nobility weren't a thing meant to crush.
"And now," Lucien said, "we find ourselves steeped in rather serious allegations."
His tone was light.
Almost pleasant.
That was what made it so unbearable.
"Thuggery. Intimidation. A noble House accused of behavior unbecoming. And by whom?"
He let the pause hang—not heavy, but surgical. Dissecting.
"A boy of no crest, no station, and a lady whose grasp of events may be…" he turned, eyes narrowing with a perfect simulacrum of concern, "...blurred, by memory, or misplaced sentiment."
He let that linger.
Not as accusation.
But as possibility.
As doubt.
"House Crane," Lucien continued, his eyes now fixed on Reynard—who stood, frozen, immaculate but cracking beneath the pressure, "has served the Empire for six generations. Its sons and daughters educated in the sanctified halls of our Order. Champions of artifice, stewards of alliance."
He looked back to the crowd.
"Are we to believe, without evidence, that three of its heirs chose to jeopardize that legacy in so public, so crude, a manner?"
The word evidence landed with intent.
Soft.
Deadly.
He turned again to Lucavion.
"And if such an incident did occur…" Lucien paused, eyes resting on Lucavion like one might rest a chalice over flame—gracefully, before watching it crack, "then surely… surely it would not have unfolded during the Festival of the First Flame."
A soft murmur stirred.
He didn't raise his hand to quiet them.
He let it build.
Then spoke again, not loudly—but with that sovereign cadence that made even whisperers go still.
"That week," he said, "was no ordinary one. It marked the rekindling of our oldest rite. A commemoration that extends beyond heritage—into the realm of sanctity."
He stepped forward, just once.
"I was the one working. As overseer. Appointed by the Father himself to supervise the final arrangements of the Flame Procession. Every spell barrier, every security seal, every envoy movement was routed through my counsel."
His voice remained light.
But behind it was the unspoken: I was watching. I do not miss.
He turned now—broadly, to the full chamber.
"And the location in question—the Blue Veil café balcony—was under the watch of three royal envoys, two Imperial scryers, and reinforced with ambient resonance wards under my direction."
He let that settle.
A breath.
Measured.
Soft.
Devastating.
"Now," Lucien said, tilting his head ever so slightly toward Lucavion, "is it possible that in the swell of such grand preparation… a private altercation could be imagined? Refracted through the stress of competition, the desire for narrative, the need to matter?"
His eyes glinted—not cruelly. But in that way that made cruelty unnecessary.
"Perhaps."
He smiled.
"But I know my duties."
Another step forward.
"And more importantly… I know House Crane."
He turned then to the nobles gathered at the eastern table—Crane's traditional allies. Old names. Loyal ones.
"For six generations, they have served the Throne with discipline, distinction, and humility. Their records unmarred. Their loyalty proven in blood and time. To tarnish such legacy based on the recollection of a child of no known affiliation—"
Lucien looked to Lucavion once more. No longer amused.
Just cold.
"—and a sister of mine with a plausible memory—"
Here, he flicked the edge of his gaze toward Priscilla. Not long enough to confront.
Just long enough to wound.
"—would be to question not just them."
He turned to the room.
"But me."
A hush, as thick as fog, rolled through the hall.
He smiled, softly.
"I take oversight seriously."
The silence was no longer tense.
It was reverent.
Lucien had done what only a true heir to the Throne could: shifted the entire gravity of the hall with a single speech. No spell. No decree. Just presence. Command woven into tone, into timing, into the blade-soft cadence of every word.
And the mood—once heavy with uncertainty, whispers poised at Lucavion's name—tilted.
Subtly.
Inevitably.
Nobles began to shift their gazes. Not toward Lucavion. But toward Lucien.
For guidance. For permission.
And Lucien—
Lucien smiled.
Not wide.
Just enough.
"To question this matter further," he said now, his voice smooth as frost over still water, "would be to invite chaos. That is not our purpose here tonight. We celebrate. We elevate. We guide."
He let his gaze linger, now softer, almost warm. Almost.
"But I am not without compassion," he added, as if offering a hand to someone sinking. "This boy—Lucavion—has shown fire. Boldness. That, too, is a quality the Empire occasionally requires."
The room stirred again. A few nobles nodded, hesitant, unsure whether it was praise or prelude.
Lucien continued, serene.
"So… I will extend grace. Let this be a lesson, not a punishment. Let him see that the Empire does not crush potential—it refines it."
