Inside the luxurious carriage, Lucien sat deep within the red cushions, a study in practiced stillness. His hands were folded atop his crossed knees, and his red eyes—the color of a dying ember—watched the architectural beauty of the Eryndorian capital pass by through the window.
Across from him, Kaelen shifted, the metal of his newly acquired armor mirroring the man who wore it. His hands, thick with the callouses of a lifetime spent honing his craft, rested on the pommel of his sword.
“Have you ever been here, Kaelen?” Lucien spoke, his voice breaking the silence.
“No. It’s my first time,” Kaelen replied, his gaze flickering to Lucien.
The man he once called Young Lord was no longer a distant master. Since the day Vionette had granted them equal authority, the hierarchy of Blackmoor had dissolved.
“It’s my first mission as the Royal Envoy,” Lucien mused, a small, ambitious smile playing on his lips as he adjusted his cuffs. “So let’s finish our missions perfectly first before we even think about enjoying ourselves.”
“Well, yeah.” Kaelen leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rhythmic movement of the carriage soothe him. “Lady Vionette did tell us to enjoy ourselves. It’d be a sin to let her down.”
The carriage was escorted by twelve royal knights, their horses’ hooves beating a steady tattoo against the cobblestones. Normally, an envoy representing a kingdom’s interest would require a small army for a visit of this magnitude. However, Kaelen alone filled the silence where a hundred spears should have been.
They had traveled for days, leaving Crimvane behind to reach the bustling heart of Eryndor.
“Halt! State your name and allegiance!” a castle guard shouted as the procession reached the gates.
Unlike Noa and Vionette, who had arrived on foot like wandering merchants and charmed their way past the gates through Vionette’s history with the old butler, Lucien approached with the full theatre of diplomacy. He came with matched horses, knights in polished formation, and a herald whose staff struck the stone with the finality of a gavel.
“By banner and seal, the Royal Envoy of Crimvane seeks audience!” the herald’s voice rang out.
The guards came closer, their eyes narrowing as they inspected the royal insignia of Crimvane—a crest that had been dead for years and was now suddenly alive. They checked the wax seals and the quality of the steel.
After a tense pause, the captain of the gate signaled his men. “Open the gates for the envoy of Crimvane!”
***
The massive, iron-reinforced doors of the Throne Room swung open with a resonant groan while a breeze swept in, ruffling the long banners that hung from the ceiling.
Lucien stepped onto the marble floor with the confidence that bordered on the divine, while Kaelen followed a half-step behind, his senses dialed to the highest frequency, a silent shadow to Lucien’s brilliant sun.
The pillars of the Throne Room were encrusted with gold filigree, and the stairs leading to the throne seemed to stretch toward the heavens.
There sat King Roswell, his face a mask of weathered stone, and beside him, Queen Livora. Her aquatic-blue hair fell like a waterfall over her shoulders, the front strands framing blue eyes that watched the newcomers with a predator’s focus.
“The Envoy of Her Majesty Vionette Crimvane is entering with the Queen’s Blade!” the herald announced.
Lucien reached the base of the stairs and stopped before bowing—a slight movement that satisfied the rules of protocol but lacked the submissiveness of a vassal. He did not kneel. To kneel was to admit that Crimvane was beneath Eryndor, and Lucien would rather die than give that impression.
“Your Majesty,” he began, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. “By command of His Lordship, Lord Noa, I bring this message to Your Majesty.”
The room fell into silence as confused expressions appeared on the aristocrats’ faces.
Lord Noa…? The dukes and marquesses looked at one another in confusion.
They expected a message from the Queen, not some unknown lord whose name carried no weight in the history books.
Not even kneeling? Even though they come to us as beggars? Livora thought, her pride stinging.
To her, Crimvane was already a fallen kingdom, a flickering candle in a storm that only Eryndor’s breath could keep lit. She found it incredibly arrogant that this man stood so tall.
“…Noa?”
“Is he not Crimva—”
“That’s enough,” Roswell said, silencing her and the rest of the court. “Deliver the message from Noa Ravel, Vionette Crimvane’s partner and equal.”
Roswell’s declaration sent a ripple of shock through the room. A commoner—or at least, a man without a title they recognized—was being called an equal to the Queen.
“Two weeks from now,” Lucien continued, his red eyes locked onto Roswell’s. “Crimvane’s soldiers will depart for Eryndor. We ask only that you provide a place for them to rest. Do not prepare an army, and do not attempt to fight back. We will defeat Aurelyth on our own, so we ask you to simply step aside and watch the show.”
Lucien had added his own layers of silk to the message, turning Noa’s blunt command into a masterpiece of diplomatic theatre.
He lowered his head slightly. “That concludes the message.”
“What?” Livora spoke for the entire court, her voice laced with incredulity. “What is that supposed to mean? You reject our support? You think you can stand against a superpower with your ragtag band?”
Lucien turned his gaze toward her, a small, daring smirk dancing on his lips. “It is exactly as I stated, Your Majesty. We will win. So please, just watch.”
The Queen was taken aback, her mind racing. The kingdom that was supposed to crawl before them, begging for mercenaries and gold, was instead inviting them to a performance. It was a staggering display of audacity.
“You really expect us to believe that? Crimvane defeating Aurelyth on their own? That Crimvane?”
