Morning came not with warmth but with unease.
The capital stirred like a restless beast, its breath fogging the chill dawn air. From the crowded market streets to the noble avenues, whispers flowed faster than any carriage.
"The Duke of Altaire is heading to the palace."
"He wasn't summoned."
"He's bringing his son."
"They say His Grace is furious—no one dares look him in the eye."
The court had not felt such tension in years. Even the guards at the palace gates stood a little stiffer, their spears trembling slightly against the marble.
---
Inside the royal palace, sunlight streamed through jeweled glass, scattering colors across the marble floor like spilled gems. Yet even the brilliance of the capital could not warm the chill that hung in the air.
In his chamber, Crown Prince Adrian de Valmont stood before a tall mirror. His reflection was perfect — golden hair, sharp features, eyes the color of molten bronze. The image of a prince, as expected of the future ruler of the empire. And yet, he could barely recognize himself or even could not meet his own gaze.
The night before replayed again and again. The crowd, the accusations, and the way she — Seraphina d'Altaire — had looked at him, calm and unyielding, as though his words were beneath her notice.
"Then let it be dissolved, Your Highness."
No plea. No fury. No tears. Just quiet, composed acceptance that burned worse than any scream could. As if it was nothing but a regal dismissal — as though his judgment meant nothing.
At the time, he thought her arrogance unbearable.
Now, he realized the truth: she hadn't been arrogant at all.
She had been above him.
The memory burned.
Adrian's hands curled into fists. He had believed himself right. He had believed that justice was on his side. But the truth had begun to eat at him the moment the heroine, Lady Elara Fontaine, had hesitated, eyes wide and confused.
A knock broke through his thoughts.
"Your Highness," his aide called softly from the other side, "the King awaits you in court. His Grace, the Duke of Altaire, has arrived."
Adrian straightened, his expression hardening. "I see."
He donned his ceremonial cloak — the symbol of royal dignity — but even that weight felt heavier than usual.
---
The royal throne room was heavy with silence.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows, glinting off marble floors and golden crests, yet the air was colder than steel. The room buzzed with murmurs as ministers debated the kingdom's trade routes and northern borders. King Reginald de Valmont sat rigid on his throne, his hands gripping the armrests as if to anchor himself, his face composed yet tight, the faint lines near his eyes deepening with each passing year.
Ever since the fiasco of the previous day — the Crown Prince's public annulment of his engagement to the Duke's daughter — the entire court had been trembling.
And now, the man responsible for that trembling was here.
"His Grace, Duke Cedric d'Altaire, and His Lordship, Lucien d'Altaire!"
Conversation stopped mid-sentence.
The heavy doors opened with a metallic groan. The sound of boots echoed — deliberate, unhurried, and terrifyingly calm.
Duke Cedric d'Altaire stepped into the hall, dressed in a dark coat trimmed with silver threads, his very presence casting a shadow that silenced all whispers. His cold golden eyes swept across the nobles like frost crawling over glass. He was the kind of man who needed no crown to command obedience.
At his side walked Lucien, the Duke's only son and heir. His beauty was sharp, dangerous — his smile too lazy, too confident for the tension in the room. But behind that smile lingered something wicked and amused.
The two men moved as if they owned the place. And in truth, they nearly did.
The nobles instinctively stepped aside, as though the very air demanded it.
When the two reached the throne, they bowed with perfect precision — low enough to acknowledge the throne's authority, yet measured enough to remind the King that their pride was untouched.
King Reginald's throat tightened. "Duke Cedric, I—"
"I heard," Cedric interrupted smoothly, precise but shallow — a tone of politeness without submission. "that your Crown Prince has been spreading lies about my daughter."
The words hit the hall like frost. Ministers exchanged horrified glances. The King swallowed hard but said nothing. Even seated upon his throne, he felt small beneath that cold gaze.
"Your Majesty," he said quietly, "my daughter's name has been dragged through the dirt. I trust you do not intend to ignore this."