A masterstroke.
Because to the gathered nobles, it sounded like mercy.
To Lucavion—it was a prison sentence dressed in velvet.
Because if he accepted this "grace"—
He would confirm the hierarchy.
He would accept Lucien's version of the truth.
He would become, in essence, what Lucien allowed him to be.
A spared flame.
A watched one.
A controlled burn.
Lucien looked down at him now, the crimson in his eyes dimmed only slightly. Controlled. Expectant.
'Take it.'
'Take the lifeline I've woven with your chains built into the thread.'
'Prove what you are. Prove that blood obeys blood.'
His lips pressed faintly, the only sign of the disdain curling beneath his perfect composure.
'Pathetic.'
He didn't need to voice it.
Because he believed it completely.
Lucavion's silence now would be surrender.
And his protest?
Would be suicide.
Either way, he would be placed—properly.
Lucien's mercy hung in the air.
But the noose was already drawn.
Around him, the murmurs began.
Low at first.
Then rising like incense on an altar.
"He carries himself like the Empress…"
"…such restraint. Such poise."
"...thank the gods for the Crown Prince. Without him, who knows what that little display might've turned into…"
Lucien didn't look at them. He didn't need to. Their reverence washed over him in perfect cadence, exactly as he had intended.
It wasn't applause.
It was confirmation.
The room was back where it belonged—beneath him.
Beneath the weight of lineage, of precision, of absolute poise. And the nobility, those eternal vultures draped in etiquette, had remembered once more who taught the sky how to burn.
Lucien allowed himself a breath.
Controlled.
Delighted.
Until—
Their eyes met.
Chapter 789: A tale as old as time
The room was back where it belonged—beneath him.
Beneath the weight of lineage, of precision, of absolute poise. And the nobility, those eternal vultures draped in etiquette, had remembered once more who taught the sky how to burn.
Lucien allowed himself a breath.
Controlled.
Delighted.
Until—
Their eyes met.
Lucavion hadn't stood. Hadn't moved.
But he was smiling.
Lucien's breath stilled.
'…!'
Not a smirk. Not a trembling mask of defiance. But something far worse.
Calm.
Almost amused.
As if the rope Lucien had so elegantly braided was, to him, a ribbon. As if mercy wasn't feared. As if—
—it hadn't touched him at all.
Lucien's gaze narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
'You…'
The boy's posture hadn't changed. His expression hadn't faltered. But those pitch-black eyes—
They didn't reflect Lucien.
They consumed him.
'Why?'
The question coiled like a serpent in Lucien's chest. 'Does he not understand what just happened? Is he mad? Is he so low-born, so feral, that the nature of power escapes him?'
He had expected anger.
He had expected the sting of injustice. Frustration. A flicker of that peasant indignation Lucien had always found so exquisitely predictable.
But this?
This was something else.
'Did I give him too much credit?'
He studied Lucavion now—not as an opponent, but as an anomaly. 'Was he ever worth my attention to begin with? Or is he just another insect basking in the sun before the boot?'
But the fire in those eyes—
It was real.
Controlled.
Not wild.
Not flailing.
But burning.
It made Lucien's fingers curl against the velvet of his sleeve.
Not in anger.
In calculation.
Because suddenly, the boy wasn't just standing outside the system.
He was looking through it.
And Lucien—
Lucien felt the first edge of something he had not expected.
Not fear.
Never fear.
But curiosity.
'Strange.'
It was the only word Lucien could summon.
Not out of confusion.
But because everything else—every calculation, every instinct—hung suspended around it. Like a note played into a hall with no echo.
'Why does he still look like that?'
The performance had ended. Lucien had curated the scene, closed the chapter, dictated the next line of history.
The boy should be bowed. Broken. Furious at worst, silent at best.
But he wasn't.
He was smiling.
And then—
Lucien saw it.
A shift.
Subtle.
Lucavion's mouth curled up, just slightly, to one side. Not dramatic. Not exaggerated.
But intentional.
And his gaze—
It didn't falter.
It didn't challenge.
It invited.
'What is—'
CLAP.
Lucien blinked.
Once.
Sharp. Quiet.
The sound rang out again.
CLAP.
And again.
CLAP.
The room froze.
Lucavion was applauding.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Smiling as if he were praising an artist for their final bow after a particularly clever farce.
Gasps stirred. Whispers. A few nobles looked toward the instructors, the guards. Uncertain whether to move, to speak, to pretend they hadn't heard what they were hearing.
