Part I: A Marriage of Silence
Jennifer li Montclair has long since learned the precise sound that loneliness made within the walls of her own home.
It was not quiet. No, it certainly wasn't that...
Quiet implied peace, tranquility, and maybe even order. But loneliness, loneliness echoed. Echoed like the soft footfalls that were often swallowed up by marble corridors, the distant ticking of clocks too grand to bother keeping time accurately, and the whispers of silk curtains that stirred as if they, too, were experiencing the same restlessness that she was. The lavish mansion overlooking the capital city of the Balmorra Empire was vast enough to lose yourself in if you weren't careful. But it was also vast enough to make a woman feel like a ghost in her own life.
Like always, Jennifer stood alone in the east gallery, fingers tracing the gilded spine of a book she had already read twice and not remembered at all. Outside the tall arched windows, the capital spread itself in orderly brilliance: streetlamps glowing like captured stars, towers crowned with banners bearing the Balmorran crest. It was a view envied across the empire.
But sadly, it did nothing for her. Nothing in the slightest.
Jennifer was twenty-two years old now. A young woman that many would consider beautiful, thanks to her flawless caramel skin, long dark hair, delicate face, and piercing violet eyes, which many of the nobility across the empire possess. And although these times should be some of the best of her young life, they were far from it.
On the surface, she had everything that a young woman like her could ever ask for. She was wealthy beyond measure, titled beyond ambition, and even married into the ruling house of the realm. She owned jewels that had survived forgotten dynasties and a wardrobe full of expensive gowns stitched by hands sailed in from far away lands. And yet, even with all of that, she had still not even been touched by her husband since the night they were wed. Nor had he ever bothered to even look her way.
It had been three years since that day. Three years since she had gotten the storybook ending that she had always hoped for....
She had seen her husband, Prince Martin vi Balmorra, exactly three times since then. Three brief, formal encounters that left little to the imagination. The first was a ball to celebrate the Emperor's birthday, only a few months after they had officially wed. The second had been nearly a year later to celebrate the anniversary of the Empire's founding. And the third was on the day to mourn the passing of the Emperor's father.
At no point during that time had the two of them even so much as shared a meal together. Never once had they had a private conversation between the two of them. And never a look that lingered long enough to suggest curiosity, let alone any type of genuine desire.
Their marriage remained unconsummated, in any respectable sense of the word. A fact that pressed against Jennifer's chest like a secret too heavy to carry and too shameful to speak aloud.
The servants knew, just like everyone else did. They always made sure to speak in careful euphemisms whenever she was around, and made sure to avoid the sideways glances aimed in her direction. They even went through the trouble of providing her with excessive gentleness whenever they asked if she wished for tea, or company, or anything at all.
The court knew as well, because of course they did. But at the very least, they had the courtesy to only do so through gossip polished into fake respectability whenever she wasn't around. Speaking only through polite smiles that had already sharpened into uncomfortable speculation.
The whispers always followed her like a trailing shadow...
"Still no heir yet?"
"So young, yet already failing."
"I hear the Prince is already going back out to sea. He didn't even bother to go home to see her."
"What could possibly be wrong with her?"
Her father, however, did not whisper.
Bertram li Montclair, Prime Minister of the Balmorra Empire, a man known far and wide for his deeds as one of the leading voices of the nation, visited her once a month without fail. Whenever he took the time out of his busy schedule to come her see, he always inspected the mansion as though it were an extension of his office. And his daughter, as if she herself were an unfinished report.
"You must try harder, my dear." He told her during their last meeting. His voice clipped, reasonable, but still cold and merciless. "This is not merely a marriage, it's the final piece of our plan. It is your duty...to your house, to the empire, to both myself and your mother. Princes do not avoid their wives without reason; you have to find out what the problem is and fix it before these rumors get out of control."
All Jennifer could do was stare at her folded hands and wonder which part of herself she was meant to sacrifice next. Pride? Modesty? Whatever small, fragile hope she still had left?
"I have done everything asked of me, Father." Jennifer replied; she hated the way her voice trembled. None of this was her fault. So why was he treating her like this?
