The council gathered in shadows.
The chamber was buried deep beneath the marble of the royal capital—no banners, no sunlight, only candlelight flickering against the edges of ambition. Seven nobles sat around a blackened oak table, each cloaked in silks that reeked of perfume and paranoia. Their faces were masked, but Lucian Ardelion knew every one of them.
He had known before they even met.
Because he had made sure of it.
One Week Earlier
A single raven landed upon Lucian's balcony, its feathers glistening like polished obsidian. Tied to its leg was a strip of parchment sealed with crimson wax — a whisper from the network that stretched across the Empire's veins.
He broke it open and read:
"Confirmed: The Council meets in the catacombs beneath the Royal Conservatory. Seven seats. The Duke of Veltrane presides."
Lucian leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile cutting through his composure."Finally," he murmured. "The gardeners come to prune the thorns."
He turned to Lyra Vale, who stood nearby with her hands clasped around a stack of reports. "Veltrane moves faster than I thought," he said.
Lyra frowned. "He's recruiting. Half the southern nobles owe him coin, and the rest owe him fear."
Lucian's tone was mild, but his eyes were sharp as glass. "Fear fades. Debt can be erased. But humiliation? That burns forever."
Lyra tilted her head. "And how will you humiliate him this time?"
Lucian smiled. "By letting him believe he's already won."
The Council's Gathering
"Order!" barked the Duke of Veltrane, slamming his jeweled ring against the table. "You've all seen it—this boy's influence grows unchecked! Merchants swear loyalty to his name, soldiers defect, the people whisper of a savior. A savior! Against their own prince!"
Murmurs rippled around the table. The air smelled of fear, power, and the wine of old men who thought they ruled eternity.
"Lucian Ardelion must be cut down before the crown itself bends to him," said Countess Mareth, her voice as smooth as oil. "He has eyes everywhere. Even within our households, I suspect."
A nervous laugh escaped one of the younger nobles. "Surely not everywhere."
But Veltrane's gaze was fixed on him, dark and venomous. "You think him incapable? He reads men like scripture. His spies wear the faces of servants, tutors, even children."
"He's a phantom," someone muttered.
Veltrane sneered. "No, my lords. He's worse. He's the reflection of our failure."
Silence.
At the end of the table, a cloaked figure stirred—one whose identity none of them dared question. His mask was painted half black, half silver. When he spoke, his voice was low, carrying the weight of someone who had killed before.
"There are… simpler solutions," he said. "Blades. Poisons. Shadows that never miss."
Veltrane nodded approvingly. "And do you have such shadows to spare, my friend?"
The masked man leaned forward. "For the right price."
Veltrane smiled. "Then you have it. The Crownless Ascendant dies before the solstice. His corpse will hang at the gates as a message."
The assassin moved like a whisper through the Ardelion estate.
He had no name — only a reputation, a ghost spoken of in war camps and noble corridors. The Empire called him The Quiet Blade. In fifteen years, none had survived his contracts.
Tonight's target was a young man with pale eyes and a smile too dangerous to belong to youth.
Lucian Ardelion.
The assassin slid past the sentries like smoke, through shadows Lucian himself had designed. When he reached the grand study, the moonlight poured across the table — empty, except for a single candle burning low.
And a letter.
"To the one who hunts shadows,You are two steps late.But since you've come this far, do stay awhile.I detest wasted effort.—L.A."
The assassin froze.
Then, from the darkness behind him, came a calm voice."Impressive work. Your technique is cleaner than most of Veltrane's pets."
The assassin spun, dagger drawn — but the room was empty.
"Tell me," Lucian's voice continued, echoing faintly, "what did he promise you? Gold? A title? Perhaps forgiveness for a sin no one remembers anymore?"
The dagger flashed once — but Lucian was already there, standing behind him, one hand resting lightly against the assassin's neck.
"Let me offer you something better," Lucian said. "A choice."
He stepped back, eyes cold as frost. "You can die serving a fool… or live serving purpose."
The assassin's hand trembled. "You knew."
"I always know."
Lucian turned away, pouring a glass of wine as though nothing had happened. "Take the message back to Veltrane. Tell him the wolf still walks. Then, return here — at midnight tomorrow — if you wish to be free."