'What is he doing?'
'Is he mad?'
'Is this… clownery?'
Lucien stood utterly still.
His gaze locked on Lucavion.
He hadn't moved. He hadn't breathed.
And then—
Lucavion spoke.
His voice was light. Carefree.
Like a boy praising a stage play he'd enjoyed, but would forget by morning.
"What a masterpiece."
The next clap was almost theatrical in its precision.
"Our prince is truly talented."
Another.
And another.
"If you ever tire of the Empire, I'm sure the traveling troupes would welcome you."
A pause.
And then, softly, with the kind of edge only a common-born child could wield without effort—
"You'd make a fine actor."
The room shattered.
Not with sound.
But with stillness.
No one dared speak.
No one dared breathe.
Because what had just occurred was not rebellion.
It was heresy by humor.
Lucien didn't move.
Not yet.
But the corner of his eye twitched once.
Lucien's body didn't move.
But something behind his eyes did.
A crack—silent, clean, invisible to anyone except those who'd been watching his gaze just a moment too long.
The twitch in his jaw was microscopic.
But it was there.
'You dare.'
Not challenge.
Insult.
To compare him—the Heir of Lysandra, the future of the Empire, the living emblem of divine hierarchy—to a circus performer?
To mock the very role ordained by blood and rite?
The breath that filled Lucien's chest was colder than the winter fogs of the White Hold.
But he did not explode.
He did not retaliate.
He simply stared.
And the temperature of the room changed again.
Not because Lucien acted.
But because the others did.
First in murmurs.
Then in indignation.
"What did he say—?"
"Did he just—?"
"Insulting the Crown—"
"Does he know where he stands?"
And then louder—
"You dare mock the Prince?"
"Show some gods-damned respect!"
"Someone remove this creature!"
The cries didn't come from one place.
They came from everywhere.
From the barons near the back.
From the daughters of merchant-lords trying to prove their fealty.
From the instructors whose futures depended on Lucien's good graces.
From young nobles trying too hard to be noticed.
Like flies around a fresh cut, they swarmed in outrage—not because they were brave, but because they were afraid not to be.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion didn't blink.
He didn't falter.
He merely lifted a single hand.
Gracefully.
Calmly.
Mockingly.
The nobles stilled, stunned into silence by the audacity.
Lucavion's smile widened, not cruel—but utterly unbothered.
"My, my," he said, in a tone almost regretful. "So many voices. So eager to speak."
He scanned the hall—his eyes not accusing, but entertained.
"Truly befitting of a charade."
A few gasps.
Lucien's fingers curled, slow and quiet, against the edge of the banquet table.
Lucavion's voice didn't rise.
It flowed.
"Actors playing nobles. Nobles playing gods. And all of them so very offended when someone forgets their lines."
He tilted his head slightly, as if pondering something amusing.
"You should really get your makeup redone. All that anger is starting to smudge."
Then—softly, almost kindly:
"All we need now is an audience."
And with that—
He looked back at Lucien.
Only him.
He held Lucien's gaze.
Didn't break it.
Didn't blink.
The air in the hall had shifted again, but not in Lucien's favor. It was thick, electric, stretching between them like the pause before a thunderclap. And then—Lucavion tilted his head, still so composed it became its own kind of aggression.
"Oh," he said, voice still honeyed, "our Crown Prince is so very talented."
He gestured loosely toward the crowd, as if inviting them all to nod.
"To think—he was personally overseeing the entire city during the Festival of the First Flame. Arcania itself."
He raised his brows, mock awe seeping into every syllable.
"And he can testify for the House Crane's integrity? So deeply involved, so intimately aware, so certain in his judgment that he'd overlook even the memory of his own sister?"
Lucien's hands were no longer at rest.
They were still.
Too still.
Lucavion's smile thinned. Not with cruelty—but with something far more dangerous: clarity.
"Wow," he said. "It seems your sister must have a screw loose, then. Or what was it you said? Her memory was… compromised?"
He let that question hang.
And then—he raised his hand.
And pointed.
Directly at him.
"Dear Lucien."
The silence that followed cracked through the chamber like glass under weight.
Lucien didn't flinch. Didn't breathe.
But the pressure in the room pulsed, heavy, sharp-edged.
No one called him that.
Not even dukes.
Not even the old bloodlines who still whispered of shared ancestors dared speak his name without title, without ritual.
