Clang!
The heavy, silver-white armor crashed onto the stone floor with a deafening noise. Standing over it with an icy expression, Crown Prince Ivailo commanded, “Get rid of that.”
Beside him, the middle-aged butler trembled, rushing forward to scoop up the cumbersome metal. The sheer weight caused the butler to stumble, echoing another awkward clatter of steel against stone. Ivailo shot him a look of absolute disgust.
“I told you not to make a racket, didn’t I? Get out of my sight, immediately.”
The butler’s face drained of color. Clutching the heavy armor with shaking hands, he practically bolted from the room.
Ivailo rolled his stiff shoulders, a deep frown settling across his face as he thought back to his triumphal entry into the capital.
Those wretched, pathetic commoners.
He loathed the endless throngs of citizens cheering and applauding in the streets. His jaw had ached from forcing a fake, exuberant smile for miles. If it weren’t for public image, he would have wiped those smug expressions right off their faces.
I don’t understand why I have to cater to a bunch of insignificant nobodies.
He was the sole Crown Prince of the Empire. How dare they stare at him with their own eyes instead of groveling in the dirt? If optics didn’t matter, he would have had every single one of their eyes gouged out.
A dark, twisted thought crossed his mind, curling the corner of his mouth into a smirk. Before long, a low chuckle bubbled up, transforming into loud, arrogant laughter that echoed off the high walls.
“Puhahaha!”
Ivailo pressed a hand over his mouth, reigning in his amusement. “Oh, dear. I shouldn’t laugh, but just imagining it is so delightful.”
He sank into his plush chair, locking his hands behind his neck and staring up at the ceiling. Ivailo, you’re almost there. Once you take the throne, the entire world is yours.
The Emperor’s faction of nobles had forced him to lead the grueling Northern subjugation, hoping to break him. But he had returned victorious, and any whispers of a challenged succession had been permanently silenced.
No noble in their right mind would dare oppose me now.
Yet, the relaxed expression vanished, replaced by sudden irritation as he thought of his political rivals. Those bastards… they even had the audacity to whisper that Freyer would make a better Crown Prince.
If anyone ever actually tried to pull that stunt, he wouldn’t hesitate. If they keep running their mouths, I’ll take Freyer’s head and display it in the palace hall as a warning.
Ivailo ran his tongue slowly over his lips. When he first learned that Freyer was the Emperor’s illegitimate son by a foreign hostage princess, he hadn’t been worried. What kind of political threat could a half-breed bastard from a conquered land pose?
But that illusion shattered the day he first saw the boy in the Imperial Palace. For the first time in his life, he had witnessed the Emperor smile—a warm, bright smile—at a child who possessed the exact same silver hair and green eyes.
I had been far too arrogant. That brat could actually threaten my position.
The realization had broken his world. Young Ivailo had clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug deep into his palms, drawing blood. The memory of that sharp, burning pain still lingered.
And he had made a vow that day: I will strip away everything.
He had systematically targeted everything given to Freyer, big or small, just to remind him of his place.
That brat must have been living quite comfortably while I was freezing in the North.
Narrowing his eyes, Ivailo buzzed his desk. A moment later, his brown-haired secretary hurried into the study.
“Report. What has that brat Freyer been up to while I was away?”
“Th-That is…”
The secretary stammered, shrinking under Ivailo’s razor-sharp glare. An eyebrow twitched in annoyance. “Speak.”
“Truthfully, the Second Prince has been leaving the palace quite frequently lately.”
“Leaving? For what purpose?”
“That we haven’t been able to determine precisely—”
Bang!
Ivailo slammed his fist onto the desk, making the secretary flinch and cower. “You don’t know? Did you slack off just because my back was turned? Is basic surveillance too much to ask of you?”
Ivailo stood up, looming over the terrified man. He planted a finger against the secretary’s shoulder, shoving him back against the wall.
“If you want to keep your title as secretary, I suggest you do your job. Understand?”
With nowhere left to retreat, the secretary bowed his head deeply. Ivailo glared at him fiercely. “Go find out. Right now.”
The secretary scrambled out of the room like a fleeing animal. Ivailo sank back into his chair, gazing out the sunny window with a dark smirk.
