Chapter 12 : The Sword and Nails
"The Great Castle is far more grand than I imagined," Ethelia said, her keen eyes sweeping across golden furniture, the condensed network of maids moving with choreographed precision, guards stationed at every junction. Resources and power made visible in every gilded surface.
"What do you mean?" Cian asked, seemingly unbothered by her Death Knight status—a rare quality in someone so young.
"She's never been to capital Siena," Lucien answered before Ethelia could respond, reading her expression with unsettling accuracy. "She trained in Rifteria and Kingdom Louis her entire life."
"Really?" Cian's surprise was genuine. "But your mother was one of the imperial family's nurturing servants. You never visited?"
"No." Ethelia's straightforwardness cut through any pretense. "Most of my time went to training and missions. This is my first time seeing the capital."
Ahead of them, near one of the palace corridors, Lucien noticed a senior maid scolding a younger servant with sharp, cutting words.
"You two go ahead. I'll follow shortly." His tone was casual, dismissive even.
"Lucien—" Cian looked worried. "It's nearly noon. Court is about to start."
"Prince Lucien—" Ethelia began, but he was already walking away toward the group of maids.
She exchanged a glance with Cian, then they continued toward the court chamber. Behind them, Lucien's voice carried faintly down the marble hallway.
---
A young maid—barely eighteen—knelt on the floor collecting shattered pieces of glass near the main palace pathway. Her hands trembled as she picked up the fragments, tears streaming down her face.
Lucien stopped directly beside her, his feet aligned perfectly with her working hands. The senior maid—Stella, twenty-eight, composed and authoritative—froze mid-scold. Her expression shifted instantly: flustered, awed, attraction spilling across her features like wine from a tipped glass.
"Stella." Lucien crouched down to meet the young maid's eye level. His fingers caught her chin gently, tilting her tear-streaked face upward. "Why are you scolding her so harshly?"
His thumb traced her jawline with casual intimacy.
"Ah—" Stella struggled to form words, her gaze dropping to his lips despite herself. "Prince Lucien... this girl, Aisa, broke Princess Natasha's favorite mirror."
"So all this chaos is over Natasha's toys?" Lucien stood smoothly, addressing both maids and the nearby butlers who'd stopped to watch. "Don't scold her anymore." He looked down at Aisa, still kneeling, still trembling. "You'll be the caretaker of my chamber from now on."
The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. Stella understood immediately—her face flushed deeper, whether from jealousy or memory or both. Aisa looked up with wide eyes, uncertain whether she'd been saved or claimed.
Lucien turned and walked toward the court at a measured pace, leaving confusion and desire in his wake.
---
By the time Ethelia and Cian reached the massive doors of the court chamber, they could hear voices within—urgent, heated, filled with the particular tension that preceded violence.
"—order that the Army of State Zyrick and the Connoisseur Knight will be assigned to—"
Emperor Emrik's voice, about to unleash war.
Ethelia's entire body went tense. Her hand moved instinctively toward her sword hilt.
The doors swung open before them.
She entered first, Cian two steps behind, and every head in the vast chamber turned toward them.
"Death Knight Ethelia De Colisson," she announced formally, her voice carrying across the hall with the authority of someone who'd earned her reputation in blood. "Rank Nine among the Twelve. Platoon Knight of the Aurelith Empire."
The title landed like a declaration of war itself.
The court filled with competing reactions—awe at seeing one of the legendary warriors in person, fear from those who understood what a Death Knight could do, and something darker from men like Judas, whose eyes tracked her with calculating interest.
'She'd fit the role of child bearer perfectly,' Judas thought, his grin twisting something maternal into something possessive and cruel.
Ethelia took her designated seat with rigid formality. Cian, far more nervous, slipped into the back rows reserved for lesser nobles—a choice that made his father Markious, seated among the senior advisors, visibly furious.
The chamber settled into uneasy anticipation.
And then Lucien entered.
He moved with that same unhurried rhythm he brought to everything—walking as if time bent around him rather than the other way around. Every eye tracked him. Some with respect. Some with fear. Many with confusion about why this prince commanded such attention.
He looked at the assembled court with something between amusement and contempt, then ignored every protocol, every expectation, every rule of court hierarchy.
And sat directly on top of the table positioned ahead of where Ethelia had taken her seat.
Casual. Disrespectful. Utterly deliberate.
"Here comes my debauched, arrogant, careless brother," Darian's voice rang out, dripping with mockery. Several courtiers laughed—nervous sounds that died quickly under Lucien's violet-eyed gaze.
"Oh, my father—" Lucien addressed the Emperor directly, ignoring his brother entirely, ignoring the hundreds of officials staring at him like he'd committed some unimaginable transgression. "All this commotion doesn't suit you."
He leaned back slightly, perfectly balanced on the table's edge.
"We don't cut our nails with swords, do we?"
The metaphor hung in the air—mocking, precise. They were preparing to use overwhelming military force against a problem that required surgical precision. About to slaughter thousands when targeted action would suffice. Making something delicate into something brutal through sheer incompetent excess.
Whispers erupted across the chamber. Ministers exchanged shocked glances. Duke Vasant looked between hope and terror, unsure whether this second prince would save him or condemn him further.
Emperor Emrik watched his son with those calculating golden eyes, then glanced briefly at Ethelia—noting the way she'd gone still when Lucien entered, the subtle tension in her posture, the heat beneath her stoic mask.
The Emperor's lips curved into a knowing smile.
Only Lucien understood what it meant: approval. Acknowledgment. 'You asked me to send her to escort you, and I see exactly why.'
Empress Althaea's expression tightened, calculating how to counter this interruption of her military solution.
Judas leaned forward despite his bent back, studying Lucien with the focused attention of a predator recognizing a rival.
And in the back rows, Cian watched his childhood friend command the room without raising his voice, without threatening anyone, simply by existing in a space that should have diminished him but instead bent to accommodate his presence.
The Serpent Prince had arrived.
And everything was about to change.