Lucien’s world tilted—not with noise, but with silence.
The kind of silence that bled behind the eyes.
He stood in the center of his own scene, crafted with such precision, and watched it fracture in slow, deliberate slices. Not a sudden collapse. No. It was worse than that.
It was a symphony unraveling by the note.
The whispers didn’t slice. They corroded—soft and persistent, like rot in polished wood.
And Lucien... didn’t know how to stop it.
His fingers clenched once.
Then again.
Too tight. Too still.
Because for the first ti, he couldn’t recalibrate. Couldn’t reset the tempo.
There’s always a way. That was the mantra. The truth engraved into his spine by tutors, handlers, the Father himself.
But not this ti.
His mind searched for it.
Desperately.
A new angle. A redirection. A scapegoat, a technicality, sothing.
But it all slid through his fingers.
Every calculation unraveled by a single impossibility.
A Recorder.
A device that shouldn’t have existed in this room.
A truth that shouldn’t have had a voice.
And a boy who shouldn’t have mattered.
’A commoner...’
The word wasn’t just insult now.
It was confusion.
It was denial.
It was betrayal.
Lucien’s eyes locked on Lucavion—and for the first ti, they didn’t see a bug beneath a boot.
They saw a blade.
’He... outplayed .’
No. No. No.
The thought struck, raw and venomous.
I am Lucien Lysandros.
The na wasn’t title anymore.
It was armor.
It was gospel.
I am the heir of fla. The highest manifestation of imperial blood since the Founder. My mana scorched the sanctum walls before I could speak. My will bends cities. My word is policy.
And yet—
He stood there.
Mute.
While they whispered.
While he stood untouched.
Smiling.
Mocking.
Alive.
’I’ve been outplayed... by a lesser blood?’
The bile rose fast. Acidic. Sharp.
He could feel his hands twitch again, the aura beneath his skin threatening to crack the illusion of calm.
One order. One flick of the wrist. One surge of mana—
And this entire hall would rember who holds the right to burn.
And then—his eyes t them again.
Those eyes.
Lucavion’s.
Pitch-black. Reflecting nothing. Consuming everything.
They didn’t flinch. Didn’t break. They didn’t recoil from Lucien’s fire—they welcod it.
No... they invited it.
That damn smile—faint, calm, mocking—carved into his face like it had been etched in iron.
And in that curve of lips, in the unnatural stillness of his expression, Lucien saw sothing more than arrogance.
He saw challenge.
Not desperation.
Not recklessness.
Invitation.
’Dare to burn ,’ the smile said.
’Strike now.’
’Prove right.’
And Lucien...
Couldn’t.
His hand hovered—silent, furious, frozen.
Not from fear.
No.
Not fear.
Never fear.
But sothing deeper.
Sothing older.
A voice in the back of his mind—not spoken, but known. Instinct etched in bone and blood. A command passed down not by words, but through the very marrow of survival.
Do not.
And it shook him.
’What...?’
He tried again. To raise his hand. To summon fla. To give the order. To end it here.
But the motion wouldn’t co.
Why?
Lucien’s eyes narrowed, but the breath in his chest went shallow.
Why won’t I move?
He could feel it—the pulse of mana ready to rip open the air, the spell-threads aligned and coiled. He had never been stopped before. Never restrained. Every instinct had always obeyed the crown, the will.
But now?
His mind scread for action.
And his body—
Refused.
It wasn’t physical.
It wasn’t fear of punishnt, or decorum, or retribution.
It was sothing else.
A feeling he could not na.
A knowing.
If I strike first... it will be the end of sothing.
As if that was what his body is telling him.
Then he understood the reason why.
Yes...
Lucien’s fingers flexed again, still empty, still motionless.
It’s not weakness. It’s not hesitation.
Of course it wasn’t.
It was his discipline. His breeding.
Superior blood doesn’t flail in desperation. It doesn’t descend to the level of rabble. It waits. It calculates.
This restraint—it wasn’t fear.
It was refusal.
A refusal to grant a common-born illusionist the satisfaction of witnessing the Crown Prince break decorum.
That had to be it.
’You used underhanded ans,’ Lucien thought, the words like cold iron tightening around his sense of self, ’as expected from a lesser born.’
A trick. A cheap artifact. A setup months in the making. All just to catch one mont, to spring it like a trap during the banquet.
Desperate.
Insidious.
Exactly what a gutter-born would do.
And I...
He drew a long breath through his nose.
I will not be dragged into the mire by a smiling worm with a toy.
Yes.
That was it.
He was above this.
Even now, when the ground shifted. Even now, when the illusion cracked.
And then—
The whispers returned.
But this ti, they didn’t ripple beneath him.
They rose.
"...he didn’t deny it..."
"...and she looked so certain..."
"...could he really have known, and still—?"
"...this changes things."
Lucien’s spine stiffened.
He stood motionless, but the rage in his bones humd like a song just shy of screaming.
They were shifting.
Not just glancing. Not whispering behind gloves and fans.
They were turning.
Not all of them.
But enough.
Enough for the weight of command to feel... lighter in the room.
Lucien’s eyes flicked—east to west, duke to daughter, instructor to whispering heir.
And that’s when he spoke again.
Lucavion.
His voice warm. Pleasant. Poison dipped in honey.
"Now, now..." he began, tone as light as snowfall, "dear Lucien."
Lucien’s teeth ground silently.
"You clearly stated sothing just now, didn’t you?" Lucavion continued, all wide-eyed innocence as he tilted his head. "Let see..."
And then—
He clapped.
Not loud.
But sharp.
Mock applause.
"Ah, right!" he said brightly. "It seems dear sister has a problem with her mory."
His tone shifted—suddenly silked with an imitation so crisp it bit into the air.
He lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes slightly, and in a voice chillingly close to Lucien’s own:
"Whatever she believes she saw—whatever sentint clouds her vision—it is incorrect."
The room stiffened.
Lucien didn’t move.
But his hand—curled, cold, clenched.
Lucavion let the silence thrum for one beat.
Then smirked.
"Was that what you said just now?" he asked, feigning a thoughtful tap to his chin. "I do rember hearing it."
He leaned back ever so slightly, as if giving Lucien the stage again—offering it, wrapped in barbed silk.
And then, sweet as rot:
"Ah, right... maybe I have a problem with my mory too."
He turned, hand splayed theatrically.
"Since, apparently, rembering the truth seems to be such a ’problem’ for you, isn’t it?"
-------------A/N------------
I am sorry for this, but it seems I posted the last part of the Chapter incorrectly.
I will need to fix the word count for this, as the system doesn’t allow to remove more than 100 words. Therefore, please ignore the part below.
And those who are listening through audio, please go to the next Chapter if possible. Sorry for the inconvenience again.
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