Chapter 36

Mailot opened and closed his mouth like a suffocating fish, his face contorted with indescribable horror and disbelief. Lucien briefly considered reprimanding the older man for his blatant insolence, but decided his energy would be better spent on the matter before him. The latest military reports concerning the developments he had been tracking were far from encouraging.

The prince clicked his tongue in irritation. “Duke Maleste intends to support Bastian’s direct campaign? He is supposed to be one of Arabelle’s most loyal cronies. Has the old fool changed sides without my knowledge?”

“That is what our intelligence indicates so far, Your Highness, although the precise catalyst for his betrayal remains unknown.”

“It seems he has conveniently forgotten who reduced his own son to such a pathetic state,” Lucien remarked, his voice edged with sardonic coldness.

Duke Maleste’s eldest son had been Arabelle’s husband, a weak-willed man who had departed the living world only a few years earlier. His end had been marred by a drug-fueled scandal far too disgraceful for the consort of a royal princess. Although his death had officially been declared a tragic suicide, no one at the high court was ignorant of whose carefully manicured hand had truly driven the noble knight into an early grave.

Duke Maleste, who had doted fiercely upon his heir, could hardly have been unaware of that open secret.

Although the private chambers were heavily warded against magical eavesdropping, Mailot deliberately lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rasp. “It is not entirely unexpected, Your Highness. The man was already deeply dissatisfied with Princess Arabelle seeking remarriage so soon. His dead son cannot be restored to life, but political power is another matter altogether.”

“The living must continue living. Is that it?” Lucien asked dryly.

“Furthermore, the duke has been one of the King’s closest friends for many years. As he grows older, perhaps he has become nostalgic for his former alliances.”

Regardless of how breathtakingly incompetent the King’s eldest son appeared in public, Bastian’s political foundation remained virtually unshakable. The core of his faction consisted of the King’s oldest associates and ancient noble families that took great pride in possessing the realm’s most conservative and supposedly untainted bloodlines.

There were numerous complicated and deeply intertwined reasons why men who had already secured their own power continued to shield such an inferior heir, but the foremost cause was glaringly obvious. Bastian possessed the King’s absolute favoritism, and that affection served as an impenetrable shield.

Favoritism existed even among one’s own flesh and blood. Perhaps it arose from a simple, primitive attachment to a firstborn son, or from a poisonous, narcissistic love for the child who most closely resembled oneself. Bastian was frequently described at court as a perfect copy of his father, from his brutish physical appearance to the volatile temperament beneath it, whether for better or worse.

That did not mean the King neglected Lucien or felt no affection for him. Even so, the love bestowed upon the third son, who had been born with startling golden hair and piercing blue eyes without sharing a single physical feature with his father, carried a colder and more measured quality than the blind devotion lavished upon the eldest.

“And Arabelle?” Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Even if she incited her brutish brother, she could not have intended to risk a civil war of this magnitude.”

“I am investigating her movements, Your Highness. Since Princess Arabelle remains isolated in Seodin, information appears to be reaching our spies more slowly than usual. I will present a complete report as soon as the remaining leads return.”

“This is precisely why leaving the capital is dangerous.”

Lucien spoke without a trace of emotion. His long fingers found a map buried beneath the papers stacked across one corner of the heavy oak table. The weathered parchment depicted only the central and northern regions of Izeland, yet every fortress, river, and city had already been crowded with colorful troop markers and tactical annotations.

“If Bastian spends the winter idling in the Maleste stronghold, he will simply march his forces back to the capital once the thaw begins.” Lucien tapped the map with one finger. “If the King dies before then, I shall be dead before I can even summon my armies here.”

“In such a catastrophe, we would have no choice but to hold our ground and buy time at these three choke points: Altera, Mare, and Lasido.” Mailot traced the strategic locations across the map in rapid succession.

“I do not trust the Lord of Lasido.” Lucien dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head.

“Do you imagine the Oullet cavalry will simply remain idle while the rest of the kingdom tears itself apart? Is there any logistical means of moving at least part of your army from Carlot to Silbon before the snow traps them?”

“I shall attempt to find a feasible solution.” Mailot bowed his head in defeat.

He hesitated for a long, heavy moment.

“Your Highness, if I may…”

The matter desperately needed to be addressed, yet for some inexplicable and terrifying reason, Mailot found it nearly impossible to speak.

“To prepare for the distinct possibility of civil war, or indeed to command an army effectively under any circumstances, your treatment must be completed immediately.”

Lucien said nothing.

“If the supreme commander becomes completely incapacitated every night, the entire faction is placed in grave danger.” Mailot forced himself to continue. “Your Highness, is the mage’s treatment proceeding properly?”

The reason for Mailot’s hesitation was painfully simple. He had grown immensely weary of raising the subject of that damned mage.

Even the word itself disturbed his master’s perfectly composed expression. The moment Mailot mentioned the mage, the atmosphere within the room became strangely, violently charged.

At first, Mailot had occasionally observed the treatment sessions to verify that they were progressing as intended. At some point, however, the scholar had been barred from the room altogether. Since his lord had firmly insisted that he would handle the matter personally, Mailot possessed little authority to interfere, but whatever was taking place behind those closed oak doors had begun to feel profoundly suspicious.

Gathering his courage, Mailot pressed once more. “Your Highness, has there been any progress in the medical treatment?”

No answer came.

After an unbearably uncomfortable silence, Lucien finally spoke, his voice dangerously quiet.

“That is not the most important concern at present.”