Bertram sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man burdened by incompetence. "Then do more."
After he left, Jennifer vomited from the anxiety alone before she even had the chance to make it to the restroom.
The change in her body was subtle at first, but not for long. Dresses needed to be taken in. Meals went unfinished. Sleep became a shallow, unreliable thing, interrupted by dreams in which doors closed just before she reached them. She often found herself lying awake most nights staring at the canopy above her bed, counting the hours until dawn, wondering if this was what failure felt like.
Quiet, internal, and endlessly humiliating.
The stress was beginning to wear her away with each passing day. She was now losing weight at a rapid pace. Headaches were a near-daily occurrence. Her appetite would all but vanish at the strangest times. And the mere thought of seeing anyone other than her closest friends sent a wave of dread over her body.
Confusion had been the first stage. Jennifer had foolishly assumed that there must be a misunderstanding, a delay, a reason that would reveal itself with time. Frustration followed shortly after. Sharp and breathless, igniting whenever another letter arrived addressed to His Highness and not to her. The resentment crept in last, unwelcome and poisonous, settling into the spaces where affection should have grown.
She resented Martin for his constant absence, and for the obvious lack of care he took toward her. She resented herself for caring. She resented the mansion, her father, even the empire itself. But most of all, she resented the girl she used to be. The same girl who had once foolishly believed in fairy tales, polished with political realism.
At court functions and gatherings, she never failed to notice the eyes on her. Not leering, never that, but assessing. Always trying to figure out what she was and why. Always trying to determine what she was made of and why her dashing Prince never showed any interest.
Men inclined their heads a fraction too deeply whenever they were in her presence. Compliments lingered a second longer than they normally should have. Once, a young duke's son laughed at something she said and did not immediately look away, and the warmth that bloomed in Jennifer's chest from that small act alone frightened her more than the cold rejection ever had.
Soon enough, she began to crave it. Attention. Recognition. A smile meant for her alone. The simple proof that she was still visible. Acknowledgement that she wasn't simply an afterthought or a tool for her family's political aspirations.
The guilt was both immediate and crushing. She prayed at night for forgiveness for sins she had not committed and despised herself for wanting to. But even so, the longing did not go away; it merely turned inward, twisting into self-loathing.
What kind of wife yearned for strangers? What kind of daughter could fail so publicly, so completely?
The agony never stopped, not even for a moment.
"Ah, Lady Montclair! It's good to see you!" One of the many noblewomen of the Empire one day said to her, just as Jennifer was leaving a bookstore en route back to her home after quietly sneaking out without the servants noticing.
"It's good to see you as well, my lady."
"I hear that husband of yours has dealt with yet another squadron of would-be pirates in the North Sea not even a week ago. My son and his merchant friends were happy to hear that they would be able to continue their business without issue."
"Yes...he has." Jennifer gave the older woman a fake smile. This was her first time hearing about any of this. Hell, it was her first time hearing anything about her so-called husband and his exploits in the last month.
"Please be sure to thank him for me the next time he comes home! I find comfort knowing that he's doing all he can to keep the peace. It must be lovely being married to Empire's pride and joy. And I'm sure that many out there are jealous that you get to have him all to yourself!"
The words caused a sickening feeling to well up inside of her.
"Of course, and thank you for the kind words!" She tried her best to keep up the facade, despite the knot that was currently forming in her stomach. "I'll be sure to give Martin your regards the moment I see him."
The moment the older lady walked away, Jennifer rushed to the nearby alley to empty the contents of her stomach onto the pavement, just out of sight of any passerby. Situations like this had been happening more and more recently, and to be honest, Jennifer didn't know how much more of it she could take.
Later that evening, Jennifer returned to her home, to the very same mansion that had given her everything except relief. And it was right back to the same empty luxury that she had long since grown accustomed to over the years. Hot baths drawn without asking. Fires lit before she could feel the cold. Silence when she wanted it, company when she did not. Privilege wrapped around her like velvet chains, soft, luxurious, inescapable.
And always, always, the empty space beside her.