“Queen Livora,” Lucien said, looking up at her intensely and clicking his tongue in irritation. “I said: we will win. So please trust us with it.”
It’s those eyes again. Roswell stared at his eyes, which were strikingly similar to Vionette’s crimson ones.
“Okay. We agree to the request.”
The words were a tectonic shift. Roswell, their king, had agreed. The nobles gasped, their voices rising in a frantic murmur.
To agree to this was to gamble the very safety of Eryndor on the word of a man who didn't even have a proper title. But Roswell knew better; he had felt the seed Vionette had planted during her visit. He knew the predator that lived behind her smile.
“I will entrust the defeat of Aurelyth to Crimvane,” Roswell said, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. “However, if Crimvane shows a flicker of failure, Eryndor will take the lead and finish what you started.”
“Good,” Lucien nodded with a smile. “Well then, excuse us.”
He turned on his heel with the grace of a dancer, his cloak swirling behind him as he walked out of the room. Kaelen gave a bow to Roswell and followed, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
…
“Your Majesty, what is the meaning of this?!”
“We need an explanation!”
“You are gambling with the very soil of Eryndor!”
The moment the doors closed, the nobles erupted. The room became a cacophony of fear and indignation.
“Roswell, why did you just accept that? Why give them such freedom?” Even Livora turned to her husband, her face flushed with confusion.
In Crimvane, Vionette had built her foundation on a different kind of stone; she personally recruited her inner circle, weaving threads of faith into a tapestry of unbreakable loyalty. Her people followed her because of faith and loyalty.
But here, in the halls of Eryndor, faith was a luxury the nobility couldn't afford. Their loyalty was a calculated currency, traded for security and status.
Roswell looked up at the gold-flecked ceiling, a tired expression crossing his face. He let out a long sigh that made the entire hall fall silent.
“Do you know why Aurelyth truly began their march so early?” he asked, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
“Because we finally chose our side, right?” she replied, knowing the reason full well.
Roswell leaned his head back against the carved mahogany of his throne, staring up at the intricate frescoes above with a weary, hollow expression.
“Then, tell me... do you know why we finally chose that side?”
“Because Aurelyth’s prince arrived and forced our hand.” She narrowed her eyes, a flicker of confusion clouding her aquatic-blue gaze.
She knew the political ledger of her kingdom inside and out, yet Roswell was speaking as if the ink had been rewritten behind her back.
“No.” He shook his head, a grim, admiring smile touching his lips. “It was because of those two—Vionette and Noa.”
“What?” The word slipped from Livora’s lips before she could catch it.
Every noble, guard, and advisor leaned in, their breaths held as the foundations of their understanding began to crack.
“Prince Cassion never even had the opportunity to pressure us that day,” Roswell revealed, his voice dropping low. “He was already unconscious by the time his carriage left our gates. We suppressed the truth to prevent a diplomatic wildfire, but the reality is far different.”
He was unconscious…? The questions swirled through Livora’s mind, the gaps in her knowledge finally being filled with a chilling new reality.
“Aurelyth intended to prepare for six months before striking Crimvane,” Roswell continued, looking directly into his wife’s eyes. “But why do you think they suddenly declared war after just three months of preparations? It was because of them. Aurelyth never drew first blood in this conflict... Crimvane did.”
“?!!”
The kingdom they had viewed as a fragile, desperate prey had actually been the predator all along. They realized that every move they had made—every fear and every calculation—had been part of an illusion designed to make the real prey take the bait.
As Roswell watched the doors through which the envoy had vanished, a strange thought took root in his mind.
That man, Lucien... he is just like him.
He remembered how Noa had stood before him with no detectable aura. Lucien, too, possessed only a faint, almost negligible trace of power.
Is he hiding it? Roswell wondered, his mind spinning a web of false assumptions. Perhaps his control is as good as Noa’s?
The King was falling into a trap of his own making. The other special ability the two rulers of Crimvane saw in Lucien was starting to work—his abnormal luck.
---
“Please rest here,” a maid said, leading Lucien and Kaelen to their guest wing.
Lucien walked into his room and looked around. It was a mirror of the luxury he had known as a young lord of Blackmoor—silk sheets, ornate rugs, and a balcony that overlooked the glowing city. Kaelen’s room was right next door, a similarly grand space.
“That went well,” Kaelen said, leaning against the doorframe as he watched the maids bring in their luggage. “We actually got 'em to agree.”
“Yeah,” Lucien said, hands on his hips as he looked out at the city of Veylith. “I was going to snap if not for Lord Noa telling me to be respectful.”
Hehe… you still have that attitude. Kaelen stared at him with a fond smile.
They stood there for a long moment, the tension of the throne room finally dissolving into the cool night air. The mission was a success, but the real work was only beginning.
“What’s next?” Kaelen asked, his voice dropping to a low tone.
“Next.” Lucien’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. “We head to that tailor shop Lady Vionette mentioned. There's a request she needs handled. And after that...”
The two looked at each other and shared a sinister, knowing smirk. They remembered the way they had earned a mountain of gold the last time they went out to 'have fun' in a city that didn't know who they were.
“Then we do ‘that’,” Kaelen said, completing the thought.
They took a step into the hallway together, their minds already racing ahead.
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