“Your Highness? It is the only important concern at present!”

Mailot unintentionally raised his voice before his lethal master. He tried desperately to drive the point home, but Lucien cut him off.

“I shall decide what matters within my own camp. It is not as though civil war will erupt this very day.”

“War is precisely the sort of thing one never knows has arrived until it erupts at the gates!”

“A commander can be replaced if he falls, but that mage is the only one I possess.” Obsession flashed in Lucien’s ash-blue eyes. “If I am forced to wage a bloody civil war from an unfavorable defensive position, the raw power of magic will be far more valuable than a good night’s sleep.”

“But…”

Mailot’s lips parted, but no words emerged. He looked as though he had been struck squarely in the chest. Clutching his robes, he paced the confined space in mounting agitation before turning a profoundly disrespectful glare upon the prince.

“So that is why you are cherishing him and raising him?”

The venomous words he had suppressed through sheer professional discipline finally spilled from his mouth.

“That is not the sort of man you were. You are holding him, coaxing him, and teaching him one step at a time? Since when did you become so revoltingly generous?”

“Simply because I have never had occasion to behave this way before does not mean I am incapable of it.” Lucien slowly shook his head, as though Mailot’s outrage were utterly absurd.

Magic was, at its core, an overwhelming force that no ordinary human could ever hope to wield. But what if a person possessed a mage? What if he could completely dominate one who commanded magic?

A mage who obeyed his words alone, one who functioned precisely according to his own exacting and violent preferences, would be no different from placing the godlike power of magic directly into his hands.

“It is a goal well worth the effort it requires. You agreed to this as well, Mailot. Why are you behaving like a frightened maiden now?”

The mage’s growth had admittedly been far more rapid than Lucien had anticipated, but that was merely a variable he could regulate through sufficient psychological pressure.

Although mages and humans were technically different species, they were so biologically similar that no one could distinguish them at a glance. Their patterns of thought and emotional vulnerabilities were unlikely to be vastly different.

Furthermore, Lucien had watched countless people fall madly in love throughout his life. Whether intentionally or otherwise, inspiring blind devotion had always been an effortless and thoroughly tedious game for him.

The desperate gazes, submissive gestures, frantic actions, pleading words, and erratic heartbeats felt through close physical contact all obeyed predictable patterns. People arrogantly imagined their own love was special, unique, and ordained by fate, but in the end, love was merely a psychological phenomenon that could be diagnosed through a handful of pathetic symptoms.

Lucien therefore understood love perfectly.

From everything he had witnessed in his bloody life, it was the surest, most unbreakable, and most efficient method of subjugating another living creature.

“What I agreed to, Your Highness, was not postponing urgent medical treatment so that you could cultivate a useful weapon!”

“Do you honestly believe I am delaying it because I want to?”

Lucien’s voice rose at last, uncharacteristically sharp and furious. The outermost edges of his legendary patience had begun to fray.

“Then finish the damned treatment!” Mailot’s response was steady, merciless, and entirely logical. “Once the guilt of injuring you has been lifted from his shoulders, the mage will be more than eager to pack his belongings and return home.”

Lucien suppressed the sudden, violent thought of those cursed geese.

The vivid memory of the beautiful boy singing sweet melodies to the wretched birds was better left unspoken, lest he feel compelled to murder something.

“I need a convincing reason to keep him trapped here until I am absolutely certain.” Lucien rubbed his throbbing temples, trying to stave off the approaching migraine.

Certain of what?

The true and bottomless depth of the mage’s heart.

Kosha’s blind, unwavering devotion needed, at the very least, to surpass the affection he held for those damned geese. The fact that a common farm bird had become Lucien’s rival for the mage’s attention was infuriating, yet it remained the cold and humiliating truth. If Lucien and those wretched creatures were placed upon a set of metaphorical scales at that very moment, Kosha’s tender, bleeding heart would undoubtedly tilt toward the geese.

That was not nearly enough.

It was insufficient proof that Lucien had truly and irrevocably mastered the mage’s power.

The boy was growing. His magical development was becoming terrifyingly significant, and allowing him to slip away now because of some misplaced mercy or impatience would be the act of a complete fool.

“If I may, Your Highness, there is more than one mage in the world,” Mailot said, interrupting the dark spiral of his lord’s reasoning. His voice had grown raspy, as though he had finally managed to cool his overheated temper.

“The Gaecrux mages are scheduled to meet His Majesty the King soon. The Palace Internal Affairs Department confirmed it this morning, so the information is reliable. It is probably nothing more than a routine assembly among their kind.”

Lucien’s brow furrowed sharply at the unexpected revelation, but Mailot pretended not to notice his displeasure.

“I will immediately submit a formal request for an audience with the Gaecrux tower master. If your medical condition can be resolved through official channels, the process will be clean, swift, and efficient. As for that mage…”

Mailot deliberately allowed the words to fade before adding with cynical sharpness, “Could you not simply continue pretending to be deathly ill?”

Lucien remained silent.

“From what I have observed of the boy, he would not even notice the deception.”

Mailot fully expected a brutal reprimand for the insolent remark, but his liege remained surprisingly and terrifyingly quiet. In fact, the prince appeared entirely consumed by the dark possibilities the suggestion had opened before him.

The lingering silence made Mailot deeply uneasy, but the scholar understood that no further conversation would produce anything useful that day.

With nothing more to add, Mailot bowed deeply.

“I shall take my leave, then.”

Lucien did not utter another word, even after the scholar turned his back and left the chamber.

***