The Crown Prince, Adrian de Valmont, shifted uneasily beside his father. His once-confident demeanor had faltered. The memory of Seraphina's calm acceptance of the broken engagement haunted him — her poised smile as she turned away, the quiet murmur of nobles that followed.
Cedric's voice sliced through the silence.
"Your Majesty, my family has long stood beside the royal house of Valmont. Yet yesterday, my daughter's name was shamed before the entire court, accused of deeds she did not commit. I have come to hear how His Highness intends to remedy that."
The words were not loud, but they carried an invisible weight that pressed against the lungs of every noble present.
Adrian stepped forward before his father could answer. "Your Grace, it was my mistake. I accused her based on what I believed to be truth — but it was not. I shamed her unjustly."
Lucien's smirk was faint, almost lazy. "So the crown prince admits to baseless slander?"
"Watch your tongue," one of the ministers hissed, but Cedric raised a hand and silenced the entire hall.
"My son speaks plainly," Cedric said. "Do not confuse honesty with insolence."
Cedric's eyes turned toward him, cold golden and unreadable. "You believed," he repeated. "Belief, Your Highness, is a poor substitute for evidence."
Adrian didn't mind Lucien mockery and he just stood still. "I… spoke out of turn," he said stiffly. "I believed what I heard and acted upon it without verifying. The fault lies with me."
Lucien's smirk widened faintly, his voice light but edged. "At least he admits it, Father. That's more than most of the fools in this room can say."
The King's jaw tightened. "Watch your tone, Lord Lucien."
Lucien tilted his head lazily. "Watch your throne, Your Majesty."
A sharp silence fell. Cedric did not stop him — which said enough.
The King's pulse quickened. "Duke Cedric, please. This was a misunderstanding—"
"Was it?" Cedric asked softly. "A misunderstanding made public in front of every noble in this kingdom? My daughter's dignity was paraded as gossip. Tell me, Your Majesty — would you call that a 'misunderstanding' if it were your own blood?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Reginald exhaled slowly, voice measured. "Duke Altaire, the Crown Prince has already expressed remorse—"
"Remorse," Cedric cut in, his voice a blade's whisper. "Your son humiliated the daughter of my House — the blood of the Hero and the Dragon Princess. My wife herself is the daughter of a Northern King. And you think remorse will suffice?"
Reginald's throat went dry. He remembered — the marriage he had pushed for, the alliance he needed. The strength of Altaire's lineage was something even kings feared.
Adrian's voice broke the silence again and his hands tightened at his sides. "Your Grace… I do not seek to excuse my actions. I wronged Lady Seraphina. I will not retract my words, nor will I ask her forgiveness. I merely wish to acknowledge the harm I caused and I can only take responsibility for them. If punishment is due, I accept it.."
Lucien's eyes glimmered with amusement. "So you disgrace her, then declare it's too late for apology. How noble of you, Your Highness."
"Lucien," Cedric warned quietly, though the faint edge of approval lingered in his tone.
Lucien tilted his head. "Merely stating facts, Father."
Cedric studied him, unreadable. Then, slowly, he said, "Punishment is unnecessary. The shame is already yours to bear."
The King exhaled heavily. "Enough. Duke Cedric, I cannot undo what has been done. But I ask that you show mercy — the alliance between our houses must not crumble over youthful folly."
Cedric's expression didn't change, but the air in the hall grew heavier.
"Mercy?" he repeated. "You presume I came here for vengeance. I came only to ensure that the name of Altaire will never again be spoken in ridicule within these walls."
A faint tremor of magic rolled through the air — restrained, but enough to make even the chandeliers hum.
He turned to the King. "My daughter will not appear at royal gatherings from this day forward. She will remain in Altaire. Our family has no further business with the crown."
Reginald's fingers clenched around the throne's armrest. "You cannot simply—"
"I can," Cedric said softly. "And I will. Be grateful that I am only withdrawing, not retaliating."
His gaze lingered on the King for a long moment — and Reginald, for all his crown and guards and power, looked away first.
