Chapter 41

“Have you finally lost your mind? Is that it?”

The furious roar shook the parlor. Mailot knelt before his lord with his head bowed, one cheek already swelling beneath a mottled blue-purple bruise.

Such a sight was profoundly rare.

Lucien harbored no qualms about using violence, but he seldom struck anyone with his own hands unless they possessed strength comparable to his, at least while he remained in his right mind. The restraint had nothing to do with compassion. It sprang from the arrogant conviction that striking the weak was beneath his dignity, little more than a tiresome chore. A scholar like Mailot hardly qualified as an opponent; the last time Lucien had laid a hand on him, Lucien had been sixteen.

Now, for the first time in nearly a decade, that violence had erupted again, ruthless and unfiltered. Mailot had braced himself for the blow, yet his vision had still gone black for several terrifying seconds, leaving him half convinced that his eyeball had burst from its socket.

The previous night’s operation had unraveled spectacularly.

The problem extended far beyond the unexpected appearance of the library keeper, who had arrived at that precise hour as though he possessed advance knowledge of their plan, rather than some low-ranking guard who could be quietly dispatched. The true shock lay in the mage’s inexplicable disappearance. He had simply vanished without leaving so much as a trace.

Ideally, the sluggish mage would have escaped the library before any uninvited guests approached. Unwilling to entrust the entire operation to such an unpredictable variable, Mailot had prepared a contingency.

Ostrabache was an ancient stronghold whose main tower traced its origins back to the mythical age. Long before it was proclaimed the capital of Izeland, it had served the Asila Kingdom as a military fortress. Centuries of expansion and repair had altered much of its structure, but deadly remnants of its original purpose still survived within the ancient pillars: hidden passages, concealed mechanisms, and lethal traps.

Time had reduced those dangers to forgotten legend, yet Mailot’s obsessive scholars had resurrected them. After scouring ancient blueprints and fragmented records, his research team had painstakingly reconstructed a map of Ostrabache’s subterranean labyrinth.

Once verified through perilous trial and error, every path had been committed to memory by Eydric and the knights assigned to special operations.

The eastern tower of the east wing, once known as the main tower’s eastern pillar, contained a crucial extension of that secret network. It had been Mailot’s fail-safe. While he kept the library keeper occupied, Eydric would slip through the walls and extract the sluggish mage.

The fatal flaw in the plan, however, had been glaringly simple.

The mage Eydric went to retrieve was not there.

“The Palace Internal Affairs Department agreed to let Seldon coordinate the story.” Mailot spoke slowly, each word distorted by the throbbing mass of his swollen cheek. The coppery taste of blood lingered on his tongue. “It was arranged in advance. There shouldn’t be any trouble from that quarter.”

Despite the brutal punishment, Mailot felt little resentment. Had Eydric permanently lost the mage, a bruised face would have been the least of his worries. He readily admitted that he had acted recklessly. The rapidly deteriorating military situation, combined with his lord’s stagnant condition and apparent preoccupation with trivial matters, had driven him to impatience.

Still, a chilling possibility remained.

Could the mage himself have subtly influenced my decision?

Mailot had catastrophically underestimated the fact that his target was anything but human.

“I acknowledge my mistakes, and I will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate.” Swallowing the blood pooling in his mouth, Mailot raised his desperate gaze. “But Your Highness, please consider one detail. Leaving aside how the mage discovered the secret passage at all, the library’s lower floor is strictly inaccessible. It remains riddled with ancient traps. A single wrong step guarantees obliteration. You are aware that the Gaecrux mages attempted to disable them and were forced to retreat, are you not?”

Lucien said nothing. His face remained an unreadable mask of fury.

“Furthermore, the door the mage claims to have used was sealed completely shut.” Mailot bowed his head once more, allowing the sheer impossibility of the situation to settle over the room. “Even if we disregard the absurdity of finding him wandering near your private chambers during curfew, Your Highness, you must reconsider whether this man is truly an innocent who knows nothing. The persistent delays in your treatment are also…”

“Mailot Koherburn.”

