The carriage wheels began to row, smooth at first as they rolled over the cobbled courtyard, then rougher once they reached the sun-baked stone roads of Solaris.
Lan didn't look back. Not really. But from the corner of his eye, he saw the lone figure standing atop the citadel steps.
Crowned in black and gold, arms folded behind his back, unmoving. His father.
The King of Solaris.
For a moment, Lan thought—perhaps—there would be a sign. A gesture. The slightest wave. But there was nothing. Just one glance from the older man, sharp and expressionless, before he turned away and vanished into the tower's mouth.
Lan exhaled. Not in sorrow. In confirmation.
Figures.
"What does he feel?" Lan wondered.
Fear? Most likely.
But not fear of Lan dying. No, that would imply attachment, a bond that had long since atrophied. The king feared disgrace more than death.
Feared what it would mean for the throne, the lineage, the whispers in court when word returned that his "cursed son" had failed to survive the capital's games.
He probably counted the days already.
Lan closed his eyes and leaned back into the carriage cushions, letting the rhythm of the wheels lull him into stillness.
Did my father ever love me?
The question drifted in like mist, and left the same way.
Xie Wuchen, in his ancient detachment, gave nothing.
But somewhere in between that cold apathy and Lan's own bitterness, a sliver of clarity remained.
In a world where strength is truth, a weak prince wasn't a burden. He was a curse. A curse that might embarrass you at councils, fail in arranged duels, embarrass your house at court—if he lived. And if he died? Even worse.
Sympathy for weakness was poison to thrones.
Lan opened his eyes. The silence inside him was maddeningly loud.
---
They had been on the road for over a day now.
The path from Solaris to the heart of the Empire was long and layered, it was a political artery lined with beauty and blood.
Lan had studied it once, when he still thought himself destined for diplomatic assignments. He recalled the shape of it in his mind like a map draw in his memories:
First came the Salt Flats of Trosan, a cracked, arid stretch where the winds carved dead white plains and forgotten bones of beasts long extinct.
Ghost fires sometimes danced at night across the dunes—residual magic from the last civil war.
Then the Riverine Route—a curving descent into the lush, overgrown lowlands where merchant towns clung to the banks of the great Solven River.
Beautiful. Noisy. Dangerous at night. The perfect place to lose a noble's carriage.
Beyond that lay the Spineway, a narrow pass that traced the ridgeline of the Cragscale Mountains. Winding paths. Sharp cliffs. High winds. Perfect for ambushes.
And finally, the Golden stone, a stretch of paved royal road lined with shrines, gardens, and waystations leading directly into the Imperial City's lower gates.
The Empire's spine. A place where everything was recorded—your steps, your words, your blood.
Lan's fingers drummed the windowsill absently.
He didn't need to guess where the Duke's knives would fall. He knew. There was a pattern to political violence—he'd studied it in this life and the last..
Duke Veyl was too seasoned for poison.
Too proud for a frontal assault on a royal envoy that could be traced. No, he'd employ deniability and delay.
A feigned banditry hit, complete with falsified rebel banners or mercenaries dressed in outlaw garb. Enough chaos to claim innocence later.
And the timing?
Not now.
Not in Solaris territory, where Solaris mercs and outpost soldiers could still retaliate without restriction. The Duke wouldn't risk it.
The most logical place?
The Riverine Route.
Thick trees for concealment.
Minimal watch towers.
Towns bought or cowed by gold.
Lan narrowed his eyes.
"At night, just after we pass the Ember Bridge."
That's where he'd strike.
It would be fast. Brutal. An illusion to distract the mages. Arrows to the horses. A fire to box in the retreat. And then they'd drag the prince out of the wreckage, and there would be no witnesses to say it wasn't bandits.
Just another noble youth taken by the wilderness.
Lan's lips curved—thin and cold.
Except they weren't dragging him.
The carriage rocked gently as the road descended into the edge of the flats. Dust kicked up in swirls. The three Second Circle guards rode ahead, quiet and confident in their formation, occasionally casting glances back to ensure Lan's carriage was undisturbed.
They had no idea how laughable their role was.
He could already feel it—that faint tremor in the air, that ripple of unease in the Weave. Not here yet. But approaching. Like stormclouds beyond the horizon. Not from nature. From intent.
Intent is heavier than mana. You'll know the killing will before the killing comes.
There would be an attack. Of that he was certain.
He wanted to see what Veyl would send. Assassins, perhaps. A warlock in disguise. A brute mage with some rare trinket that could actually make Lan try.
And if not?
Then he'd use their blood to paint the river.
The leather curtain rustled. One of the guards—an older one with a silver-trimmed staff and salt-streaked beard—called out politely.
"Prince Lanard, we'll make the bridge before nightfall if the winds hold."
Lan didn't answer. He just watched the sky.
The sun was already tilting westward.
Perfect.
In the shadows of the crates, beyond the rolling wheels and the stiff uniforms, a storm was waiting.
Not with lightning or rain, but the sweet whispering promise of a man's death.