The assassin hesitated, then bowed deeply before vanishing into the shadows from which he came.
The next evening, the Council of Thorns gathered again — unaware that one of their members would never leave the room alive.
Veltrane's voice thundered. "My assassin failed? Impossible!"
The masked killer stood beside him, silent.
"Impossible," Veltrane repeated, slamming his fist. "The man never fails!"
A calm voice from the shadows answered. "Then perhaps you hired the wrong man."
Every noble froze.
Lucian Ardelion stepped into the circle of candlelight, dressed not in armor but in black formal attire — the kind worn at noble funerals.
"Though," he continued, "I do appreciate your faith in his talents. I've borrowed him."
The assassin moved behind Lucian now, his mask gone. His eyes gleamed with fierce loyalty.
"Lucian Ardelion," Veltrane hissed. "You dare step into this chamber?"
Lucian smiled faintly. "I built it."
The words rippled through the air like thunder.
Before any could react, the torches along the walls flared to life, revealing men and women clad in dark steel — Lucian's shadows, his personal guard, surrounding the council.
Veltrane's voice broke. "What—what have you done?"
"Rebalanced the scales," Lucian said. "You plotted treason beneath the Empire's heart. I simply gave your greed a stage."
He raised a hand, and one of his agents stepped forward, tossing a bundle of documents onto the table. Seals cracked open, spilling letters, ledgers, and signatures.
"Evidence," Lucian said. "Every secret pact, every assassination you funded, every bribe. Conveniently delivered to the Emperor's court at dawn."
Countess Mareth trembled. "You'll destroy us all!"
Lucian's eyes glinted. "No. You destroyed yourselves. I merely drew the curtains back."
Veltrane lunged across the table, dagger drawn — but before the blade reached Lucian, the assassin who once served him stepped in front, twisting Veltrane's wrist until the steel fell clattering to the floor.
Lucian regarded him with quiet contempt. "You were my father's friend once, Duke. Tell me — when you watched me kneel before the executioner's blade, did you ever imagine this ending differently?"
Veltrane's voice faltered. "You're a monster."
Lucian's tone turned glacial. "No. I'm the result of your creation."
He turned to his men. "Take them."
As his guards moved in, chaos erupted. Nobles screamed, papers burned, and the echoes of betrayal rang through the chamber.
Lucian walked out without looking back, the scent of smoke following him into the night.
By morning, the city awoke to a new truth.
Every major paper across the Empire bore the same headline:
"COUNCIL OF TRAITORS UNMASKED — DUKE OF VELTRANE EXECUTED FOR TREASON."
Whispers flooded the streets. The Emperor's court claimed the discovery was their own doing — but everyone knew the truth. The name Lucian Ardelion lingered behind every rumor, every fearful glance.
The Crown Prince raged within his palace, breaking mirrors and cursing shadows. The nobles retreated to their estates, fortifying walls and hiring guards.
And through it all, Lucian remained silent.
He sat once more in his study, the morning light slanting across the maps before him. The Empire had begun to turn — slowly, irresistibly — toward him.
Lyra entered quietly, a parchment in hand. "It's done," she said. "Veltrane's house is finished. The others will scatter."
Lucian didn't look up. "No. They'll gather again. Like weeds."
Lyra frowned. "Then what now?"
He finally met her gaze, his eyes calm — but deep within them burned the same storm that once defied death itself.
"Now," he said, "we plant the next seed."
Lyra hesitated. "Which is?"
Lucian's voice was soft. "The people. The nobles fear me, but the people must believe in me. Fear rules only so long as it's fed. Faith endures."
She studied him for a long moment. "You sound like a king."
Lucian smiled faintly. "No. Kings are bound by crowns. I am bound by purpose."
He stood, the morning light framing him like an omen. "Prepare the Ardelion banners. We move at dawn."
"Move where?"
Lucian's eyes turned toward the city beyond the hills. "To the capital. The Emperor is dying. And the Empire… needs a new heartbeat."
Outside, the sun rose red.
The Council of Thorns had fallen.But the game—the real game—was only beginning.