Lucavion gave a slow, quiet exhale through his nose. "Tch."
He brought the cup to his lips, sipping without urgency, his other hand reaching lazily toward the interface. The list unfolded before him—nas that carried weight, nas that carried blood, and nas that carried nothing but ambition.
House Velhane.
The Lyrecrest Guild.
House rridan of the Northern Obsidian March.
The Flawright Enclave.
The Syrelith Consortium—now that was a na he hadn’t heard in years.
And tucked among the formal entries, layered with respectful flattery: House Idrayne, one of the Crown Prince’s inner circle.
Imdiately beneath it—like a shadow cast by ambition—was House Silvelle. The First Princess’s banner.
Lucavion sipped his tea again, not for the flavor, but the familiarity of the heat against his lips. ’So they’re both casting lines already...’
He tapped a finger against the Resonance Conductor’s rim, scanning without slowing.
Most of these nas, he knew.
Not personally.
But he’d studied them and had gotten the intel when he was in this city for waiting for the entrance exam.
He’d heard them whispered in drawing rooms, scrawled across the back pages of tavern ledgers, ntioned in passing by rchants who didn’t realize he was listening. A good na carried weight. A real na carried leverage. And every na on this list... ca from a ga much older than him.
But now?
Now he was on the board.
And both sides wanted to claim the knight that didn’t start in their hand.
’How quaint.’
Crown Prince’s faction had sent three bids. Predictably. Tidy, calculated, and tied in political overtures disguised as "elite ntorship opportunities."
The First Princess, Selienne, had countered with two direct proposals—one laced with an offer for "artifact research collaboration," the other a diplomatic training post under one of her military attaches. Disguised control. A leash, braided in gold and silk.
Of course, they weren’t the only ones at the table.
Several neutral factions had filed interest—guilds not directly aligned with any noble bloodline. The Enclave of Glassborn Scholars, the Free Order of Eastern Arcanists, and even the Wanderer’s Vault, a nomadic guild rumored to deal in sealed ruins and dangerous inheritance relics.
Lucavion lingered on that last one.
Wanderer’s Vault rarely stepped into politics.
Which ant they didn’t want him for who he served.
They wanted him for what he was.
Interesting.
[Reading them like love letters?] Vitaliara’s voice drifted lazily from the corner cushion, where she lay half-curled in the shadows. [Or just counting how many want to own a piece of your spine?]
He didn’t answer imdiately.
Just tilted his head slightly and let his finger hover over the most recent offer—House Vesskar, known for their blood-bound duelists and loyalty to no throne but their own.
"I’m just wondering," he said softly, "how many of them think I care about titles."
[All of them.]
His smirk curved, sharp and faint. "They’ll be disappointed."
[Will they?] Vitaliara purred. [Or will you use their disappointnt like a blade?]
Lucavion gave no answer to that.
Lucavion scrolled further, the light of the Resonance Conductor casting pale glows across his fingertips. The usual suspects passed beneath his gaze—so predictably bold, others cautious, trying to sound casual as if they hadn’t spent half their political capital just to get their na on his list.
And then—
A seal.
Deep crimson, threaded with silver aether-ink.
The crest was unmistakable.
House Varenth.
He stilled.
"Ho..."
The murmur escaped him without thought, quiet as steam curling from a cooling cup.
House Varenth.
A Marquis family.
Old blood. Ancient title. Wealth and martial authority both. Their banners were stitched into the Crown Prince’s robes—not figuratively. Their heir trained beside Lucien since boyhood, their holdings guarded the eastern routes to the capital itself.
And unlike the others on the list—who operated under the faction’s broad banner, chasing favor in anticipation of future division—Varenth was direct.
They didn’t move unless the Crown Prince moved first.
Lucavion’s eyes narrowed.
That ant this wasn’t a speculative outreach. This wasn’t a noble testing the waters.
This was a ssage.
Either Lucien had taken personal interest—or soone had told him to.
"Did my ssage reach you?" Lucavion murmured, his tone almost absent, more thought than speech.
He leaned back, thumb hovering just above the crest of House Varenth, that crimson-and-silver weight pressed into digital parchnt. He had left breadcrumbs, after all. Through Seran. Through the calculated display of his power in the exam.
But even so...
’Lucien shouldn’t have taken it seriously. Not yet.’
The Crown Prince was many things. Paranoid. Controlled. Calculated to the marrow.
But not impulsive.
Not soone who sends his hound out unless he slls real fire.
Which ant...
Lucavion’s eyes narrowed further.
He slled it.
Or soone made sure he did.
"It doesn’t matter," he said softly, brushing past the Varenth dossier without opening it just yet. "We’ll see about that."
He tapped the filter tab on the upper ring of the interface and selected the imperial-tier notices. The light shifted—brighter, tighter. Sealed nas unspooled before him.
Only three.
That was all it ever took to change an entire board.
The first one blinked into view—
Imperial Tier Priority: Princess Selienne—First Imperial Daughter. Request for direct audience.
Lucavion’s breath caught—just a fraction. Just long enough for it to be noticeable, even to himself.
He hadn’t expected that.
Her faction sending offers? That was politics.
But Selienne herself?
That was personal.
His fingers slowed as he scanned the terms—formal, but concise. No handlers. No subordinates. No pretense of interdiaries. Just a single line at the end, written in her own sigil.
-------------
"A discussion between those who do not wait for crowns to validate them."
-------------
His brow rose, ever so slightly.
"...Interesting," he murmured.
But before he could linger, the second notice followed.
Imperial Tier Notice: Third Prince Roniel.
Lucavion stared at it for all of three seconds before a crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Roniel," he drawled, voice laced with dry amusent. "So the First Princess’s favorite court jester wants in, too."
Everyone knew Roniel aligned himself under Selienne like a loyal shade. The mont she rose, he’d parade himself as her most fervent supporter. His own ambitions were thinner than the air above the floating gardens.
Lucavion didn’t even bother to open the ssage. It would be filled with flowery language, carefully veiled promises, and desperate appeals to relevance.
"Pass."
But the third?
Ah.
The third brought his smile back in full.
Imperial Tier Notice: Fourth Imperial Princess Priscilla.
And that—
That was a surprise.
"...So, little Priscilla has decided to act."
He let the notice unfold slowly, savoring the rare pleasure of the unexpected. The emblem wasn’t gilded in gold or etched with ivory mana lace. No—hers was simpler. Cleaner. Almost austere, as if she refused to let station dilute intent.
Raised in obscurity. Rumored bastard. The "commoner princess" most nobles refused to na in formal circles.
He read her ssage twice.
There was no request for obedience. No promises of position. Only one line, written in clean Imperial:
----------
"You were waiting for ."
---------
Lucavion chuckled, the sound low and genuine.
"Oh....She is pretty sharp, as expected."
He closed the ssage and stood, the tea now forgotten.
"The world is moving faster than it should."
[Does that bother you?] Vitaliara asked, stretching along the couch’s edge.
He didn’t answer right away. He just turned to the projection glass and let it reflect the faint smirk that had returned to his face.
"No," he said finally. "It excites ."
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