’Why in the Empress’s name did he say no?’ The thought refused to leave her. It looped behind her gaze like a ribbon caught in wind—silent, but constant. Selienne Lysandra, First Princess of the Empire, did not obsess. She calculated. She predicted. She anticipated. And Lucavion had violated all three. She had not come to gamble. Every word, every angle of her presence had been measured—lowered just enough. Not to appear equal, no. But to appear willing to offer equality. A carefully painted illusion, tailored for his ego, precise enough to feel like truth. She had smiled, even. The kind of smile that cost bloodline and pride to produce. ’He looked me in the eye... and declined.’ ’He doesn’t care about the throne.’ That was the knife twisting now. He wasn’t fighting her. He wasn’t trying to outplay her. He just... wasn’t interested. It wasn’t his "no" that struck her. It was the implication. That she, Selienne, was not enough. ’That bastard. That maddening, insufferably composed—’ She stopped mid-thought, a breath catching behind her clenched jaw. Then, another piece slid into place. The Varenth incident. She hadn’t seen it firsthand, but she’d heard. Word traveled fast in the academy—especially when someone like Khaedren stormed out of a chamber with rage painted so openly across his face it might as well have been scrawled in ink. ’He went to meet with Lucien’s side first.’ Well, not directly. Not officially. Marquis Varenth had sent Khaedren. But everyone who mattered knew the truth. Varenth’s name might be on the seal, but the voice that echoed through that man’s lips was Lucien’s. And apparently, Lucavion had refused him too. The boy had left Khaedren shaken. Furious. Afraid. ’And then he defied me.’ Her hands, folded neatly behind her, tensed slightly. That was what made no sense. He wasn’t aligning with either faction. He wasn’t playing between them, baiting offers to raise his value. She would have respected that. Even admired it. ’He’s doing something else.’ ’He turned both of us away, without even looking for leverage. No demands. No hedging. Just... no.’ That wasn’t manipulation. And that was troubling. ’What is he planning, then?’ She stood beneath the colonnade now, the stone casting long shadows across the manicured gardens. The empire’s banners fluttered lazily in the breeze—symbols of legacy, of power, of certainty. And yet, none of them offered clarity for the one question still clawing at the edges of her thoughts. ’What is he planning?’ Selienne Lysandra, who had spent years navigating the serpentine corridors of imperial politics, who had broken rivals with a phrase and swayed ministers with a breath—she couldn’t read him. And that was the most infuriating part. Not even the subtle way he had rejected her offer without drawing blood. But the void he left in his wake. ’He’s... unreadable.’ No missteps in posture or tone that gave away hunger or hesitation or ambition. She knew he had ambition. A man like that, with eyes like that, did not walk quietly just for the sake of it. She had meant every word. He was walking a thin line. Refusing Lucien was a risk. Bold, but survivable. Refusing her—after refusing Lucien? ’No allies. No backing. No noble name. No imperial bloodline. He’s just a weapon... without a sheath.’ ’And what happens to unclaimed weapons in this empire?’ She narrowed her eyes. ’No matter how powerful he is. How talented. Without support, without protection, how far does he think he can go?’ Even prodigies get swallowed whole. Her gaze shifted slightly, her breath catching mid-thought. ’Does he have someone behind him?’ That would make sense. A faction working in silence. But even as the theory took form, she dismissed it. She had already run the background reports. Personally ordered the data pulled from the central registries. The ones reserved for blood-verified census and guild alignment. —appeared from nowhere. Records placed him as an orphan of a village from outskirts which was wiped out after a monster attack. And that was the problem. ’His identity is likely forged.’ Not that he was the first to do it. But most who wore masks had someone behind the curtain. No nobles claimed him. No guilds listed him. No secret donors, no covert scholarships, no hidden imperial stipends. He was a ghost with a file. And her intelligence division, one of the most ruthless networks in the empire, had come back with nothing conclusive. Which meant either one of two things. Either he was just a remarkably talented commoner with falsified credentials— Or he was someone else entirely. Selienne’s fingers twitched faintly at her side. ’He’s either reckless or he’s playing a game so deep we haven’t even seen the board yet.’ Selienne’s gaze dropped to the garden stones beneath her heels—polished, pristine, each one laid by design, by order. Just like the empire. Just like everything Lucavion had, in the span of a single conversation, chosen to ignore. Her lip curled—only slightly. She refused to accept it. ’He’s not that deep. He can’t be.’ There were whispers, of course. Conspiracy-chasers would love the idea of a hidden heir, a false identity cloaking some forgotten line of royalty, a weapon raised in the shadows to strike at the empire’s heart. But Selienne Lysandra did not believe in fantasy. Not when her entire life had been lived in reality—cold, sharp, and edged with iron. ’He’s not hidden royalty. He’s not a secret project. He’s not some genius tactician orchestrating an invisible faction.’ ’He’s just... a reckless fool.’ ’Talented, yes. Dangerous, possibly. But a fool all the same.’ She straightened her shoulders, allowing her breath to flow smoother, lighter, as though the finality of that thought brought clarity. ’He’s going to fall eventually. I warned him.’ And with that, her mood began to lift—her pulse easing, her steps returning to their usual deliberate grace. Her eyes caught movement in the courtyard ahead. Walking side by side, framed in the soft glow of the sun filtering through the ornamental glass arch. She didn’t recognize the first immediately—tall, formal, likely a newly promoted aide from the Central Academy staff. Unimportant. A flicker of amusement crossed her face. Genuine, this time. Not court polish. Not political veneer. Because the second figure—graceful, familiar, wholly out of place—had not been seen publicly in quite some time. "Priscilla," Selienne murmured, her voice warming as her steps slowed. And then, louder—crisp, melodic, just loud enough to carry across the open air: "What is our little sister doing here?"