Inside the luxurious carriage, Lucien sat deep within the red cushions, a study in practiced stillness. His hands were folded neatly atop his crossed knees, and his red eyes—the color of a dying ember—watched the architectural beauty of the Eryndor capital pass by through the window. A few strands of soft brown hair fell across his forehead, casting a shadow over a face that had learned to mask ambition with grace.
Across from him, Kaelen shifted.
Groan.
The metal of his newly acquired armor mirrored the man who wore it. His hands, thick with the callouses of a lifetime spent honing his craft, rested steadily on the pommel of his sword. His eyes, sharp and restless, tracked the movements of the city guards and the flow of the crowds.
"Have you ever been here, Kaelen?" Lucien spoke, his voice breaking the silence like a stone dropped into a mirror-still pond.
"No. It's my first time," Kaelen replied, his gaze flickering to Lucien.
The man he once called Young Lord was no longer a distant master. Since the day Vionette had granted them equal authority, the rigid hierarchy of Blackmore had dissolved. They had become something more—comrades forged in the fires of Crimvane's rebirth. The 'fun' they had shared during their first night of freedom had bonded them.
"It's my first mission as the Royal Envoy," Lucien mused, a small, ambitious smile playing on his lips as he adjusted his cuffs. "So let's finish our missions perfectly first before we even think about enjoying ourselves."
"Well, yeah," Kaelen leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.
Rattle.
Rattle.
The rhythmic movement of the carriage sought to soothe him. "Lady Vionette did tell us to enjoy ourselves. It'd be a sin to let her down."
The carriage was escorted by twelve royal knights, their horses' hooves beating a steady tattoo against the cobblestones. Normally, an envoy representing a kingdom's interest would require a small army for a visit of this magnitude. However, Kaelen was a fortress in a single body—his presence alone filled the silence where a hundred spears should have been.
They had traveled for days, leaving the burgeoning construction of Crimvane behind to reach the bustling heart of Eryndor.
"Halt! State your name and allegiance!" a castle guard shouted as the procession reached the grand gates.
Unlike Noa and Vionette—who had arrived on foot like wandering ghosts and charmed their way past the gates through Vionette's history with the old butler—Lucien approached with the full, heavy theatre of diplomacy. He came with matched horses, knights in polished formation, and a herald whose staff struck the stone with the finality of a gavel.
"By banner and seal, the Royal Envoy of Crimvane seeks audience!" the herald's voice rang out, clear and unyielding.
The guards descended, their eyes narrowing as they inspected the royal insignia of Crimvane—a crest that had been dead for years and was now suddenly, vibrantly alive. They checked the wax seals and the quality of the steel. After a tense, breathless pause, the captain of the gate signaled his men.
"Open the gates for the envoy of Crimvane!"
***
The massive, iron-reinforced doors of the Throne Room swung open with a low, resonant groan. A breeze, cool and scented with the mountain air of Eryndor, swept into the hall, ruffling the long banners that hung from the ceiling.
Lucien stepped onto the marble floor without a single heartbeat of hesitation. He walked with a confidence that bordered on the divine—the same confidence poise Noa and Vionette had recognized back in Blackmore.
Kaelen followed a half-step behind, his senses dialed to the highest frequency, a silent shadow to Lucien's brilliant sun.
The Throne Room was a temple of wealth and mercenary power. Pillars were encrusted with gold filigree, and the stairs leading to the throne seemed to stretch toward the heavens.
There sat King Roswell, his face a mask of weathered stone, and beside him, Queen Livora. Her aquatic-blue hair fell like a waterfall over her shoulders, her front hair framing blue eyes that watched the newcomers with a predator's focus.
"The Envoy of Her Majesty Vionette Crimvane is entering with the Queen's Blade!" the herald announced.
Lucien reached the base of the stairs and stopped. He bowed—a sharp, measured angle that satisfied the rules of protocol but lacked the submissiveness of a vassal. He did not kneel. To kneel was to admit that Crimvane was beneath Eryndor, and Lucien would rather die than give that impression.
"Your Majesty," Lucien began, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. "By command of His Lordship, Lord Noa, I bring this message to Your Majesty."
The room fell into a silence so profound it felt as though the very air had turned to glass.
Lord Noa? The dukes and marquesses looked at one another in confusion. They expected a message from the Queen, not some unknown lord whose name carried no weight in the history books.
Not even kneeling? Even though they come to us as beggars? Livora thought, her pride stinging.
To her, Crimvane was a fallen house, a flickering candle in a storm that only Eryndor's breath could keep lit. She found it incredibly arrogant that this boy stood so tall.
"…Noa?"
"Is he not Crimva—"
"That's enough," Roswell silenced her and the rest of the court with a single, heavy word. He remembered the boy with the violet eyes and the way reality seemed to warp around him. "Deliver the message from Noa Ravel, Vionette Crimvane's partner and equal."
Roswell's declaration sent a ripple of shock through the room. A commoner—or at least, a man without a title they recognized—was being called an equal to the Queen.
"Two weeks from now," Lucien continued, his red eyes locked onto Roswell's. "Crimvane's soldiers will depart for Eryndor. We ask only that you provide a place for them to rest. Do not prepare an army, and do not attempt to fight back. We will defeat Aurelyth on our own, so we ask you to simply step aside and watch the show."
Lucien had added his own layers of silk to the message, turning Noa's blunt command into a masterpiece of diplomatic theatre. He lowered his head slightly.
"That concludes the message."