A few days later, on a night when everything felt particularly unbearable, Jennifer dismissed her maid early and changed into a simple nightdress. She crossed her bedroom barefoot, the rugs thick beneath her soles, and pushed open the tall window overlooking the city.
The young woman paused as she let the cool evening air brush her skin. Below, the Imperial Capital glittered, alive with everything between motion and purpose. And somewhere among those lights were people with far less than she had who were much happier than she had ever been these last few years.
It wasn't fair.
She had everything that she had wanted since she was a child. Everything that her mother and father had promised her as far back as she could remember. But here she was, dissatisfied with everything, all because of some man who never bothered to show her the time of day. Her dashing Prince, whom she hated, while everyone else sang his praises right in front of her face as if to mock her.
Jennifer took a moment and rested her forehead against the glass, allowing herself wonder, for the hundredth time, what she had done wrong.
She had been told she would be cherished. That she would be treated like the jewel that her parents always told her that she was. That duty and affection could coexist. That love, if not immediate, would come with patience and grace. Instead, she had been given a title that she no longer wanted, a house that she didn't care for, and a silence so complete it felt intentional.
Jennifer stared out at the city until her reflection blurred with the lights beyond, until she could no longer tell where she ended and the empire began.
Somewhere out there was Prince Martin vi Balmorra. The man who would not look at her, would not touch her, would not even grant her the dignity of an honest rejection.
And she found herself asking the question she was most afraid to answer:
What had she done wrong? Why wasn't she enough?
-(o)-
Part II: Parallel Perspective
The winds of the iron-grey skies above the North Sea turned the water into restless waves as they cut through the air like a well-honed blade. And above them, Prince Martin vi Balmorra welcomed the feeling as his long, curly dark hair fluttered behind. The cold always had a way of sharpening the mind, of stripping the world down to what mattered: altitude, balance, breath. Everything that he needed to focus on as he soared through the air atop his mount.
Morning Star, Martin's faithful companion who had been with him ever since he was a child, banked beneath him. Her vast wings scattering the spray as she skimmed the waves before once again rising to meet the clouds. The sunlight catching on her pale orange scales in a way that made them look as though they might as well have been made of fire itself.
Below them, from the decks of the passing ships, sailors pointed upward as they gazed in awe of the sight before them. Some saluted. Others merely stared, comforted by the sight of their dragon-rider prince keeping watch over them. To them, Martin was certainty made flesh. Only twenty-one years old, and already a decorated naval commander with many accomplishments to his name. The defender of the seas. Balmorra's unbreakable shield.
To most, Martin was exactly what the rumors said he was. A handsome and dashing young prince with a bright future ahead of him. Tall, with piercing purple eyes, thick, curly black hair, a well-trained physique, and bronze skin only lightly tainted by the scars he had earned from previous battles. A man, although often seen as quiet and aloof, who never failed to uphold the honor of his house. The man who had crushed pirates and smugglers as far as the eye could see. And a feature and a fancy of many young ladies across the empire.
Martin made sure to keep his posture rigid, his expression composed. He had learned long ago that admiration was easiest to bear when worn like armor. Or kept at arm's length to avoid letting it go to his head.
Up here, above the sea, no one asked him questions. He had long since moved on from that stage in life. And no matter what, everyone knew that he was the man that they all wished him to be.
Morning Star let out a low, rumbling call, more vibration than sound. In response, Martin leaned forward, resting a gloved hand against the warm ridge of her neck.
"Easy...." He murmured to his companion. "I know. One more circuit, then we're done for the day."
She obeyed, as she always did. Dragons did not lie, did not flatter, and did not maneuver for pointless advantage. Their loyalty was equal parts brutal and clean. And Martin trusted her more than most people he had known.
Dragons, at least, were honest creatures. Unlike the nobles and government officials, who always found a way to bother him at the perfect time. They wanted what they wanted. They took what they needed. No salons of whispering nobles. No letters written with velveted threats.
The prince still vividly remembered the day when his father had brought the dragon's egg home to the palace as a gift after a long expedition into the Southern Mountains. One for both him and his sister. It was a day he had waited on for quite a long time. And one that he would never forget.
