Chapter 12

Seated cross-legged on a balcony chair, Lucien poured his focus into the book in his hand. Cerulean eyes traced the lines as his hair and regal attire fluttered gently in the breeze. The summer wind carried the rich aroma of tea and cookies from the table, teasing his senses.

Three months flown by in the blink of an eye. After last night's ceremony marking the end of his training, today he would return to the capital for his coming-of-age celebration. Not much changed during his stay—most days were spent training or poring over texts on cross-dimensional magic, hoping to find a way back to his world. He found nothing.

Somehow, he didn't understand why he had been sent here in the first place. Was there a purpose, or was it just some joke? He wanted an answer, but this realm was a godless land. There was no God here. Who could he even ask?

Closing the book with a sigh of exasperation, Lucien rubbed the bridge of his nose, muttering, "I'm thinking about something useless."

Footsteps pulled him from his thoughts; he glanced toward the source and found Sanchez bowing respectfully. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Highness. I have news: His Highness Prince Tristan and His Grace Godfrey will be arriving shortly."

"Understood." Lucien stored the book in his magical ring and stood. "Lead the way."

The old man deepened his bow. "This way, please."

Lucien followed Sanchez as Kyle instinctively fell into step behind him.

A few days ago, Cyrus sent him a letter informing him that Tristan and Duke Godfrey would be escorting him. He understood his grandfather's involvement, but Tristan? Why was he included?

When he asked Kyle's opinion, Kyle suggested it might be to ensure his safety. After all, no 'accidents' ever occurred when Tristan was with him. In other words, Cyrus was fully aware of the harm the Vazquez family inflicted on Lucien. Yet, he remained silent and did nothing.

Why?

What was his reason?

Unable to grasp Cyrus's way of thinking, he dug into the Emperor's past, hoping to gain a better understanding of him. What he uncovered left him speechless.

The Solairé Empire was divided into four regions: Central, Western, Eastern, and Northern, each ruled by a duke. For generations, the dukes maintained neutrality. In recent decades, however, Duke Vazquez of the central region rose in political power. As his influence grew, the loyalists to the throne dwindled, and rumors spread that the Vazquez family sought the throne.

Despite the circumstances, Cyrus—a consort's son with little power then—made a bold and controversial decision by marrying Helene, Duke Vazquez's daughter. This move sparked outrage among both the loyalists and the imperial family, who swiftly branded him a traitor. To them, it was no different than selling the throne for personal gain.

As the current Emperor's health declined, the power struggle reached its peak. Day after day, news of another fallen prince or slain member of the imperial family spread through the palace. Even Cyrus lost his mother and barely escaped death himself.

Ultimately, he emerged as the sole survivor of the bloody battle for succession, putting an end to one of the darkest chapters in the Solairé Empire's history.

But the madness didn't end there.

On the day of his ascension, Cyrus blindsided the court by announcing his marriage to Roseanne—Duke Godfrey's daughter—and declaring her the new Empress. The Empire reeled. Duke Vazquez, feeling betrayed, seethed with fury while the nobility struggled to process the sudden power shift. After all, Duke Godfrey—once a staunch neutral—was now aligned with the imperial family.

Had it not been for the Godfrey family's long-standing military lineage, which had defended the Empire for generations, the Vazquez coalition would have undoubtedly raised an army in defiance.

Many believed Cyrus's decision was a calculated move to curb the Vazquez family's growing influence by bringing Duke Godfrey into the political scene to solidify the loyalists and send a clear message that he refused to be a puppet emperor. However, the aftermath left lasting unrest across the Empire and ignited a power struggle between the Godfrey and Vazquez families.

At a glance, the Vazquez family appeared to be the victims. But in retrospect, the so-called 'bandit attack' made one thing clear: Cyrus deliberately shielded them. And considering how easily he dismissed the fact that Lucien—Duke Godfrey's grandchild—was nearly assassinated, the lines blurred.

At this point, he couldn't tell who the real victim was.

Just… what could Cyrus possibly gain by protecting the Vazquez family?

Or was he merely playing both sides, ensuring that neither grew too powerful?

Letting out a deep sigh, Lucien ran his fingers through his hair. 'Whatever the answer was, this family, THIS EMPIRE, was one hell of a mess.'

Arriving at the entrance hall, maids and butlers paused their last-minute preparations to bow respectfully at the sight of him. Lucien returned a curt nod as he passed.

The sharp clanking of metal echoed through the air, drawing all eyes to the fortified wall. The massive portcullis slowly rose, revealing two grand carriages drawn by four horses each, flanked by cavalry as they glided into the palace grounds. Hooves thundered across the courtyard; the imperial pennant atop the carriages fluttered proudly in the breeze.

The coachman deftly brought the carriage to a halt before the entrance hall, where a butler promptly stepped forward to open the door. A robust elderly man emerged, his regal attire unmistakable in its nobility. Though well into his sixties, his blond hair still gleamed under the sunlight.

He was none other than Wilhelm—Lucien's grandfather, and the Empire's revered marshal.

The moment their cerulean gazes met, the man offered him a tender smile, and Lucien reluctantly returned the gesture. No matter how many times it happened, he could never quite grow accustomed to feigning familial warmth.

Then Wilhelm's approaching figure blurred and doubled in Lucien's vision; the smile slipped from his face, his brows drawing taut in confusion.

"Argh!"

Pain knifed through his skull, slamming him to his knees. His hands clamped over his head, desperate to claw out the beast tearing through his brain.

Frantic voices shouted around him, but they faded as darkness surged in from all sides, until there was nothing.

…

"…Empress-killer…"

"…you let her die…"

"…shame upon your bloodline!"

The muffled jeers pierced his ears, dragging him from the void. When he opened his eyes, he found himself cloaked in black, standing amid a seething crowd. At its center, Wilhelm knelt beneath a guillotine, wrists bound in heavy shackles, his head bowed low.

"You deserve worse than death!"

"May you rot in hell!"

"Cut off his head!"

Rotten fruit and shattered eggs burst against Wilhelm, drenching his ragged clothes in slime. The mob's chant swelled, shaking the square.

"Kill him! Kill him!"

'What is happening? Another foresight?'

Nevertheless, the longer he watched, the tighter Lucien's chest grew. His heartbeat pounded in his ears; his knees quaked, and sweat traced a cold path down his spine. The fear swelling inside him was so suffocating that he thought it might devour him whole.

At the far end of the square, Cyrus sat rigid on the dais, his expression carved from stone. Beside him stood a man with Tristan's features—likely Gustav Vazquez, his grandfather—stepping forward to confront Wilhelm.

He halted before him, smugness etched into every line of his face. Raising a hand, Gustav silenced the crowd

"Do you have any last words?"

Wilhelm lifted his head and spat. The glob landed squarely on Gustav's shoes.

"Rot in hell."