"What?" Livora spoke for the entire court, her voice laced with incredulity. "What is that supposed to mean? You reject our steel? You think you can stand against a superpower with your ragtag band?"
Lucien turned his gaze toward her, a small, daring smirk dancing on his lips.
"It is exactly as I stated, Your Majesty. We will win. So please, just watch."
The Queen was taken aback, her mind racing. The kingdom that was supposed to crawl before them, begging for mercenaries and gold, was instead inviting them to a performance. It was a staggering display of audacity.
"We know it is a heavy request," Lucien added, placing a hand over his chest as he gave a slight, respectful bow. "But please trust us with it. We will win."
"Okay."
The word was a tectonic shift. Roswell had agreed. The nobles gasped, their voices rising in a frantic murmur.
To agree to this was to gamble the very safety of Eryndor on the word of a man who didn't even have a proper title. But Roswell knew better; he had felt the seed Vionette had planted during her visit. He knew the predator that lived behind her smile.
"I will entrust the defeat of Aurelyth to Crimvane," Roswell said, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. "However, if Crimvane shows even a flicker of failure, Eryndor will take the lead and finish what you started."
"Good," Lucien nodded, his confidence unshakeable. "Well then, excuse us."
He turned on his heel with the grace of a dancer, his cloak swirling behind him as he walked out of the room. Kaelen gave a sharp bow and followed, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
…
"Your Majesty, what is the meaning of this?"
"We need an explanation!"
"You are gambling with the very soil of Eryndor!"
The moment the doors closed, the nobles erupted. The room became a cacophony of fear and indignation.
"Roswell, why did you just accept that? Why give them such freedom?" Even Livora turned to her husband, her face flushed with confusion.
In Crimvane, Vionette had built her foundation on a different kind of stone; she personally recruited her inner circle, weaving threads of absolute faith into a tapestry of unbreakable loyalty. Her people followed her because of faith and royalty.
But here, in the ancient halls of Eryndor, faith was a luxury the nobility couldn't afford. Their loyalty was a calculated currency, traded for security and status.
Roswell looked up at the gold-flecked ceiling, a tired, ancient expression crossing his face. He let out a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the throne itself.
"Do you know why Aurelyth truly began their march?" Roswell asked, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
"Because we finally choose our side right?" She replied, knowing the reason full well.
Roswell leaned his head back against the carved mahogany of his throne, staring up at the intricate frescoes above with a weary, hollow expression.
"Then, tell me... do you know why we finally chose that side?"
"Because Aurelyth's prince arrived and forced our hand." She narrowed her eyes, a flicker of confusion clouding her aquatic-blue gaze.
She knew the political ledger of her kingdom inside and out, yet Roswell was speaking as if the ink had been rewritten behind her back.
"No." He shook his head slowly, a grim, admiring smile touching his lips. "It was because of those two—Vionette and Noa."
"What?" The word slipped from Livora's lips before she could catch it.
A heavy, expectant silence blanketed the room. Every noble, guard, and advisor leaned in, their breaths held as the foundations of their understanding began to crack.
"Prince Cassian never even had the opportunity to pressure us," Roswell revealed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial low. "He was already unconscious by the time his carriage left our gates. We suppressed the truth to prevent a diplomatic wildfire, but the reality is far more terrifying."
He was unconscious? Why? How? The questions raced through Livora's mind like a panicked herd, the gaps in her knowledge finally being filled with a chilling new reality.
"Aurelyth intended to let the world simmer for six months before striking," Roswell continued, looking directly into his wife's eyes. "But why do you think they scrambled their legions so desperately? It was because of them. Aurelyth never drew first blood in this conflict... Crimvane did."
"???"
The shock in the room was so thick it was almost tangible. Not a single breath was drawn. The kingdom they had viewed as a fragile, desperate prey had actually been the apex predator all along. They realized in that moment that every move they had made—every fear and every calculation—had been part of an elaborate illusion designed to make the real prey take the bait.
As Roswell watched the doors through which the envoy had vanished, a strange thought took root in his mind.
That boy, Lucien... he is just like him. He remembered how Noa had stood before him with no detectable aura. Lucien, too, possessed only a faint, almost negligible trace of power.
Is he hiding it? Roswell wondered, his mind spinning a web of false assumptions. Perhaps his control is as absolute and perfect as Noa's?
The King was falling into a trap of his own making. The other special ability the two saw in Lucien was starting to work—his abnormal, reality-warping luck.
***
"Please rest here," a maid said, leading Lucien and Kaelen to their guest wing.
Lucien walked into his room and looked around. It was a mirror of the luxury he had known as a young lord of Blackmore—silk sheets, ornate rugs, and a balcony that overlooked the glowing city. Kaelen's room was right next door, a similarly grand space.
"That went well," Kaelen said, leaning against the doorframe as he watched the maids bring in their luggage. "We actually got 'em to agree."
"Yeah," Lucien said, hands on his hips as he looked out at the city of Veylith. "Somehow, we did."
They stood there for a long moment, the heavy tension of the throne room finally dissolving into the cool night air. The mission was a success, but the real work was only beginning.
"What's next?" Kaelen asked, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone.
"Next," Lucien's red eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. "We head to that tailor shop Lady Vionette mentioned. There's a request she needs handled personally. And after that..."
The two looked at each other and shared a sinister, knowing smirk. They remembered the way they had earned a mountain of gold the last time they went out to 'have fun' in a city that didn't know who they were.
"Then we do that," Kaelen said, completing the thought.
They took a step into the hallway together, their minds already racing ahead.