Just like their grandmother, the previous Empress, had once been, the two of them had the honor of being among the rare few in the empire who had the pleasure of being beast tamers. Men and women who had the natural ability to bond with magical beasts. Many in the capital took it as a bright omen for the nation's future. And his father was overjoyed the day he had learned about it. But for Martin, he was just happy to have an amazing, fire-breathing beast that he could call his own. Just like any young boy in his position would've been.
When the patrol was complete, Martin guided his partner toward a lonely spit of rock that served as one of many temporary nesting spots in the area. As Morning Star settled in and folded her wings with a sigh of displaced air, Martin slid from the saddle to return back to the earth. The moment his boots hit the stone, the familiar weight returned to him. Fatigue, bone-deep and unrelenting. But also gratifying in some odd, unexplainable sort of way.
Not even a few seconds later, one of the young midshipmen assigned to his ship arrived with a small bundle of letters sealed in wax and ornate ribbons. Martin simply nodded and accepted them without comment, already knowing which crest would be among them.
Bertram Montclair.
A man whom he had neither love nor respect for.
Martin did not open them immediately. Instead, he removed his gloves, rubbed at the faint ache in his hands, and stared out at the sea. For a few stolen heartbeats, he let himself imagine a different life. One without the monotony of constant patrols and command meetings. One without the ever-present responsibilities given to him as a young naval officer. One where he might've actually had the chance to relax, kick his feet up, and enjoy the privileges that he kept denying himself over and over again.
Unfortunately, for now at least, such a thing was simply out of his grasp.
Then the wax snapped under his thumb as he let out a quick breath.
"Your Highness," The letter began, all courtesy and veiled insistence. "It has come to my attention that my daughter continues to suffer greatly from your prolonged absence. Your time away from the capital has begun to invite speculation. And a husband's presence would quiet many tongues..."
The prince exhaled slowly through his nose before rolling his eyes, not even bothering to read the rest.
He had received some variation of this letter every month for the last six months or so, each one more pointed than the last. Subtle reminders of his duty. Thinly disguised reproaches. Reprimands always ending with the same implication: A marriage unfulfilled was a problem that needed to be solved, and he himself was the obstacle.
He folded the letter without care and slipped it back into its envelope.
'If only it were that simple.' He told himself.
To the world, Prince Martin was many things. An honored prince, a decorated commander, one of the rare talents that graced the empire, and the younger son who had proven himself indispensable to the nation. He was admired for his discipline, his restraint, and his effectiveness. But the court also whispered that he was cold, perhaps even rigid. Aloof. But respectable. Safe.
They were not entirely wrong.
Martin preferred distance to anything else.
Distance kept him from making mistakes.
Distance kept him from giving in to their desires.
A few hours later, aboard his ship, after reports were signed and orders had been given, Martin sat alone in his private quarters. The sea rocked gently beneath him, a cradle that never quite let him sleep. He poured himself a cup of water and stared at the map pinned to the wall. Trade routes marked in ink, danger zones circled in red. A list of notable pirate captains and smugglers who had fallen in the past few months.
The capital lay far to the south, a small star on the parchment.
Jennifer was there. Still living inside the mansion that his father had gifted to him on the day of his wedding. Constantly being observed by the servants, just like he had instructed them to do in his absence.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. He had trained himself not to dwell on her. Dwelling led to questions, and questions led to doubt.
In all honesty, Martin barely even remembered what the woman's face looked like. Just vague and blurry images that never seemed quite right. After all, it had been a long time since he had last seen her.
He could, however, recall the day of their wedding with an odd amount of clarity. The careful composure in her smile, as if she were afraid that one wrong expression might ruin everything. The way she had looked at him, as if he were someone standing at the edge of a long-promised dream.
He had not touched her.
He knew better than to do something like that.
At the time, Martin had told himself that it was a form of kindness. That she deserved honesty, not obligation performed in darkness. That he would explain everything when the drama had finally passed.
Morning had come soon after; by then, he was already gone, and explanations had been postponed. The first time was a genuine accident, but at the same time, a relief. Then avoided. Then transformed into distance so complete it felt, at times, like erasure.