Lucien’s low voice cut through the room, carrying an authority that made further argument impossible.

“You acted on your own initiative, and your actions constitute insubordination.”

Mailot fell silent and braced himself.

“Confine yourself to your quarters for a fortnight and await further judgment. Submit all reports through Renata or Gosrick.”

Unmistakable irritation seeped into the prince’s voice. His twisted mood was hardly surprising; since opening his eyes that morning, he had spent hours systematically eviscerating his subordinates.

Yet the true source of his temper could be traced back to the instant he awoke, on what had been the strangest and most unpleasant morning he had endured since the mage began serving as his substitute sleeping draught.

It had begun with a suffocating heaviness. Not the familiar ache of illness, but the literal weight of something pressing him into the mattress.

Before opening his eyes, an almost hopeful thought had flickered through his mind.

Could it be the mage?

Lucien often suggested that the man stay the night.

The invitations were mostly empty pleasantries, though he had no intention of refusing if the foolish mage ever accepted. Given Kosha’s timid nature, a direct agreement was inconceivable. Still, perhaps after tucking Lucien into bed, the mage had agonized over the offer, stealthily slipped beneath the covers, fallen asleep by accident, and somehow shifted his weight on top of him during the night.

The fleeting fantasy vanished the moment Lucien’s sharpened senses detected a foul, suffocating odor. Instead of the faint, sweet fragrance that usually clung to the mage’s skin, a scent Lucien had grown so accustomed to that he could isolate it with his eyes closed, his nostrils filled with the stench of rotting leather and decaying paper.

Lucien’s eyes snapped open.

Eight massive, tattered tomes lay scattered haphazardly across his chest and the tangled sheets.

It took several long moments for his sleep-fogged mind to comprehend the absurdity before him. Five of the ponderous volumes had covers that refused to budge, while the three he could open were filled with ancient scripts that had gone extinct centuries ago.

There was only one possible source for such chaotic nonsense.

Barely dressed, Lucien had stormed from his chambers and roared for the guards to drag the mage before him. The servant dispatched to retrieve Kosha had returned hours later, empty-handed and deeply troubled, bearing an impossible report.

Lucien’s attention snapped back to the present, and his irritation erupted into a fresh torrent of vitriol.

“You coordinated this disaster with the Internal Affairs Department? Do you have any idea whose side those sycophants actually serve? Who the hell is creating more work for me right now? If the workload has finally driven you insane, then say so. I’ll ship you back to Carlot this instant!”

Mailot remained bowed and silent, offering no defense.

Lucien raked a hand through his disheveled blond hair and released a long, ragged breath, forcibly swallowing the rest of his mounting rage.

“As for you,” he continued, his voice dropping into a dangerous warning, “you are forbidden from meeting the mage alone until I grant you explicit permission.”

Mailot responded with a tense nod.

Lucien waved him away. “If you understand, then get out. Don’t let me catch so much as a glimpse of your shadow for the next fortnight. Bury yourself in your quarters.”

Mailot’s lips parted in hesitation, but he wisely snapped them shut, bowed deeply, and retreated from the parlor.

An oppressive silence reclaimed the room, thick with the remnants of Lucien’s fury. Sensing the volatile atmosphere, a servant quietly approached with a silver tray bearing chilled lemon-and-mint tea. Lucien drained two cups in quick succession, though the icy refreshment did nothing to soothe his foul mood.

He tossed the empty cup onto the servant’s tray and prepared to rise for the day’s duties, only to stop midway.

He was still dressed down, wearing nothing more than an undershirt beneath a loose surcoat draped carelessly around his shoulders. Had he been heading directly to his office, he could easily have bullied his way through the day half-dressed. Today, however, demanded a different approach.

“Have my clothes prepared by the time I finish bathing.”

Pivoting sharply, he strode toward the washroom.

***