The throne room of Vaelcrest looms with cold grandeur — vaulted ceilings, flickering torchlight, and a hundred eyes watching from behind jeweled masks and polished armor. Yet all of that grandeur dims in the presence of the two men at its center.

King Hadric, draped in embroidered velvets and gold, sprawls on the blackstone throne like a bloated god. He sneers, lips twisted, eyes bloodshot from wine and age.

Lucien Vaelthorn stands before him, pristine in his white military coat, silver-trimmed gloves, and expression carved from winter frost. His sword is still sheathed at his side, but everyone in the room knows — if it leaves its scabbard, it will not return unstained.

"You think you're feared because you're the best swordsman in the kingdom," Hadric snarls, rising with effort, heavy rings clacking against the throne's arm. "But fear isn't earned through duels or clever words. Power is taken. Power is seized. And you—” his voice drips with contempt—“you don’t have the stomach for it."

Lucien’s expression doesn’t change. Not at first.

Then his eyes drop, slow and deliberate, to his father’s overfed stomach, bulging beneath layers of gilded cloth and leather.

“Clearly.”

The word slices cleaner than any blade.

Laughter sputters in the corners of the room — quickly silenced. Hadric’s face flushes dark red. His hand twitches toward the jeweled dagger at his side, but he doesn't draw. He knows better.

Lucien steps forward — calm, controlled, untouchable. His boots echo across the marble like war drums.

“I’ve walked through battlefields soaked in the blood of your enemies and your allies,” he says, voice low but cutting. “I’ve watched my brothers tear each other apart for a scrap of your attention. But I never wanted your crown.”

He pauses, voice colder now.

“I wanted her safe.”

Hadric scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “She is soft. Weak. A liability—”

The blade is in Lucien’s hand before the king finishes the sentence. No flourish. No show. Just that quiet, terrifying motion.

Lucien doesn't raise it — he doesn't need to. The mere presence of his sword in his grasp is enough to silence the entire court. Even the guards stiffen, hands at hilts, but unmoving. No one dares draw on Lucien Vaelthorn — the swordsman who ended three rebellions with a single blade and never bled once.

His gaze hardens. “Say her name again like that, and you’ll speak it through your teeth scattered across this floor.”

The king says nothing.

Lucien holds that silence like a blade to the neck — then sheathes the sword with a sharp click. He turns from the throne, cloak sweeping behind him.

“You’re already dead, Father,” he says over his shoulder. “You just haven’t noticed yet.”

And with that, he walks away. Out of the hall. Out of the crown’s shadow. Into whatever comes next — for him, and for her.