Martin took a quick swig of his drink and winced at the thought. He did not hate his wife. That was the cruelest part of it all. Hatred would have been easier. Indifference, probably even better.
Instead, there was this low, persistent awareness of her innocence. She was a genuine victim in all of this. One who just so happened to be the wrong person at the worst time.
His sister's face then appeared in his mind. Lydia vi Balmorra, Crown Princess of the Empire. Heir to the most powerful seat on the continent. Sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and just as politically savvy as the rest of them. And, unfortunately, the source of all the trouble that was currently plaguing his mind.
The main issue started around eight years ago.
His sister had been the target of a failed assassination attempt orchestrated by some disgruntled merchants who had been dissatisfied with a new trade law that his father had put out across the empire. The whole thing had been one giant mess. One that almost resulted in the end of Princess Lydia's life after she was stabbed in the gut by her would-be killer while visiting one of her friends in the eastern part of the country. And although she had fully recovered from the ordeal, the damage had already been done.
Because of that incident, Martin's sister would never be able to bear any children without suffering a great risk to her health. An unfortunate fact that would lead to great effects on the future of their nation. And as a result of this, the throne would pass not through her body, but through his.
In short, this meant that it was now his responsibility to produce children and continue the royal bloodline. And any heir that Martin sired would not just be his child. It would be the future leader of the Balmorra Empire.
It would also be leverage. The kind that most men only dreamed about having in their possession.
Prime Minister Bertram li Montclair was many things, but subtle was not one of them, especially in this particular instance. Everything had simply panned too well for him not to take advantage of the situation. He had maneuvered his daughter into the marriage with admirable precision. Alliances formed, debts called in, objections smoothed away. And of course, since Martin's father had been a longtime friend of the man, he was more than willing to give his consent to the marriage without even a second thought.
If everything had gone his way, Prime Minister Montclair would have a blood tie to the royal line that would secure his power for a generation, perhaps even more.
Thankfully, Martin and his sister had figured it out the moment their father announced the betrothal. And neither of them was too keen on the idea of allowing the man to have his ambitions come to fruition.
Consummating the marriage would seal that future in flesh and blood.
He could not allow it.
Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
The plan had quickly formed after that. A bold strategy put together by the two young royals that was sure to deny the ambitious lord what he wanted.
Distance now. Time bought through absence. And eventually, an annulment, justified by technicalities and political convenience. A quiet end, if such a thing were possible. A little bit of scandal in exchange for a lifetime of relief.
Even so, Martin knew that this couldn't go on forever. People were already talking, and even his parents were beginning to ask questions as to why he would rather take back-to-back assignments far away from the capital as opposed to spending time with his bride and ensuring the future of the family. So far, Martin has placated them with the excuse of wanting to further his naval career as much as possible. But he knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be forced to go back home and do what everyone wanted him to do.
"I hear that the Prince prefers the company of men."
"My aunt told me that he might be infertile."
"The royal line isn't secure; this can't go on forever."
"My merchant friend told me that he has a paramour in Rose Port that he spends his time with."
Martin knew the cost. He was not blind to it.
And unfortunately, Jennifer paid that cost every day.
Martin set his cup aside, his jaw tightening. He told himself that pain now was preferable to disaster later. That a wounded heart was better than a realm bent under Montclair's ambition. That one woman's suffering, however unjust, could not outweigh the stability of the crown.
These were the thoughts of a man who had learned to turn morality into arithmetic.
His servants back at the mansion had given him updates on how the woman was doing. And to say that she wasn't dealing with any of this well would be putting it mildly. Her father had been making more frequent visits whenever he didn't have any work. And from what he was told, the man made no effort to hide his displeasure at the fact that his precious daughter had failed to produce their ticket to permanent success.
Sometimes, in the smallest hours before dawn, doubt crept in anyway.
On those nights, Martin imagined what it might be like to return home and give up this game. To walk the halls of his home without having to feel guarded every step of the way. To sit across from his wife at breakfast and speak to her like a person, not a problem. To offer her an explanation, or at least the courtesy of truth. Not the cold feeling of rejection that she was trying to bury behind a mountain of books and sleepless nights.
