Chapter 49

Every enchantment carried a fatal flaw.

Lucien had learned that immutable truth firsthand on the Eastern Front, where he had survived only by rolling through blood-soaked dirt like a feral dog. Mages were fallible creatures, no different from any other mortal, and no matter how powerful they became, they could never account for every variable in their magic with flawless precision. A sufficiently clever mind needed only to find the blind spot and exploit it to break even the most formidable spell.

By that logic, Lucien and his adjutants ought to have been able to unravel this particular enchantment without relying on some manufactured antidote.

Unfortunately, the wretched love potion operated according to such vague and subjective conditions that their progress remained agonizingly slow. The mysterious brew forced Lucien to surrender to his basest impulses, compelling him to act on whatever erratic whim happened to seize him.

What, precisely, did doing as he pleased entail? How fiercely did he have to desire something before the compulsion wrested control from him?

Lucien had always preferred a life of ceaseless momentum.

Had laziness poisoned his nature, he would never have clawed his bloody way to Ostrabache. He relished the brutal cut and thrust of the battlefield. Command came to him as naturally as breathing, and untangling complex political knots in his own ruthless fashion had long ranked among his greatest private pleasures.

His failure to anticipate the potion’s consequences had resulted in a rather humiliating scene when its effects first took hold. Managing the situation proactively, however, offered a viable solution. If his strongest desire while the potion remained active was simply to sit at his desk and complete his administrative work, then the danger disappeared. It required iron discipline and nothing more. His sanity had not deserted him entirely.

Forging that specific state of mind demanded considerable, often agonizing effort. Lucien had never been an especially honest man, and his prodigious talent for deception extended even to his own self-reflection. Staring directly into the abyss of his deepest desires, acknowledging that they existed, then satisfying or extinguishing them in advance proved thoroughly exhausting.

To anchor his fractured concentration, he recited the fundamental principles of magic in an endless, rhythmic loop.

He supplemented the exercise with potent calming medicines and thick incense, then accompanied the entire ordeal with his favorite roasted meats and spiced wine. Indulging his mundane appetites offered the fastest and most immediate means of placating the cravings manufactured by the potion.

After grueling trial and error, with heavily armed knights stationed beyond the doors in case physical restraint became necessary, Lucien adapted well enough to continue working through the night. His absolute limit amounted to sitting in a hazy, sweat-slicked stupor while reviewing intelligence reports and issuing royal approvals. Even that meager degree of productivity, however, represented a considerable triumph.

That was precisely why he had refused to summon the mage.

He had not realized the mage was paying attention to that particular detail.

Or had he?

Lucien was not a man accustomed to internal honesty.

Had I truly failed to notice him watching me, or had some twisted, hidden part of me been hoping he would?

“There have been reports of suspicious activity in the Seodin region.”

Gosrick’s grave voice cut cleanly through the chaotic whirl of the prince’s thoughts.

The adjutant had been exceedingly busy of late, shouldering several of Mailot’s responsibilities alongside his own routine reports. He had also inherited Eydric’s delicate duty of monitoring their captive mage. From Gosrick’s perspective, the sudden avalanche of administrative burdens must have felt like lightning striking from a cloudless sky.

But we cannot simply leave those bastards unattended, can we? Especially Eydric. That idiot…

Gosrick leaned slightly forward. “The Lapros horse archers are said to have entered Antekha. Their numbers are estimated at somewhere between seven hundred and a thousand. If Arabelle is preparing to return with the army from the Seodin region…”

“That would be treason.” Lucien released a short, contemptuous laugh. “The King is still breathing. Who would dare march a standing army into Ostervelt?”

Had such a brazen maneuver been possible, Lucien would have stationed Carlot’s heavily armored forces on their doorstep long ago. Absolute law permitted only the King’s sovereign army to occupy Ostervelt, the royal territory surrounding the capital. The moment any foreign or factional military force crossed its borders, the incursion became an act of high treason.

No warlord since the bloody founding of the Asila Kingdom had dared commit such a violation. Even if a usurper slaughtered every rival and claimed the crown atop a mountain of corpses, seizing power through such naked force would merely prove that he lacked the qualifications to rule. A monarch without legitimacy could be dragged from the throne the moment another righteous army marched into the capital, while the throne itself would effectively remain vacant. Lucien had no intention of enduring endless hardship merely to claim a hollow victory that could be torn from his grasp in a single night.

“Of course, the matter would change drastically if the King were actually to die.” Irritation sharpened Lucien’s voice.

“But the timing remains entirely uncertain, does it not?” Gosrick braced both hands against the polished mahogany desk, tension stiffening his posture. “If the King were to expire while the Gaecrux Tower Master remained in the capital, the result would be chaos. Surely our enemies cannot be foolish enough to ignore what thirty-one battle-ready mages might accomplish while the sovereign lies dying.”

He paused, gathering his racing thoughts before continuing.

