“What a clumsy mistake.”
Ivailo said, inspecting a thin scratch running across Freyer’s neck.
“It’s bleeding more than I anticipated. I’ll make sure to watch my footing during our next sparring match. We’re good, right?”
Ivailo sheathed his sword, dropped a heavy, possessive hand onto Freyer’s shoulder, and grinned. Freyer stood completely motionless, offering no reply.
“You could at least say something. Your cold silence makes things terribly awkward.”
Ivailo gave his shoulder a casual pat, turned on his heel, and walked briskly out of the training grounds.
“Get that scratch looked at. Have sweet dreams.”
Freyer stared in silence as the Crown Prince strolled away, his teeth biting hard against his lower lip. Derek, who had been anxiously pacing the sidelines, rushed over in a panic.
“Your Highness! You’re bleeding! We need to stem the flow right away.”
Derek pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and offered it frantically. Freyer took it, pressing the fabric firmly against his neck.
The cut was deeper than it looked, and the white silk turned crimson in seconds. Freyer winced slightly at the stinging pain. Watching in fury, Derek growled under his breath:
“What kind of petty grudge does His Imperial Highness hold against you to pull a stunt like this?!”
Freyer shot a sharp warning glance in his direction.
“Derek. Watch your tongue. The walls have ears.”
“But, Your Highness…!”
“Let’s head inside.”
With that curt command, Freyer turned away from the training yard. Looking deeply distressed, Derek hurried to keep pace as his master retreated back into the palace.
Once inside his chambers, Freyer quickly had the wound dressed before collapsing onto his bed. Feeling utterly drained, he reached out, snuffed out the magical bedside lamp, and closed his eyes.
I just pray I don’t have those nightmares tonight.
In the pitch-black silence of his bedroom, only the faint, agonizing sounds of his restless torment filled the air.
Several days later, the Crown Prince’s chief secretary stepped cautiously into the private office.
Ivailo was slouched lazily in his high-backed leather chair, waving a hand for the report to begin.
“Your Highness. I’ve gathered intelligence regarding the Second Prince’s recent movements.”
“Oh? Do go on.”
“It appears that ever since the recent banquet, the Second Prince has been quietly searching for a particular individual.”
“Who is it? Cut to the chase.”
Ivailo narrowed his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
“We managed to bribe a few estate servants who worked the banquet hall. Based on that night’s events, we suspect the Second Prince crossed paths with a Lady Lilithia Baimery, and he’s been hunting her down ever since.”
The secretary laid a piece of parchment on the desk, featuring a rough sketch of a blonde woman and a brief physical description.
Ivailo glanced lazily at the drawing.
So that’s his type.
She wasn’t the sort of beauty that caught his eye. He dropped his gaze to the name written at the bottom:
Lilithia Baimery.
It belonged to a noble family he had never even heard of. A quick mental note reminded him that the Baimery Barony operated a minor, obscure trade guild down in the commercial district.
“I suppose he knows his proper station, crawling after a woman from a backwater house.”
Ivailo let out a dry, mocking chuckle. But the amusement vanished instantly. His expression iced over, and with a sudden, violent motion, he balled the parchment up into a tight fist, crushing it.
“And yet, he has the free time to chase women behind my back? Looks like my dear brother has grown far too comfortable.”
Ivailo tossed the crumpled ball of paper onto the desk and waved a hand dismissively. Yet, when he noticed the secretary lingering in place, his glare sharpened.
“I thought I told you to leave.”
Sensing the dangerous shift in mood, the secretary stammered apologetically:
“P-Pardon me, Your Highness. But Her Majesty the Empress has requested your immediate presence.”
“My mother?”
“Yes, sir. She instructed me to bring you straight to her private drawing room without delay.”
Ivailo’s temper flared. The thought of dealing with his mother’s suffocating lectures bright and early in the morning made his stomach turn. He slammed a heavy palm down on the desk, causing the secretary to flinch violently.
“Tch… how utterly exhausting.”
Still, defying her wasn’t an option. Her erratic, obsessive brand of maternal control had always been a thorn in his side. At least during his months away on the northern military campaign, he hadn’t had to listen to her nagging. Forcing his features to smooth over, Ivailo stood up from his chair.
“Let’s get this over with.”
The gold-trimmed double doors of the drawing room swung open with a soft creak. Seated inside was a middle-aged woman with raven-black hair and striking blue eyes—features that mirrored his own.
The Empress set her porcelain teacup down onto the glass table with a sharp, echoing clatter.
“My dear Crown Prince. I hear you arrived back at the palace quite a while ago. I was beginning to think you had completely forgotten your own mother.”
“How could I ever forget you, Mother? I was simply delayed by a mountain of urgent administrative duties.”
Ivailo brushed off her barbed greeting with a smooth smile as he strolled into the room.
Under normal circumstances, an excuse like that might have sent a teacup flying across the room. The surrounding maids nervously tensed, bracing for an outburst. Instead, the Empress merely twirled the delicate handle of her teacup, fixing her son with a cool gaze.
When Ivailo took the seat directly across from her, a maid quickly poured a fresh cup of tea. Ivailo narrowed his eyes playfully.
“Are you angry with me, Mother?”
“And I shouldn’t be? What pressing business could possibly take precedence over greeting your own flesh and blood the moment you return victorious?”