The fantasy never lasted.
Morning Star shifted outside, atop the deck of the ship, sensing his unrest. Martin rose and pressed his forehead briefly to the cool glass of the porthole. Beyond it, the sea stretched endlessly and impartially.
"I just want peace. Is that too much to ask for?" The prince said softly to no one who could answer. "God, I can't even remember the last time I had a proper meal that didn't involve salted meat and hardtack."
Peace. Normalcy. A life where duty did not demand cruelty dressed up as calculated necessity.
He told himself that one day, when the danger had passed, he would make amends. That Jennifer would understand, in time, after it was all said and done. That history would judge him kindly for it. And that his efforts weren't in vain.
For now, distance was safer. Distance was a strategy.
As the ship creaked and the waves washed against its hull, Prince Martin vi Balmorra sat alone with the consequences of his actions. Unaware, or unwilling to face, just how deeply his absence was carving its mark into a woman he barely knew, and a future that was already beginning to weigh heavily on his soul.
-(o)-
Part III: The Storm Over Balmorra
The storm came in from the west without warning, rolling over the mountains as if it were a living being.
Prince Martin vi Balmorra rode beneath it atop his mount, his cloak plastered to his shoulders, and the rain needling through the seams of his uniform with each passing second. Morning Star's vast wings beat steadily against the wind, each stroke deliberate, disciplined, and graceful. Both dragon and rider moved as one through the blackened sky like a shadow. All while lightning split the clouds and briefly illuminated the jagged peaks below.
Behind them was the empire's capital, the usually brilliant city now swallowed by darkness far in the distance.
This was not the same as any of Martin's previous returns to his home. There were neither trumpets nor banners. No armed escort to greet him. And no cheers to harald his triumphant return.
All he was given was the cold silence of muted secrecy.
Once their destination finally came into view, Morning Star descended toward a narrow shelf of rock half-hidden by pine and fog. All that could be seen for miles was a single wooden cottage, an admittedly lavish building that most commoners would probably consider to be nothing short of a country villa. A building that only a select few knew about, and even fewer were allowed to go inside of.
No servants or attendants were there to greet him when Morning Star finally landed and sank her claws into the wet stone pathway below. In fact, the only signs of life that could be seen were the dim lights coming from inside the building. Alongside the large black dragon that was currently resting under an awning on the side of the building to avoid the rain.
Wildfyre, his sister's faithful companion and the brother of Morning Star. A magnificent beast with dark green scales and piercing yellow eyes that was just as beautiful as it was ferocious. Although the two dragons were taken from the same nest by their father many years ago, Wildfyre was already twice the size of his orange-scaled sister. And many across the empire considered it to be a beast worthy of their future Empress.
Martin wasted no time and slid from the saddle as his companion folded herself low as the water hissed off her scales. He took a second to press his forehead briefly against hers before she steadily made her way toward the awning to join her brother. A silent thanks for bringing him all the way out here on such short notice.
Martin turned toward the cottage and made his way to the door. His face was practically carved from stone as he mentally prepared himself for what was about to happen next.
Light burned behind the ornate shutters. And Martin didn't get the chance to knock before the door opened just as his hand was about to reach it.
"You're late." Crown Princess Lydia said, stepping aside to let him in. "I was beginning to think the storm had scared you off."
Martin rolled his eyes as he shut the door behind him. "If thunder could scare me, I would have retired years ago. I've been through far worse than this."
Martin allowed himself the ghost of a smile as he removed his muddy boots from his feet. Warmth wrapped around him immediately. Firelight, the scent of pine resin and old books, the familiar comfort of a place untouched by courtly excess. He really missed this place. He couldn't even remember the last time he had even been here.
Lydia vi Balmorra stood before him. A woman who looked so much like him that it wouldn't be a stretch to say that they could be confused for twins if it wasn't for the fact that she was four years older than her brother.
Unlike how she usually looked, the future Empress was not sporting the standard silks or jewels that normally adorned her clothing. This time, she was dressed in a woolen tunic and trousers, with her long dark hair braided down to her back. It was the typical look she chose to go with whenever she needed to ride out on Wildfyre. A choice of function that set aside any semblance of fashion.
