Lucien sat on a regal couch, his cerulean eyes gliding over the lines of the book in his hands. The faint scent of old paper and ink drifted from the towering shelves around him, accompanied by the distant chirping of birds outside the Emperor's library.
Footsteps approached, followed by the gentle thud of books being set on the table before him.
"This will be the last batch," a man's voice said.
Lucien looked up to find a fair young man with ash-grey hair and matching eyes, straightening his posture. He inclined his head. "Thank you, Alfred."
The man smiled proudly and bowed. "It is my pleasure."
Lucien lifted his teacup, sipping quietly before returning to his book.
Alfred Ivorfield—his newly appointed steward.
His mother had personally assigned him in preparation for Lucien's upcoming debut in court affairs.
Seven weeks had passed since his arrival at the Sol Palace. While his grandfather had departed for the Zerounix–Solairé sea border, Lucien spent those days scouring every book in the Imperial Library for a way back to the modern world, only to find nothing.
A shadow fell across his book. Glancing up, Lucien saw Tristan standing behind him, arms crossed, his expression sour enough to curdle milk. Ignoring him, he returned to his reading.
"What are you doing?" Tristan's tone carried its usual disapproval.
"Are you blind?" Lucien deadpanned, eyes fixed on the page.
"Ha. My dear brother is truly hilarious." He muttered, settling beside him. "Your birthday's coming up, and you're still holed up doing boring things. What even is this?" He picked up a book from the table, squinting at the title. "Other Dimensions? What kind of nonsense are you into?"
"Any updates from the meeting?" Lucien met his eyes, diverting the topic.
Tristan sighed exaggeratedly and dropped the book onto the table with a thud. "The date for the diplomatic channel is set. The peace talks will be held in Estrine."
"I see." Lucien set his book aside and took a slow sip of his tea.
So far, everything had fallen into place. Zerounix denied the rumors and called for an investigation, appointing the elves as neutral overseers. As expected, the findings revealed third-party interference, clearing Solairé of blame.
With the elven delegation present, the Empire extended an olive branch, and Zerounix—though begrudgingly—accepted. Peace talks would now be held in Estrine, the Elven Kingdom.
Though the outcome wasn't final, the possibility of altering the story's course was real. There would be consequences; there always were. But he didn't care. He had done it all to survive—for himself and the real Lucien. Even if the story spiraled into chaos, Tristan would ultimately set it right in the end.
After all, that was what the protagonists were meant to do.
"I assume you'll be participating?" Lucien asked, setting his teacup down.
Tristan groaned. "Do you think I have a choice? I'd rather stay here and attend your coming-of-age ceremony than sit through another dull meeting."
"When do you leave?" Lucien asked.
Tristan let his head fall back against the couch, grumbling, "A week before your ceremony."
Lucien regarded him for a moment. So that's why he's in a mood.
"Speaking of your coming-of-age," Tristan lifted his head, his voice softening, "have you thought about what you want as a gift?"
He shook his head. "Not yet."
Tristan stared at him in disbelief, the corner of his lip twitching. "Are you serious?"
Lucien gave him a flat look. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Groaning, Tristan threw his hands up. "Stop answering my questions with questions! Here—" He plunked a small bottle onto the table. "Come on—let's go to the plaza. It's been a while since we hit it, hasn't it?"
Lucien eyed the bottle. The liquid inside shimmered like molten silver, a hair-color potion. Every member of the imperial bloodline shared one unmistakable trait: snow-white hair. With this, he could change his appearance and blend into the crowd.
"So, what do you say?" Tristan asked, a grin spreading across his face, his mint-colored hair catching the sunlight.
In the novel, there had always been whispers that Tristan was Helene's illegitimate son. Nonsense, of course. He took after his mother, not their father. But in this world, there was no such thing as a DNA test to silence rumors.
Lucien sighed. "Alright."
Granting Tristan this one indulgence felt fair. After all, he'd kept him informed about every meeting—repaying that small debt helped keep the scales balanced. And after nearly two months cooped up in the palace, a bit of fresh air might do him good.
"But first, I'll need to notify my mother," Lucien said. Just in case something unexpected happened.
"Sure, whatever," Tristan waved it off.
Once the message was sent, his steward assisted him with the potion.
"It's done, Your Highness," Alfred said, handing him a hand mirror.
Lucien studied his reflection. His once-white hair had turned to a bright blonde, though his eyebrows and lashes remained stubbornly pale. Tristan warned him not to apply the potion there, so there was nothing he could do.
After donning a robe, they left the library.
***
"Your plan failed—all thanks to the little prince." A woman's irritated voice cut through the dimly lit room.
The man behind the desk merely nodded, unfazed. "Yes, it did." He shrugged. "Well, we couldn't expect everything to go smoothly, could we?"
A second man, seated beside the woman, spoke up. "What now? We can't locate the item without triggering a war—too little time."
The man offered a reassuring smile. "It's fine. I already have a follow-up plan."
"Always prepared, aren't you?" The woman leaned back against the couch, arms crossed.
"Failure's inevitable at times," he said softly, almost kindly. "The key is being ready when it happens."
"And the plan is?" The second man leaned forward, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
The man smiled benignly, though it never touched his eyes. "Prince Lucien." He leaned back in his chair, his voice turning cold. "I want him."