"So the famous Xavion Astervan has finally been reduced to this, blind and barely able to stand."
"Then again, he’s already useless without his magic, isn’t he?"
"At least the ruined creature might serve a purpose before he rots."
Xavion’s eye snapped open.
His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in quick, silent hitches against the heavy silk quilt. For a long, motionless minute, he lay entirely still on the high, unfamiliar bed, staring up at the canopy above him.
Slowly, Xavion raised a hand, pressing his cold palm against his forehead.
It wasn’t a nightmare, not really. It was just memory. The insults he had endured for years, repeated so often by those in Ostharia that it had eventually seeped into his bones: The ruined prince. The hero who lost his core. The useless third son whose magic couldn’t light a candle, let alone lead a vanguard.
Gradually, those harsh, echoing insults began to tangle with the strange, surreal events of the previous night. The blaring brass fanfares of the victory banquet. The quiet whispers of the Werestian aristocracy.
And then... Lioren Roscaire had appeared before him. Stepping out of the crowd, raising a hand with total, unapologetic arrogance, and burning a priceless royal favor to claim him, a ruined, half-blind political captive, as a fiancé.
Knock, knock.
A light, hesitant tapping on the bedchamber door shattered his lingering thoughts.
Before the heavy latch could even turn, Xavion’s hand moved by pure, lightning-fast instinct. He reached for the nightstand, snatched the leather eyepatch resting beside his discarded tunic, and tied it securely over the right side of his face. His fingers pulled the thin silver clasp tight behind his ear, his knuckles turning white.
Only when the leather was firmly anchored over his ruined eye did he allow his posture to relax, his expression settling into its usual quiet composure.
"Enter," Xavion called out.
A young Werestian palace maid stepped inside, balancing a heavy silver tray loaded with a porcelain basin of steaming water, fresh linen towels, and a steaming brass pot of morning tea. She kept her eyes dutifully lowered to her apron, offering a small, polite curtsy near the washstand.
"Good morning, Your Highness," she said, her tone warm and utterly devoid of hostility. "I have brought your washing water. Breakfast has been laid out in the dining hall whenever you are prepared."
"Thank you," Xavion murmured, sitting up slowly.
He waited for it, that tiny, instinctive flinch people always made when they looked at him. The brief hesitation, the nervous glance toward his covered eye, the quiet pity or hidden disgust that usually accompanied every interaction with disgraced royalty.
It never came. The maid simply refilled his water cup, set out a fresh tunic of dark gray wool, curtsied again, and slipped out of the room with quiet efficiency.
Xavion sat on the edge of the mattress, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor, quietly struck by the mundane peace of it. No harsh glares from imperial guards. No condescending snickers from foreign envoys. Just a quiet room in an enemy palace.
He washed his face with the warm water, taking his time, avoiding his reflection in the oval mirror sitting beside the basin. He dressed methodically, pulling the gray tunic over his lean frame and fastening the simple silver belt around his waist. Without his magic, even the minor act of buttoning his sleeves felt slightly more tiring than it used to, his body still carrying the heavy, dull ache of corrupted mana channels that refused to heal.
Leaving his bedchamber, Xavion followed the silent corridors down to the small, private salon assigned to the foreign guest wing.
Unlike the roaring, suffocating madness of the ballroom the night before, the salon was bathed in peaceful, golden morning light. The tall arched windows looked out over the palace’s lower rose gardens, where a breeze rustled through the dying leaves. A modest spread had been arranged on a small round table: hot oat porridge sprinkled with dried berries, bread, fresh butter, and a pot of strong black tea.
He sat down alone.
There was no court watching him. No diplomats lingering nearby, waiting to scrutinize his every move. Just the soft clinking of his silver spoon against the porcelain bowl.
The utter, quiet solitude gave him room to breathe, and room to realize just how violently his world had spun off its axis in less than twenty-four hours. Yesterday morning, he had boarded a carriage in the Ostharia border camp, mentally preparing himself to be dragged into a dark palace dungeon or handed over to some cruel, ambitious border lord who would treat him like a piece of livestock. He had accepted it. He had spent months constructing a wall of stoic detachment around his heart, ready to endure whatever humiliation victorious Werestia threw at him.
Instead... he was sitting in a sunlit palace room, eating warm meal, formally betrothed to the most powerful man in Werestia.
A man who choked on some pastry. A man who grinned like a lunatic in front of his King. A man whose bright eyes didn’t look at Xavion with pity, disgust, or cold political calculation, but with a strange, fierce, almost absurd protectiveness.
Why?
The question nagged at the back of his mind like a persistent, quiet thrumming. Every diplomat in the capital was currently losing their mind trying to decipher the Grand Duke’s master plan. Including him.
Which somehow made the green-haired Duke a thousand times more dangerous, and infinitely more intriguing.
Xavion finished his tea, setting the small porcelain cup down onto its saucer with a delicate clink. He took a linen napkin, neatly dabbing at the corners of his mouth, and stood up from the table.
It was nearly noon. The formal contracts were set to be reviewed today, and whatever strange game the Northern Duke was playing, the first true moves would be made within the hour.
He walked out of the dining hall, stepping into the main corridor. Two palace guards stationed near the arched entryway immediately snapped to attention, their spears clattering softly against their breastplates.
"Your Highness," the senior guard said, bowing his head respectfully. "The Ostharian delegation has requested your presence. They are awaiting you in the lower reception drawing room."
Xavion’s posture straightened, his chin rising just a fraction as the cold, familiar armor of the fallen prince slid seamlessly back into place over his shoulders.
"Lead the way," Xavion said quietly.
He followed the guards down the grand staircase, his leather boots making no sound against the thick crimson carpet. They passed through the tall marble archway of the guest wing, stopping before a pair of oak doors guarded by two Ostharian guards wearing the silver-and-blue cloaks of his homeland.
The guards bowed stiffly, pushing the doors open.
Xavion stepped across the threshold, his single violet eye sweeping over the wide, sunlit drawing room.
Then he stopped.
The Ostharian delegation was waiting for him.
And judging by the expressions on their faces, this was not going to be a pleasant meeting.