Chapter 14: Calculated Pleasure
The court erupted into whispers like a disturbed beehive—everyone circling the same question, the same mystery.
'What was in that note? What is this "Art of Rebels"?'
"I expect that no one will question the Art of Rebels." Emperor Emrik's voice cut through the speculation with the finality of a blade through silk.
A law enforcer approached with the drafted taxation document, presenting it for the imperial seal. Emrik leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to barely a whisper.
"Increase the tax on goods by approximately four percent."
The enforcer's eyes widened with understanding. He nodded once, discreetly.
Empress Althaea, seated close enough to hear, went very still. Her expression remained neutral through sheer force of will, but beneath the mask, humiliation burned. 'Outsmarted by that white-haired devil. And his plan is actually working.'
"Father, I have a request." Lucien's voice carried easily across the chamber, drawing every eye back to him. "I want Platoon Knight Ethelia to remain at the castle and train me."
He looked directly at Ethelia as he said it.
She felt heat rush to her face—utterly foreign, completely unwelcome. She forced herself to stay composed, jaw tight, shoulders square. 'Stay professional. This is just a training request. Nothing more.'
But her body disagreed, sending warm sensations through places that had no business responding to a prince's gaze.
"Ah, brother—" Darian interrupted, standing with the kind of aggressive energy that preceded violence. "You should duel with me instead. I can train you far better than any Death Knight."
Trying to reassert dominance. Trying to pull Lucien back under his control.
"My dear brother, of course you could." Lucien's smile was all teeth and no warmth. "Your voice matches the screaming sound of Kyou Sinji perfectly. Wasn't that the blade of our Rune Knight decades ago?"
'What is he saying?' Ethelia's confusion multiplied. 'Why do I feel warm? Is he playing me? Kyou Sinji is MY sword now—'
The reference to her weapon, to its distinctive screaming sound that could break enemy morale or rally troops, delivered in that particular tone while he looked at her like that—it made her feel things she had no framework to understand.
Flustered. Awed. Utterly off-balance.
"Death Knight Ethelia." Emperor Emrik addressed her directly, and she snapped to attention. "I suggest you train Prince Lucien in combat techniques."
'Lucien is already at Death Knight level or above,' Emrik thought, suppressing a grin. 'But I know exactly why he wants this. My clever, manipulative son.'
"But Father—" Darian's frustration was palpable, his hands clenching into fists.
Judas placed one gnarled hand over Darian's, and the Crown Prince went silent immediately. Fuming, but silent.
"As you wish, Your Majesty." Ethelia bowed deeply, the perfect image of military discipline.
'Why, Ethelia?' Darian's internal monologue was a roar of betrayal and confusion. 'When I proposed to you years ago, you said you didn't want any man. But here you are, agreeing to spend time with my evil little brother who seduces anything with a pulse?'
He barely restrained himself from causing a scene.
"I have another request—" Lucien began walking toward a young maid standing near the side entrance. Barely eighteen, visibly nervous, flushing crimson as he approached.
"I want you to transfer complete control of my chamber area to new maids. The current ones are too... perfect. Too experienced. It's grown boring."
His grin was subtle but unmistakable.
Emperor Emrik actually chuckled. Other courtiers joined in—nervous laughter, knowing laughter, scandalized laughter all mixing together.
Darian caught the meaning immediately and saw his opening.
'Supreme men need more resources to satiate themselves,' Judas thought, his eyes tracking between Ethelia and the young maids like he was calculating inventory. 'Interesting.'
"So my brother's appetite has increased so much—" Darian's voice carried across the hall, crude and deliberately objectifying, "—that he wants to pop fresh cherries now?"
The court exploded into laughter. Coarse, masculine, approving.
Empress Althaea looked mortified. Ministers who prided themselves on dignity tried to hide their amusement behind coughs.
And Ethelia suddenly understood what Lucien meant by "boring" and "perfect" and "new."
Jealousy struck her like a physical blow—sharp, unexpected, completely incomprehensible. 'Why do I care who he sleeps with? Why does this bother me?'
She had no answer.
"But brother—" Lucien's voice remained calm, almost bored, stating facts rather than defending himself. "I'm not careless enough to spill my seeds everywhere like you are."
The laughter died instantly.
The implication hung in the air, clear to anyone with ears: Darian had fathered illegitimate children. Multiple times. Four times, if rumors were accurate. Hidden bastards scattered among servants and perhaps minor nobles.
While Lucien, for all his seductions, had never gotten anyone pregnant. Careful. Controlled. Strategic even in pleasure.
Darian shot to his feet, face flushing dark red, fists clenched. "You—"
He took one step toward his brother, murder in his eyes.
"Darian. Enough." Emperor Emrik's voice wasn't loud, but it carried absolute authority. The kind that ended arguments through sheer force of will.
Darian froze mid-step.
"Lucien—" Emrik turned to his second son with that knowing smile again, the one that said 'I see exactly what you're doing and I'm allowing it.' "Your request will be implemented within two days."
The court shifted again, perceptions realigning.
'Smart, yes. Brilliant even. But ultimately just a debauched boy who can't control his appetites.'
Many thought this. Some even admired him for it—young courtiers especially, who saw in Lucien a lifestyle of pleasure and power perfectly balanced. Intelligence enough to survive, hedonism enough to enjoy it.
They had no idea they were watching exactly the performance he wanted them to see.
"This court session is concluded," Emperor Emrik declared.
As people began to rise and file out, Ethelia sat very still, trying to process sensations she'd never felt before.
Jealousy over a man she barely knew.
Attraction to someone clearly dangerous.
Confusion about why his request for "training" made her pulse quicken when she could break most men in half without effort.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a quiet voice whispered: 'You rejected Darian three years ago because he was obsessed with sleeping with strong women like trophies. So why does Lucien feel different?'
She had no answer for that either.
Only the growing certainty that she'd agreed to something far more complicated than combat training.