The use of it now—by him—a commoner—
It wasn't just irreverent.
It was heresy in flesh.
And Lucien's breath—when it came—was jagged and silent, sliding through clenched teeth like ice breaking beneath calm water.
Lucavion didn't stop.
"Let me ask you clearly."
His hand didn't lower. His voice didn't rise.
But the words struck like arrows.
"Do you testify, here and now, before these guests, that the Daughter of the Crown—Priscilla Lysandra—is lying?"
A pause.
Unyielding.
"And that the heir of House Crane, Reynard Crane, did not commit the act of harassing a lower-ranked noble?"
Chapter 790: Do you really vouch for him ?
"Let me ask you clearly."
His hand didn't lower. His voice didn't rise.
But the words struck like arrows.
"Do you testify, here and now, before these guests, that the Daughter of the Crown—Priscilla Lysandra—is lying? And that the heir of House Crane, Reynard Crane, did not commit the act of harassing a lower-ranked noble?"
The silence stretched, no longer empty but expectant.
A thousand eyes watched.
Some wide with fear.
Some narrowed with calculation.
Some waiting—hungrier than ever—for blood.
Lucien stood, unmoving.
But something in him had shifted.
The easy elegance he wore like silk was still there, but beneath it—fracture. Not panic. Not doubt. Just the smallest crack in the glass of his conviction.
He had been mocked.
He had been named.
And now—
He was being cornered.
Lucien Lysandros did not take orders.
He gave them.
He did not answer.
He shaped.
But still… he had no way to step backward.
Not now.
Not here.
Not after that name.
Not after that gaze.
His voice, when it came, was smoother than marble. But colder than steel.
"I do."
Gasps rippled like knives.
Lucien's crimson gaze did not leave Lucavion.
"I testify, before this hall, before its nobles, its scribes, and its echoes, that the account given by my dear sister is flawed."
Another breath.
Dead calm.
"Whatever she believes she saw—whatever sentiment clouds her vision—it is incorrect."
He turned his eyes now, just briefly, toward his sister.
Did not linger.
Did not gloat.
Just let the words fall like ash.
"And that Reynard Crane, heir to House Crane, has done no such thing."
Lucien's gaze never shifted.
His voice dropped—not in volume, but in finality.
"I gave you the courtesy to deescalate," he said, every syllable pronounced with lethal grace. "In front of guests. In front of audience. A mercy extended beyond your station."
He stepped forward once, the movement so quiet it echoed.
"But it seems," Lucien continued, "you do not recognize grace when it is offered."
A pause.
A smile, thin as a blade.
"A tale as old as time. A commoner refusing a hand meant to lift them. Choosing mud over mercy."
Then—he turned his head.
Just slightly.
As if finished.
As if the matter were done.
And behind him, the nobles began to shift again—ready to applaud, ready to move on, ready to swallow the narrative.
Until—
"Ahahahahhah…"
The sound was quiet at first.
But sharp. Real.
Lucavion was laughing.
Not nervously.
Not brokenly.
But genuinely.
And then—he spoke, voice laced in irony and something stranger still: pity.
"And a noble lying with a straight face… a tale as old as time."
The room quieted again.
Lucavion's hands lifted, palms open, like an actor bowing to the scene.
"And apparently," he added, "a royal is no different."
Gasps. Stiff breaths. A ripple of disbelief. Some nobles looked to Lucien, expecting fury. Others froze, unsure if they were about to witness a public execution.
But Lucavion wasn't finished.
"I must thank you, Dear Lucien," he said again, and oh, he let the name linger—tainted with mock respect, with velvet mockery. "For playing your part flawlessly. That speech just now?"
He gave a low whistle.
"9 out of 10 on IMDB. Maybe even a critic's pick."
Someone choked on their wine.
Lucien's hand clenched, unseen, behind the velvet folds of his coat.
'He's mocking me again.'
"And let me add some CGI," Lucavion added.
And then—he clapped.
A single, sharp sound.
And a flame rose from his hands.
Small.
Black.
It shimmered like oil, not bright but deep, and it cast no heat.
Only veil.
A pulse of sensation shimmered out, not aggressive—but enough to make the room blink, once. Disoriented.
A split second.
No longer.
And when their eyes adjusted again—
"Ta-da!"
Lucavion's voice rang out cheerfully.
In his hand hovered a sphere.
It gleamed darkly. Swirled with light and distortion. Proof. Or something like it.
