The extravagant dining table stretched endlessly before him, its polished surface reflecting the flickering light of the grand chandelier above. Golden candlesticks glimmered between half-empty platters of roasted pheasant, glazed fruits, and silver dishes streaked with the remnants of sauces. Servants moved like shadows along the edges of the hall, their soft steps and careful hands gathering plates in silence, as though afraid to break the tension that hovered in the air.
Lucien swirled the wine in his goblet idly pure performance, as he wasn’t yet allowed to drink, letting the dark liquid catch the candlelight as he studied the room. His father sat at the head of the table, posture straight, crown gleaming faintly in the dim glow. King Vaeric’s face was unreadable, carved from stone, his gaze fixed ahead until—
The air shifted.
Purple smoke unfurled from the corners of the hall, seeping through the cracks of the great doors, curling over windows, coiling along the walls until the chamber itself seemed submerged in a haze. The servants froze mid-motion, then bowed quickly and withdrew, leaving their trays behind. The heavy doors sealed with a groan, muffling the hall as though they had all sunk beneath deep water. Every sound dulled, thickened, swallowed by the haze.
Lucien stiffened but kept his expression smooth. He recognized the spell. He had seen it before, during secret war councils. A ward of silence, a veil against prying ears, against scrying eyes. No word spoken within would ever escape.
King Vaeric leaned forward, folding his hands upon the table. His voice cut through the muffled air, steady but grave.
“My son, I have a matter, you must hear.”
Lucien arched a brow, leaning back in his chair, feigning ease. “Have some lords finally offered their daughters’ hands?” His tone was light, but his face remained a careful mask, even for his father.
The King’s lips curved into a brief, amused smile—but the Queen’s sharp gaze cut the levity short. She turned her head, her jeweled headdress catching the light as she fixed Lucien with a glare that stilled the air more than any spell.
“This is no time for levity,” she said, her voice clipped, edged with unease.
The humor drained from Lucien’s face. He set the goblet down carefully, its base clicking against the polished wood, the sound strangely heavy in the silenced room.
“Your mother is right,” his father said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “This is no laughing matter.”
He rose from his seat slightly, his palms pressing against the table, leaning closer, the weight of his presence filling the space. The chandelier swayed faintly above, the purple smoke casting strange shadows across his features.
“The Pope has sent a message,” Vaeric continued, each word measured, deliberate. “It arrived only hours ago.” He paused, the silence stretching, then his gaze locked with his son’s. “The Hero’s summoning has begun.”
Lucien’s goblet rattled faintly where it sat abandoned. His voice faltered.
“The Hero…? Did—” he swallowed, forcing steadiness “did Kaelvar die?”
Queen Iselda’s composure cracked. Her slender hands clenched in her lap, jeweled rings catching the light as her mask of calm wavered. “Yes,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “He fell in Myrrhevia’s dungeon.”
Lucien surged to his feet, the chair screeching against the stone floor. His mask slipped at last, fear and urgency flashing across his face. “We’ll need to tell the nobles, prepare the armies—!”
King Vaeric raised a single hand. The gesture alone was enough to silence him. The King’s calm was unnerving, his voice ironclad.
“I’m telling you this now because we’ll need to make changes to our plans for you.”
“Changes? Me?” Lucien squeaked, his composure fraying. “The Hero was clearly—”
“You need to secure your position,” Vaeric cut in, his tone sharpened like a blade. He leaned back in his chair now, but the weight of his gaze pressed down heavier than when he’d leaned forward. “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll be contacting your brothers and sisters as well. By then you’ll need to be on your way to the Academy to secure your allies before they can.”
Lucien’s voice pitched high with protest. “But why? I’m already the crown prince! I already have allies in the nobility.”
His father’s eyes fixed on him, steady and unyielding. “This matter surpasses our kingdom’s nobility. The summoning of the Hero will draw thousands into new power. If your sister were to wed a Godsworn, her claim could eclipse yours. You must gather every ounce of support before that can happen.”
Lucien’s throat tightened. “What must I do, Father?”
The Queen finally moved, her hand brushing a goblet aside as she leaned forward. “For starters, you’ll be delivering messages.”
“You will go to the Academy,” Vaeric said, his tone deliberate, each word carrying the weight of command. “There you will see to it that our tutors and knights take their places of influence. Every kingdom holds a voice within those halls, but you must secure ours before your brothers and sisters move their pieces upon the board.”
He leaned back, eyes narrowing, his voice dropping lower. “When that is done, you will draw close to the candidates themselves. Friendships forged there may shape the future more than any army.”
“If you could get to know the Hero,” Queen Iselda said softly, though her eyes burned with calculation, “and marry them, you would secure our nation’s prosperity.”
Lucien swallowed hard, nodding slowly. The weight of their expectations pressed down on him like stone, but he forced his voice steady. “I’ll go to the Academy,” he said quietly.
“Good,” Vaeric said, satisfaction in his tone. His lips curled into a thin smile, calm but commanding. “My son, I told you. I’ll speak to your siblings after dinner. And I fully intend to take my time with it.”
Lucien opened his mouth to reply, but his father’s hand rose, silencing him once more.
“You won’t be sleeping here tonight,” Vaeric continued, his voice as steady as the stone walls around them. “Go to the courtyard. Callum is waiting with the horses. You’ll ride at once.”
Lucien blinked, caught off guard. “Now? But my things—”
“Leave them,” Vaeric interrupted, his tone hard as iron. “You’ll have what you need. Callum knows the plan. Follow his lead, and do not waste time second-guessing him.”
The Queen’s eyes flicked toward her son, softer than the King’s, but no less resolute. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table as she leaned closer. “The road will test you, Lucien. But you were born for this. Remember that, and no blade will find you unready.” she said quietly, her voice gentler now. “Steel and spell both. You’re an exceptional young man, Lucien. You’ll need every skill we’ve given you before this is through.”
King Vaeric nodded once, as if to seal her words with his authority. “Callum is waiting in the courtyard with the horses. A handful of guards will ride with you—no more than half a dozen. Enough to keep you safe on the road, but not so many that you draw attention.” His gaze hardened, each word striking like a hammer on an anvil. “This is not a parade. You are leaving as a shadow, not a prince. Keep it that way.”
Lucien’s lips parted, but no protest came. The enormity of it pressed down on him—the suddenness of his departure, the weight of secrecy, the thought of venturing into the night with only a thin shield of steel between him and the dangers beyond.
A resigned sigh escaped him at last. He bowed properly, the movement sharp despite the tension tightening his shoulders. “As you wish, Father.” Leaning down, he brushed a kiss against his mother’s cheek; she patted his arm with cool reassurance.
He turned then, the purple haze parting as he moved toward the great doors. His boots clicked against the marble floor, each step ringing faintly in the muffled air. The chamber felt smaller with every stride, the air heavy as though water pressed in from every side.
His hand reached for the iron handle. For just a moment, he paused, breathing deep, steadying the storm racing through his thoughts. Then he pushed the door open, stepping into the corridor beyond. The smoke curled behind him as the doors closed with a final, echoing thud.