“We have also moved cavalry to Silbon. Only five hundred riders for now, but we can reinforce them as the political situation develops. It would be prudent to dispatch another commander to oversee the garrison.”

Silbon was one of Carlot’s most heavily fortified strongholds near the Ostervelt border, and it served as the most critical staging ground from which Lucien could mobilize troops during a sudden emergency. Selecting a commander for such a volatile post required uncompromising care. Several suitable names drifted through the prince’s calculating mind, all belonging to scarred veteran officers renowned for their unwavering loyalty and extensive battlefield experience.

Yet the name that slipped from his lips belonged to none of them.

“Eydric.”

The unexpected command settled heavily over the quiet study.

Gosrick’s stoic features twisted into an expression so complicated that Lucien could not quite decipher it. “Eydric, Your Highness? You truly intend to appoint him supreme commander at Silbon?”

Eydric was far too young and possessed none of the large-scale command experience required for such a volatile geopolitical post. More importantly, the young knight’s lethal talents were vastly more valuable in specialized and covert roles. Assigning him to a static position at Silbon would be a catastrophic waste of resources.

Unfortunately, Lucien could still picture the infuriating courtyard scene with blinding clarity. That capable young knight, whom he had always treated with the leniency afforded to a younger brother, had stood entirely too close to the captive mage. The memory had resurfaced countless times since that sunlit afternoon, needling at Lucien’s frayed nerves like a festering splinter.

He remembered the mage’s slender, pale fingertips brushing Eydric’s parted lips as he fed him a peeled grape. Worse still, he remembered the vacant, utterly besotted expression plastered across the young idiot’s face.

It had been painfully and humiliatingly obvious what was running through the bastard’s mind. Eydric might carry himself with considerably more gravity than most men his age, but he remained a youth ruled by boiling blood. He was also rather handsome, assuming Lucien forced himself to be entirely objective.

Lucien clicked his tongue and scowled at the polished surface of his desk.

He needed to admit the ugly truth.

Willfully ignoring a problem had never made it disappear.

That was the singular, excruciating lesson this godforsaken love potion, or whatever the hell the archaic brew was actually called, had violently forced him to learn.

He desired the mage sexually. He craved the man’s body with a humiliating and obsessive specificity. There was no denying the feral hunger.

Sexual desire and emotional attachment are entirely separate matters, Lucien reasoned coldly. That distinction holds true for any creature born with a cock between his legs.

“Your Highness.”

Gosrick’s lips had parted in sheer disbelief, his usual rigidity crumbling into an expression beyond description.

“He will have to command a proper garrison someday, will he not?” Lucien waved one elegant hand in dismissal, refusing to meet his adjutant’s eyes. “I know precisely what you are thinking, Gosrick, so wipe that insolent look from your face at once.”

Gosrick continued to stare at him with pure, unadulterated insolence.

It was the same heavy, judgmental expression the older man had weaponized throughout their shared childhood whenever he had been forced to wrangle a stubborn young master who challenged authority at every conceivable opportunity.

“Just arrange the fortress personnel properly.” Lucien released a long, ragged breath. “As for Luden, is he still fully occupied with suppressing the skirmishes in the East? We could move Melian to the border instead.”

That secondary command was remarkably rational, particularly when compared with the jealous impulse that had preceded it.

Gosrick bowed with formal respect, smoothly concealing the insolence still lingering in his dark eyes. “There is also a new intelligence report from Oullet.”

“Oullet?”

“Lady Airi has been seen residing there.”

The unexpected name drew a sharp, calculating frown from Lucien. He had been watching the widening fractures in Prince Bastian’s political marriage with considerable interest.

“My half-brother’s lawful wife is staying at her parents’ estate? Now, at a critical time like this?”

“It remains possible that their relationship has genuinely and irreparably collapsed,” Gosrick replied with measured care. “Both the royal princess and the prince’s wife have vacated their official quarters within the palace, yet the quartermaster’s records show no reduction whatsoever in the women’s necessities being delivered to the East Wing. I do not believe Bastian’s faction is even attempting to conceal his wife’s sudden absence. He may simply have taken a new and highly favored mistress.”

“As though this were only the first or second time that fat pig of a bastard has whored his way through the capital.”

Lucien’s slender, immaculately groomed fingertips tapped against the mahogany desk in a sharp, predatory rhythm.

“Besides, did that naive woman not know precisely what sort of monster she was chaining herself to when she married him?”

“She may have understood the facts, Your Highness, but the human heart is rarely so easily controlled.”

“That is utterly absurd.” Lucien barked a harsh, scornful laugh and shook his head. “However blindly naive she might be, Lady Airi was born and raised among the highest ranks of the court. What does the fragile human heart have to do with anything of substance? Who in our world marries for base emotion? Is it remotely rational to flee one’s ancestral home merely because a private domestic relationship has soured? She is not some weeping commoner performing in a cheap stage play.”