The royal physicians worked in hushed, frantic urgency, their hands stained with herbs and sweat. Their movements were swift, but their eyes betrayed fear—hands trembling slightly. Still, none of them dared to slow down. Not now.
Elliott lay motionless on the bed. His usually warm-toned skin had gone ashen; his breaths were shallow. The saffron had nearly destroyed his throat, ravaged his lungs—his body had nearly burned itself out trying to fight what it believed to be poison.
"Breathe, Your Majesty," one whispered, as if Elliott could hear. "Please... just breathe."
Aiden didn't move.
He stood against the wall, arms crossed, knuckles white. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. His entire focus was on Elliott.
And though that focus usually calmed his fury, tonight, it only fed it.
Because every time he looked at Elliott's pale face, he remembered.
Remembered how Elliott's trust had been betrayed.
How his Elliott had been hurt.
How he might not make it.
Every gasp from the emperor's lips felt like a knife to Aiden's heart. Every shuddering breath reminded him of his failure—his failure to protect him.
Dawn came. The sky turned a saturated orange with the rising sun.
One of the healers finally turned, wiping sweat from his brow. He exhaled, voice hoarse.
"The worst has passed. His Majesty is stable. The road to recovery will be long... but he will recover."
Aiden didn't react. Not outwardly.
But inside, his soul split in two.
One half sank to its knees in relief and exhaustion.
The other half sharpened its blade.
Before the physicians could even fully clean the room, Aiden was already marching to the throne room. He didn't bother changing his clothes.
Let them see the blood.
The court had gathered like vultures, their whispers sharpening the moment the prince entered.
The emperor's collapse had sent shockwaves through the palace. Nobles whispered behind their hands, ministers clutched scrolls of law, and old lords exchanged glances thick with ambition.
They expected debate. They expected procedure.
Aiden planned to give them neither.
He entered not like a prince—but like a conqueror.
His boots echoed sharply against marble floors. He wore no crown. He didn't need one.
The air bent around him, thick with the promise of violence.
And just like that, the murmurs died.
The prime minister stepped forward, voice trembling. "Your Highness, the council has not yet—"
Aiden didn't let him finish.
"The council is irrelevant."
His voice rang through the ornate hall like a blade slicing silk.
"By the authority of the Crown Prince, and Emperor Elliott Lancaster's sworn heir—"
"I declare myself regent."
Silence.
Then—outrage.
Whispers erupted behind fans and folded sleeves. No one dared step forward.
Except, of course, Lord Berreck.
The silver-haired, sour-faced duke raised his voice. "You overstep, Prince Aiden. The regency must be voted upon. The law—"
"The law," Aiden interrupted, "states that in the event of the emperor's incapacitation, the Crown Prince assumes regency. Unless..." His eyes gleamed, voice like sharpened steel. "You dare to suggest I am not the heir?"
The unspoken threat hung in the air.
Lord Berreck faltered. But the court had no shortage of snakes.
Lady Waterwood stepped forward with a simpering smile. "Of course not, Your Highness. But surely, given the... unusual nature of your succession—"
Aiden moved.
One moment, he was at the throne. The next, he was looming over her.
She stumbled back.
"Unusual?" he echoed, his voice low and lethal. "You mean the fact that I'm not of Lancaster blood?"
The court froze.
Everyone had thought it. No one had dared to say it.
"Let me remind you," Aiden said, voice rising with every word, sharp as a whip, "that Emperor Elliott chose me. That he named me heir. That he stood before you—countless times—to silence your snide remarks, your veiled insults, every breath of dissent about my right to rule."
His hand twitched near his sword.
"And if you doubt me now..." his voice dropped to a whisper, "then say it. To my face."
No one spoke. No one could—not with the raw, murderous intent radiating off the man before them.
And then the court noticed the figures along the walls.
They hadn't been there when the session began.
The Grand Admiral, scarred and battle-worn, stood at attention near the doors.
Commander Lira, ruthless and efficient, leaned against a pillar, fingers tapping the hilt of her dagger.
And behind them—rows of soldiers.
Not ceremonial knights. Not just the Nightshade knights either.
They were the Imperial Command, answerable only to the reigning monarch.
A statement. A challenge.
Aiden hadn't just declared himself regent.
He had enforced it—with steel.
And in that moment, the council understood.
They had made a terrible miscalculation.
They had underestimated Aiden.
They had seen how he softened around Elliott, how he yielded to gentler policies.
They mistook restraint for weakness.
They didn't know about the border skirmishes he ended with a single command.
The traitors he had disposed of—without trials.
The ugly burdens of ruling he silently bore, so Elliott didn't have to.
The blood he spilled, so Elliott's hands could remain clean.
The two entire regiments he had relocated to the frontier without Elliott's knowledge—only revealing them afterward, when it suited him.
Because the military answered to Aiden as much as they did to Elliott.
Perhaps even more.
Now, as the court fell silent, Aiden let them see it—truly see it.
"The emperor is alive," he said, voice cold as winter steel.
"And while he recovers—I will rule."
A beat.
Then, quieter.
"Pray you do not give me a reason to be unlike him."