I wonder why he’s suddenly running around. Did he think my absence was his chance? Even if he found a shred of hope… I’m going to drag him straight back down to hell.
The training grounds were bathed in harsh sunlight.
Freyer swung his practice sword, the blade cutting through the air with a chilling, wind-like hiss. Despite the bright day, dark, bruised shadows hung heavily beneath his eyes.
Derek, his loyal escort knight, hovered nearby, looking increasingly worried. “Your Highness, you look dreadful. How many nights have you gone without sleep this time?”
Freyer frowned, rubbing his temples. “Perhaps, four days? I’ve lost track.”
Derek’s eyes widened in horror before he bowed his head in deep self-reproach. “It is entirely my fault. I should have forced you to rest—”
“This isn’t your fault, Derek. It’s nothing new.”
Freyer slid his sword back into its scabbard. As he turned toward the exit, a sudden, blinding spike of pain flared behind his eyes. He stumbled, clutching his head with a grimace.
“Your Highness!” Derek rushed forward to steady him, but Freyer waved him off weakly.
I can’t keep going like this…
Freyer hadn’t slept a wink since his latest nightmare. The lead on the mysterious woman had turned up dead, and the bizarre encounter with the woman who looked identical to his dead mother had only triggered worse flashbacks, keeping him awake night after night.
Now, his body was finally crashing.
As Freyer fought off the blinding migraine, heavy, unfamiliar footsteps crunched against the gravel of the training grounds. Freyer forced his eyes open to see Crown Prince Ivailo walking toward him, dressed in a navy training uniform. Derek had mentioned earlier that his older brother had returned from the North, but he hadn’t expected him here so soon.
So, he’s already made his way over.
Masking his exhaustion, Freyer bowed his head slightly. “Welcome back, Brother.”
“By the looks of it, you already knew I was back,” Ivailo said, a cold, mocking smile playing at the corner of his lips. “It would have been polite of you to greet me sooner. Or did you stay away on purpose?”
“That was not my intention.”
Freyer kept his voice flat, refusing to take the bait.
Suddenly, Ivailo stepped right into his personal space, his expression hardening into an aggressive grin before he slapped a heavy, patronizing hand onto Freyer’s shoulder.
“I’m joking, little brother. Relax, your stiffness is giving me secondhand awkwardness.”
Ivailo’s hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword. “Since we’re both here, how about a friendly sparring match for old times’ sake?”
Derek tensed up immediately. Knowing how exhausted Freyer was, the knight stepped close and whispered urgently, “Your Highness, you cannot spar in this condition.”
“It’s fine,” Freyer muttered under his breath.
Raising his voice slightly, Freyer looked at Ivailo. “Very well.”
Derek let out a heavy, anxious sigh and took a reluctant step back. “…I will fetch the wooden practice swords, Your Highness.”
“We aren’t children anymore, Derek,” Ivailo interrupted, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. “Let’s use real steel.”
Derek shot Freyer a desperate, pleading look, begging him to refuse. But Freyer avoided his gaze and gave a faint nod to Ivailo. “As you wish.”
The two brothers stepped to the center of the training ring. As the cold gleam of bare steel flashed in the sunlight, Ivailo didn’t waste a second—he lunged forward, bringing his blade down hard.
Clang!
A sharp, piercing screech of metal echoed across the yard, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Ivailo pressed the offensive, raining down heavy, brutal strikes.
Despite his dizziness and lack of sleep, Freyer parried the attacks with practiced, mechanical precision.
Zzzzing—
As Freyer blocked a particularly vicious overhead strike, a violent wave of crimson aura violently burst from Ivailo’s blade.
The sheer force blasted Freyer’s sword out of his grip, sending it spinning away. Before Freyer could even blink, the razor-sharp tip of Ivailo’s unshielded blade pressed firmly against the skin of his throat, drawing a single bead of bright red blood.
“I yield. I’ve lost,” Freyer said flatly.
Instead of pulling away, Ivailo slowly pressed the blade deeper into Freyer’s skin.
As Freyer gritted his teeth against the stinging pain, Ivailo finally withdrew the sword, a cruel, satisfied smirk twisting his features.
“Oops. My hand slipped.”