“You’re entirely right, and I sincerely apologize. The moment I received your message, I dropped everything to come here, so I hope you’ll forgive me.”
The Empress let out a sharp breath through her nose and turned her head away in mock displeasure. Grinning, Ivailo reached across the table and placed a hand over hers. The gesture instantly melted her icy facade, bringing a pleased smile to her lips. However, she quickly reined in her expression, maintaining an air of dignity.
“This mother wouldn’t bother sending out guards if she didn’t miss her precious son. It would have been nice if you’d visited of your own accord.”
“I promise to make it up to you next time.”
Ivailo picked up his teacup, took a polite sip, set it down, and shifted the conversation.
“Is something troubling you, Mother? You don’t look quite like your usual self.”
At his inquiry, the Empress’s brow furrowed. She pushed her teacup away and murmured, “It’s your father. His recent actions have felt remarkably suspicious.”
“The Emperor?”
“Even the spies we’ve embedded in his inner circle claim they have no idea what he’s planning, dragging that half-dead body of his around.”
Ivailo smirked, his gaze drifting lazily toward the terrified maids standing near the wall. The servant pouring tea visibly shuddered under his stare. Ivailo slowly picked up his cup again, watching her nervous movements.
“Well… it’s entirely possible they know and are simply keeping their mouths shut.”
He took another unhurried sip.
“Perhaps it’s time we swapped out the staff surrounding him. Blind loyalty is a minor annoyance, but intentional silence is unforgivable.”
“Hmm… Since you recommend it, I shall look into replacements.”
A satisfied smirk touched the corner of the Empress’s mouth.
“By the way, Mother,” Ivailo continued smoothly. “Have you heard any interesting rumors about the Second Prince lately?”
“I have far more important matters to care about than that disappointment.”
The Empress snapped back with immediate disgust at Freyer’s name. It was precisely the reaction Ivailo had expected.
Even though Freyer was a constant irritation to her, mentioning that the powerless prince was desperately combing the capital for an unknown noblewoman—rather than plotting treason—would only bore her.
“Quite right, Mother. Speaking of which,” she clapped her hands lightly together, her eyes brightening, “that reminds me! I am planning a grand victory gala to celebrate your safe return. What do you think? A magnificent celebration fit for the hero of the northern campaign, so the entire empire can look up to you!”
“A splendid idea, Mother. With the Emperor’s health failing by the day, it is crucial that I firmly consolidate my position now.”
The days following the Crown Prince’s triumphant return blurred past in a grueling haze of paperwork.
After hours of staring at endless trade ledgers back at the manor, my eyes felt ready to pop out of my skull, and I practically collapsed face-first onto my bedroom armchair.
“Ugh… I am officially dead.”
I wearily rubbed my stiff, aching shoulders. It baffles me how I ever managed to survive long hours hunched over a desk back in my modern student days.
A polite knock sounded at the door, and Winnie stepped inside carrying a polished silver tray.
“Miss, an official piece of mail has just arrived from the Imperial Palace.”
Despite having melted into my armchair like a puddle, I bolted upright at those words.
“An invitation?!”
Resting on the tray was heavy parchment stamped with an intricate, embossed seal—two golden phoenixes guarding a brilliant gem rising from an imperial crown. I reached out to grab it instantly, but—
Bzzzt.
The magical bedside lamp suddenly began flickering violently, casting erratic shadows across the room. Startled, Winnie dropped her tray onto a nearby table and hurried over to inspect the malfunctioning fixture. She twisted the adjustment knob and tapped the base, but the light only blinked faster.
“It was working perfectly fine when I dusted the room this afternoon…”
“Did the mana core run out?”
“I replaced it just a few days ago! It shouldn’t be dying already…”
Winnie tilted her head, looking thoroughly baffled. Setting the invitation aside, I stood up and clapped my hands together.
“Step aside, let me take a look!”
If there was one single skill I carried over with absolute confidence from my past life in the 21st century, it was my legendary touch.
My ‘Mighty Hand.’ In modern terms, it meant I had a magical knack for fixing broken office printers and temperamental electronics with a well-placed, highly scientific percussive maintenance slap!
Rolling up my sleeves, I marched over to the flickering lamp.
When dealing with stubborn machinery, brute-force intuition is key.
I gave the base of the lamp a light tap. When the light continued to sputter, I increased the pressure and delivered a sharp, decisive smack to the side.
Click.
Instantly, the erratic flashing stopped, and a steady, warm, brilliant glow illuminated the entire bedroom.
“Hey, look at that! It’s fixed!”
“Oh, thank goodness! Though it really is strange how only the lamp in your room constantly acts up like this.”
I beamed with immense, unwarranted pride, brushing off my hands. Turning back to the silver tray, I picked up the imperial invitation and cracked open the seal.
It was a formal summons addressed to the Baimery Barony, demanding our attendance at the grand gala celebrating the successful subjugation of the northern rebellion.
This was it—the exact inciting incident from the original novel where Nazlee and Crown Prince Ivailo cross paths and fall head over heels for one another.
No. Scratch that. This time, it’s going to be the turning point where Freyer and Nazlee meet instead! Because I am going to make sure of it!
If my master plan goes off without a hitch, a happy, peaceful future is finally within Freyer’s reach.
Just hang in there, Freyer. I’ve got your back!
Clenching my fist in fierce determination, I began mapping out my strategy.