The room held its breath.
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
Lucien's eyes didn't just narrow.
They contracted.
A flicker. Barely perceptible.
But inside his mind?
A tempest.
'That sphere…'
Not a trick.
Not a parlor illusion.
He recognized it.
A prototype.
Restricted.
Still under arcane review by the Tower's Sixth Division. Developed in silence. Tested only within the innermost chambers of the Imperial Estate.
A temporal echo stabilizer.
A device that—through distortion-anchored mana and resonance capture—recorded not sound, not image, but truth.
It didn't create illusions.
It captured reality.
'That's impossible.'
They weren't public. They weren't ready. Most hadn't survived the full replication cycle without catastrophic failure.
Only five were known to exist.
All of them accounted for.
Except…
'Don't tell me…'
His thoughts whirled. Names. Possibilities. Traitors. Leaks.
'How did he—'
Lucien's jaw tightened. His mouth opened, control snapping back into place.
"A—boy," he began, voice edged with incredulous authority, "dares to bring an unregistered artifact into a state banquet? Are you—"
But Lucavion was already raising a finger, wagging it lightly, as if scolding a child for interrupting a play.
"My, my…"
His voice was all amusement.
"I know I'm breaking a few rules. Naughty me."
He smiled—openly now. Audaciously.
"But bear with me just a little, will ya?"
He twirled the orb once between his fingers, black light rippling across its surface like ripples on still oil.
"I mean—surely, our mighty Crown Prince Lucien-something-something-Lysandra isn't afraid of a tiny sphere, right?"
He leaned in slightly, mock conspiratorial.
"Or are you a party pooper, by any chance?"
Gasps broke out in stages.
Lucien's face remained still.
But his fingers—
Twitching.
Ever so slightly.
The shimmer above the sphere stabilized.
And then—sound returned.
Not soft. Not garbled.
Crystal-clear, as if the air itself remembered.
"Please. We'll leave—just let my brother—"
A girl's voice. Trembling. Desperate.
"Now you're talking?"
A sneer. The noble's hand brushing her sleeve—casual, entitled.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
And then—
THUD.
"Hey—!"
A new voice cut in—dry, indifferent.
"Not interested."
The scene progressed with haunting precision.
Every word Lucavion spoke echoed through the hall:
"You're probably some count's son. From one of those proud bloodlines that likes to talk about 'legacy' and 'purity' when they've never worked a day outside a ballroom."
Gasps. Tension.
"And now you're out here, wagging your tails, trying to feel superior because you felt a bit of strength buzzing in your veins today. A little power, finally. So you chase after a smaller animal."
Lucien didn't move.
He couldn't.
Because now came the collapse.
"I'll end you!"
Mana flaring. A noble's scream.
And Lucavion?
Still. Untouched. A smile in his voice.
"Exuding killing intent before me? Are you ready to get killed yourself?"
Then came the collapse—seen, heard, undeniable.
The noble's magic failed.
"AAAAAAH!"
The boy writhed on the ground. Eyes wide. His companions? Frozen.
And the hall listened as Lucavion's tone grew lighter. Mocking. Unbothered.
"Explain it? Must I? Because to me, it looks like a textbook case of Arkanic Collapse. Mid-four-star rank, and no control? Must've skipped the part of training that wasn't spoon-fed."
Laughter.
Soft. Stifled. But real.
Noble masks wavered.
And then—
House Crane stepped forward in the echo.
"What have you done?!"
Lucavion's answer?
A calm shrug of a voice.
"I didn't do anything. As you can all see—my hands never moved."
The projection showed the proof: Lucavion, arms raised, unarmed. The crowd in the recording staring, just as they were now.
"House Crane, was it?"
He paced. Poised. In complete control.
"One of reputation. Of power. Of pride. And yet its heir lacks the most basic human respect."
"Worse," he added, the echo of judgment growing colder, "he did so during the Festival of the First Flame."
Gasps now in both timelines—the projection and the present hall.
"This plaza lies beneath the protection of the royal decree. Imperial harmony. That's the rule, isn't it?"
"Or... am I mistaken?"
The scene ended there.
The shimmer collapsed.
The sphere dimmed.
And in the hall, silence reigned again—but now it was thunderous.
Lucavion stood, gaze casual.
One hand raised in mock humility.
"Just in case," he said, ever the showman, "someone here was hard of hearing."
The nobles looked to Lucien.