The Eastern Continent's morning sun bathed the Voss estate in gold and shadow. Smoke from distant border skirmishes mingled with the scent of pine and earth. Lucien stood atop the training hall balcony, eyes calm, as soldiers practiced below. His brothers moved like mountains—steady, imposing—but beneath that strength lay cracks only he could see.
Kaelric approached, sword in hand, qi flickering around his body like molten silver. He bowed deeply. "Fourth son… I wish to discuss tomorrow's patrol along the northern ridge. I believe I can secure the pass before the scouts report danger."
Lucien's eyes narrowed faintly. The ambition, the pride… all exactly where he wanted them. He stepped down from the balcony. "Brother, the northern ridge is dangerous. The enemy is cunning, and your qi is still uneven after yesterday. If you push too hard, the results could be… fatal."
Kaelric's lips curled. "I will be careful. I've learned from my mistakes."
Lucien smiled softly, almost imperceptibly. "I do not doubt your ability, brother. But even the best swordsman must rely on guidance. Let me accompany you."
Kaelric hesitated, pride warring with trust. Finally, he nodded. "Very well… if you think it necessary."
Inside Lucien's mind, the threads were shifting. Kaelric's overconfidence and reliance were perfect instruments. Every instruction, every caution, every subtle nudge would guide him exactly where Lucien intended—on a path that seemed like his own choice, but was ultimately a trap.
Ragnar watched from a distance, leaning against a pillar of the hall. The eldest son had begun noticing something unusual: Kaelric's sudden dependence on Lucien, the way soldiers unconsciously followed Lucien's subtle commands, even the council generals consulting the fourth son in secret.
A chill ran through Ragnar. He could not yet explain it—Lucien was still the weakest son in body, still fragile—but the mind behind the mask was growing sharper. And Ragnar knew instinctively that in Murim, a sharp mind could cut deeper than any blade.
That night, as Kaelric prepared to leave for the patrol, Lucien followed, walking just behind him. The path along the northern ridge was narrow, lined with jagged rocks, the air crisp and thin. Soldiers marched in careful formation under Kaelric's command, unaware of the subtle misdirection Lucien had planted in the maps and scouting reports.
"Brother," Lucien said softly, leaning close, "the eastern approach is unstable. A misstep could collapse the path. Perhaps you should focus on the ridge instead."
Kaelric nodded, fully trusting the advice. He did not realize that the suggestion subtly pushed him into the trap Lucien had calculated.
By the time the patrol reached the ridge, the rocks beneath Kaelric's feet shifted unexpectedly—an unstable outcropping Lucien had marked days before. Soldiers scrambled, trying to hold formation. Kaelric's qi flared in panic, forcing him to overextend in correction.
Lucien stayed in the shadows, calm, observing every movement. Every stumble, every misjudged strike, was part of the plan. Kaelric would walk through the danger believing it was his own strategy, yet it had been carefully designed by Lucien.
Meanwhile, Ragnar's unease deepened. Watching from a distance, he realized Lucien had orchestrated something too precise, too controlled. The fourth son's calm, pale face betrayed nothing, yet the eldest son felt a quiet terror stir—Lucien's fangs were no longer hidden.
By the time Kaelric returned to the estate, shaken but alive, the soldiers whispered among themselves about his reckless overreach. Kaelric's pride had survived, but he believed he owed his life to Lucien, not realizing he had merely walked the fourth son's path.
Lucien bowed slightly as Kaelric approached. "You performed admirably. But even the best strategy is worthless if the mind wavers."
Kaelric smiled faintly, unaware that the smile was for a victory Lucien had already won, not him.
That night, Lucien returned to his chambers, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. The threads of Kaelric's mind were secure. The eldest brother's suspicion was growing, but it was still shallow. Soon, even Ragnar's instincts would become predictable.
The game was no longer just survival.
It was domination.
And the fourth son—the weakest, fragile Lucien Voss—would ensure he ruled, silently, cunningly, before any blade could touch him.