The Throne Hall of Alexandria was a cathedral of power.
Marble black as night. Pillars carved with dragons of ancient wars. Gold inlays coiled like serpents across the ceiling, where a mural of the War of Madness looked down upon its survivors like a warning.
At the far end sat the Emperor, silent in his seat of stone and bone. He did not move. He did not need to.
Because Lucian Vhalcrest stood beside him, cloaked in shadow and command.
He wore no crown. No sigils. Just obsidian armor and a single red thread tied at his wrist—a silent mark of his title: Heir of the Empire.
He watched as lords, generals, and sycophants bowed low and spoke in circles.
> "Your Grace, the western trade gates are—"
"Your Highness, the Crimson Cult whispers of—"
"My lord, if I may humbly suggest—"
Lucian said nothing. Just watched. Memorized.
He could tell which of them feared him. Which of them lied. And which wanted him removed before the coronation next month.
They were too loud. Too proud. Too soft.
He was raised in blood and silence. They were raised in wine and books.
And beside him—Lydia.
She sat one step below the throne, draped in violet silk, her eyes cold and unreadable. The Blood Queen had not spoken yet. She didn't need to.
Every noble man in the hall avoided looking directly at her for too long.
> They all know, Lucian thought. They know she chose me. That frightens them more than anything.
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☁️ Tension Shifts
A duke of the southern coast stood forward, bloated and sweating.
> "My Emperor, I raise one concern," he said, bowing low. "With all respect to the… adopted heir, I wonder if bloodless ascension weakens the throne's divine right?"
The hall froze.
Lucian didn't blink.
Lydia's fingers flexed, barely.
The Emperor remained still.
The duke continued, oblivious to the noose around his tongue.
> "Perhaps a tournament—a symbolic trial of worth? To reassure the people, of course."
Lucian stepped forward, voice smooth as silk-wrapped steel.
> "A trial of worth?" he echoed. "Interesting. Shall I wrestle your concubines, or duel your debt collectors?"
Polite laughter rippled from some corners. Others paled.
Lydia rose slowly. All eyes snapped to her. Her voice was soft, measured.
> "Duke Rhelm," she said, "my husband has survived war, slavery, and treachery. You, meanwhile, fainted last week when your soup was too hot."
"Shall I bring the broth to court as your second?"
The hall fell silent.
The Emperor's mouth curved into the faintest smile.
Lucian turned his head to Lydia. She met his eyes just briefly.
And for that moment—the entire room vanished.
---
🕯 At Scene's End...
The court resumed with forced ease. Petitions were filed, alliances brokered, threats disguised in etiquette.
But three things had been made undeniably clear:
1. Lucian is feared—but not universally loved.
2. Lydia is more dangerous than most assume.
3. The court wants them divided. And someone will try.
---
> "They want a trial?" Lucian thought later, staring at the roses again.
"They'll get one. Just not the kind they expect."
---
Would you like the next chapter to:
Explore Lucian and Lydia's reaction afterward—perhaps a quiet moment or argument behind closed doors?
Follow Lilac sneaking through the palace, uncovering a secret?
Introduce a new political rival—a noblewoman or man who was once Lydia's suitor?
The mask has cracked—now the game begins.