Lucien chuckled quietly, his tone light but dangerous. "See, Father? Even His Majesty knows when not to speak."
"Lucien."
"Understood," Lucien said, but his grin didn't fade.
The King swallowed hard, then nodded as he couldn't say anything more if he had already decided it. "...Very well, I understand your words."
As Cedric turned to leave, his cloak sweeping behind him, Adrian's voice called out — quiet, almost hoarse.
"Duke Cedric."
Cedric paused, looking over his shoulder.
Adrian's gaze was steady, though his pride bled at the edges. "Lady Seraphina… does not deserve the words I gave her. I will bear their consequence, whatever form it takes."
Cedric studied him for a long moment, then spoke in a tone unreadable.
"Then bear them well, Your Highness."
With that, he turned and strode toward the doors. Lucien followed, silent but smirking, his gaze sweeping past the nobles who dared not meet his eyes.
When the great doors closed, the King finally exhaled — a long, unsteady breath that shook slightly. "By the gods, that man could freeze a volcano."
Adrian's tone was quiet. "He has every reason to."
"Adrian," he said, his voice rough with fatigue. "You've no idea what storm you've stirred."
The prince lowered his head. "I do now, Father."
The King rubbed his forehead. "They are not merely nobles, Adrian. The Altaire bloodline carries the power of dragons and the blessing of the First Hero. To anger them is to court disaster."
"I understand," Adrian murmured. But even as he spoke, Seraphina's composed smile haunted him — the quiet dignity of the woman he'd shamed.
He closed his eyes. She didn't deserve that.
The King's eyes softened, just slightly. "You've cost us more than you know, Adrian. I arranged that union to tie Altaire to the crown. That alliance is gone."
"I know," Adrian said. "And I deserve the loss."
Reginald studied his son — and for the first time, saw remorse, not arrogance.
---
Outside, Lucien glanced sideways at his father as their carriage rolled away from the palace.
"Well," he drawled, "that went better than expected. You didn't turn the throne room into ice."
Cedric's lips twitched, the closest he came to a smile.
"There was no need. Fear accomplishes more when left unspoken."
Lucien leaned back, folding his arms. "Think the Prince learned anything?"
Cedric's gaze lingered on the fading silhouette of the palace.
"If he has any sense," he said quietly, "he will."
They both continued their journey back to the Altaire Dukedom. Far north, at the Altaire estate, frost glazed the windows in silver patterns. Seraphina sat in the sunroom, a book open on her lap, steam curling from her untouched tea.
She had already heard the news — she hadn't needed to attend. Her father's temper had handled everything exactly as she expected.
When Lucien entered, brushing snow from his shoulders, she didn't look up.
"He admitted his mistake," Lucien said casually, flopping onto the couch beside her. "In front of the court, no less."
"I expected he would."
He smirked. "Of course you did. Still, I thought you'd at least look amused."
Her lips curved faintly. "Why would I? I'm not angry."
Lucien stretched lazily, his expression smooth. "You never are. I suppose that's what makes you terrifying."
She glanced at him, her pale eyes calm and calculating. "And you're not?"
"Oh, I'm worse," he said with a grin. "I just enjoy it more."
Their gazes met — cold amusement mirrored in both.
They weren't saints or martyrs. They weren't fragile souls trapped in tragedy. They were the children of power — reincarnated minds behind beautiful masks, dangerous enough to tear this world apart if they ever grew bored of it.
Seraphina closed her book, resting her chin on her hand. "Father must be pleased."
Lucien snorted. "He nearly terrified the King to death. So yes, I'd say he's satisfied."
She smiled faintly. "Good. Then the balance remains."
Lucien's gaze lingered on her, curious. "You know, sister… you really do enjoy this game more than you admit."
Her eyes glinted like glass. "Perhaps. But only when the pieces move the way I want them to."
Outside, snow fell softly across the frozen gardens — beautiful, unyielding, and utterly merciless.
And somewhere in the capital, a prince could not forget the look in her eyes when she walked away from him —
calm, cold, and untouchable.