"You look exhausted." The woman said as she gazed upon her brother for the first time in months.
"So do you." Martin replied, stripping off his wet cloak. "I take it that means the rumors are true."
Lydia snorted softly and gestured toward the fireplace. "Sit. Before you fall over and prove Mother right about you."
Martin did as he was told and sat himself down in a chair next to the fireplace. For a moment, they listened to the storm batter the cottage. The wind was clawing at the walls, and rain drummed on the roof like impatient fingers. It felt like the world had narrowed down to this single room.
"Sorry for calling you back on such short notice. I couldn't trust messengers with this." Lydia said at last, after getting comfortable in her seat. "Too many eyes. Too many eager ears."
Martin nodded. "Montclair's."
Her jaw tightened. "Naturally."
Silence stretched. Not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind heavy with shared understanding. They had been navigating court politics since childhood, learning early how words could easily become weapons if heard by the wrong person.
"It's worse than we thought." Lydia said quietly. "Your absence has only emboldened him."
Martin stared into the fire. "He's been sending me letters damn near weekly over the last few months. Always polite. Always concerned. Always reminding me of my duties as a husband."
"I've heard..." Lydia added. "I've also heard that you haven't bothered to give him a response, either."
"Yes." Martin's jaw tightened. "Let me guess, he's been pressing harder about it to our parents?"
"Relentlessly. Not just about your marriage, either." Her mouth twisted. "About everything. Appointments. Trade charters. Judicial placements. He speaks as if the empire already belongs to him. And our father is fine with it so long as nothing comes to his desk."
The fire popped, sending sparks upward. Martin already didn't like the direction that this conversation was headed toward.
Martin exhaled slowly. "Have you finally been able to get all of the proof that you needed?"
Before she spoke, Lydia rose and crossed to a small table, retrieving a leather satchel bound with twine. She then set it down between them as a few letters and papers flew out of the opening. "Intercepted correspondence. Financial ledgers. Witness statements from minor officials who thought aligning with Montclair would protect them. This isn't all of it, though. I have the rest stored away safely with one of my friends."
Martin opened the satchel without a word. And his expression darkened as he scanned the contents. Bribes disguised as charitable donations, positions granted in exchange for loyalty, subtle but unmistakable pressure applied across half the ministries.
"This isn't just ambition." The prince murmured. "It's preparation."
"Exactly!" Lydia said. "He's been stacking his cronies in key positions for the last couple of years. Ever since our father gave him his position, he's been moving his pieces around right under our noses."
Martin closed the satchel and sighed. "So he's building a foundation. So when the time comes...."
"He can steer imperial politics exactly the way that he wants to." Lydia finished.
Thunder cracked so close the cottage shuddered.
Martin leaned back, dragging a hand down his face before an eerie smile formed on his lips. "If this becomes public..."
"It will ruin him..." Lydia said with an equally devious grin. "A corruption scandal of this scale would isolate House Montclair entirely. And their allies would scatter like rats."
"And my marriage?" Martin said softly.
Lydia met his gaze. "Would become politically and socially untenable. A union founded on reckless manipulation. Easy grounds for a quick annulment."
The words hung in the air, sharp and bright.
Martin was already liking the sound of it.
"I've already managed to flip a few of his cronies over to our side. And I've already secured support from most of the military's top brass and half of the Senate. We've had to dish out a few bribes of our own to keep everyone quiet. But when the time comes, Montclair won't have enough support to keep the ground from falling out beneath him."
"Serves him right." Martin then said. "He deserves it after what he did to you."
The two had long since figured out that Montclair was the one who had masterminded the failed assassination attempt on Lydia's life all those years ago. The man had done a good job at covering his tracks, but he wasn't nearly as good as he thought he was.
From what they were able to gather, Montclair needed the princess out of the way to secure the power that he so desperately wanted. Since the man only had daughters, the only way that he could marry into the royal family was if one of his children had been betrothed to Martin. And with Lydia out of the way, it meant that Martin would be forced to become the next Emperor after their father.
Once that was accomplished, Montclair would have a direct bloodtie to the throne. And Martin had a sneaking suspicion that their current Prime Minister would no doubt find a way to get rid of him as well, the moment the chance became available to him.
It was one hell of a strategy, to be sure. One that almost worked. And this scheme was the exact reason why the two of them needed to get rid of the man before he sank his claws deeper into the government. Someone like that had no business having that much power over others.
"I still feel bad for Jennifer, though." Martin then said as a blurry image of his wife suddenly appeared in his mind. Pale in candlelight, eyes too large for her thinning frame, standing alone in a mansion built to impress and designed to isolate. "She really doesn't deserve this. My servants have told me that she's starting to have some sort of psychological issue as a result of all our scheming."
Circumstances aside, Martin wasn't calloused enough to not feel any guilt for what he was doing to that poor woman.
"No, she doesn't." Lydia agreed. "She doesn't deserve what her father has done. Or what you've done to avoid him."
Martin flinched.
Lydia softened her tone, if only slightly. "You really shouldn't feel bad about it. You're only doing it to keep the peace. I'm sure that she'll be fine once the fires finally settle down. Her family has more than enough money to keep themselves afloat after we make sure that Montclair ends up in prison."
"That doesn't make me feel any less guilty." Martin admitted.
"You're not wrong." Lydia said. "But intentions can often make up for consequences."
The storm howled outside, wind screaming through the trees like a warning.
"What's going to happen to her and her sisters?" Martin asked.
Lydia hesitated before responding. "Well... that depends on how the story is told. If Montclair falls as cleanly as we need him to, Jennifer becomes collateral damage. Nothing more than just another victim of her father's schemes. There will be plenty of sympathy aimed her way. Offers of sanctuary. Perhaps even some marriage proposals to some of the lower nobles who will want to pick up the scraps."
"And if it turns ugly?"
Lydia's expression hardened. "Then she'll just have to be crushed along with her father and his henchmen. But I honestly doubt that it will have to come to that."
Martin closed his eyes as he took a moment to absorb those words. For three years, he had chosen distance over confrontation, strategy over compassion. He had told himself it was necessary. Temporary. Controlled. And that all of this subterfuge will be worth it in the end.
Now the costs of his actions were firmly laid out in front of him, unavoidable. This is why he hated politics. No matter what, someone was always going to get the short end of the stick. It was the reason why he had joined the Imperial Navy in the first place: to get away from all the drama.
"How long until we go through with this plan?" The young man then asked.
"I can't give you an exact date. But I can tell that it will sooner rather than later." Lydia replied. "The pieces are already moving. Noble houses have already begun to align themselves. And the evidence has been seeded where it will be found. All that remains is for someone to pick up the bread crumbs and allow us to take over from there when things get hot enough."
Another thunderclap shook the cottage, rattling the shutters. Rain lashed harder, as if the sky itself were losing its patience. And in the background, the sound of Wildfyre grumbling could be heard beneath the chaos.
Lydia reached across the table and placed her hand over Martin's. "You know how important this is. If Montclair succeeds, there will be no clean exit for any of us. Not you. Not me. And certainly not your wife."
Martin opened his eyes.
The firelight reflected in them, unsteady.
"Tell me..." The man then said as he steeled his resolve. "How exactly is it going to start? I want to know what I'm going to walk into when word finally reaches our father's ears."
Lydia drew a slow breath before her reply. She then pulled out a piece of parchment and unrolled it with deliberate care. The ink on the paper glistened, still dark as if it were only written a few days ago. "It's all going to start with a letter that will conveniently be found by one of the generals working in Imperial Military Headquarters...."
And so, the woman began to speak of forged audits and carefully timed accusations. Of allies who would speak at precisely the right moment, of a collapse engineered to look like justice. It was a plan so deviously meticulous that only a true genius like her could come up with it and fully expect it to work out in her favour.
Outside, the storm raged on, and thunder rolled endlessly over the mountains.
With each word Lydia spoke, the future narrowed, funneling them all toward a reckoning no one would emerge from untouched.