Lucien stood still in the center of the imperial chamber, head bowed slightly, his posture rigid but unshaken. The hall was filled with the heavy scent of incense and the barely suppressed laughter of nobles.
The emperor's voice thundered from the golden throne above.
"A disgrace. You, of all people. Even as a bastard, you should understand what this marriage means. And yet, it must be you?"
Lucien said nothing.
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the cold marble floor beneath his boots. The blue and silver uniform of a royal guard still clung neatly to his frame, but there was no rank pinned to his chest. Only silence. The same silence he had lived under for years.
"Fifth-born," the emperor spat, waving a hand in frustration. "And the most useless. You've never awakened. No gift. No favor. No legacy. Yet here we are, having to rely on you to clean up your brother's mess."
Across the chamber, the crown prince chuckled under his breath.
Lucien didn't turn.
He heard the mocking murmur ripple through the court like a breeze stirring dead leaves.
"The fifth?" someone whispered.
"Does he even count as royal?"
"Barely."
"Fitting for a substitute."
Lucien raised his head a fraction.
The emperor stood tall and proud, golden robes gleaming under the light of enchanted crystals. His scowl was carved into his face like stone. His glare sharp enough to split bone.
"This is the only thing you'll ever do for the Empire," the emperor snapped. "Be grateful we even kept you around this long."
Lucien still didn't answer.
He didn't look angry.
He didn't look humiliated.
He simply looked tired.
As if he had accepted the role the world handed him long before today.
The second prince stood quietly near the side wall, avoiding Lucien's gaze.
Of course he wouldn't speak up.
After all, the second prince had been the original groom. And Lucien knew the truth behind the switch. His elder brother had already begged him privately. Even got on his knees. Apologized. Swore the bride was kind. Gentle. Wouldn't cause problems. Would understand.
Lucien didn't agree because of that.
He agreed because it didn't matter.
Nothing did.
Whether he said yes or no, they would find a way to drag him into it.
So, he simply accepted it with the same dead calm he accepted everything else.
"I understand," Lucien said quietly.
The emperor sneered. "Do you? Good. Then go. Prepare for the ceremony. Try not to embarrass the crown any further."
Lucien bowed slightly. "Yes, Your Majesty."
He turned and left the chamber, ignoring the faint snickering behind him. The nobles were too loud when they were amused. But they were always silent when it came to truth.
No one knew who he really was.
And he planned to keep it that way.
The hallway was colder than the throne room.
Lucien walked slowly, measured, as if he had all the time in the world.
No guards escorted him. He wasn't considered important enough for that.
But that was fine.
It meant no one asked questions when he disappeared into the shadows between palace wings. No one noticed when his footsteps shifted toward the northern wing, the side entrance. And no one stopped him when he passed through a hidden door and descended the old spiral staircase that led to the underground command room.
Three masked attendants stood waiting.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man in dark armor, stepped forward and bowed. "Sovereign. The legion from the Iceline returned last night. Forty-seven demons exterminated. One casualty."
Lucien nodded. "Cause?"
"Poison blade."
"Double-check the weapons registry. Any deviation from imperial blacksmith patterns is suspect."
"Yes, Sovereign."
Another attendant, this one holding a stack of sealed scrolls, offered the latest reports. Lucien took them and glanced through them with practiced speed. Two illegal ports still moving magic-enhanced creatures across the border. One confirmed traitor among the westbound troops. A shrine corrupted near the mountain border.
"Send someone to burn it," Lucien said without emotion.
"Yes, Sovereign."
He scribbled a quick mark on the bottom of one document and handed it back. His handwriting was clean, sharp, with no flourishes.
"Postpone the war drills. The ceremony's in less than a day. Tell General Hauser I expect the scouts to keep eastbound merchants off our trail."
"Yes, Sovereign."
He flipped the final scroll over. A letter. Sealed in white wax.
The insignia belonged to a contact in the East. Hidden. Familiar.
Lucien didn't open it. He didn't need to.
He already knew what it said.
The groom has changed.
Of course he had.
Lucien didn't even know the new name.
Didn't ask.
He just wanted it done.
He rolled up the reports, passed them back, and straightened his gloves.
"The rest is yours. I will be unavailable until after the wedding. If anything breaks through the rift line again, don't wait for my orders. Follow Plan C. Erase it. Quietly."
"Yes, Sovereign."
Lucien turned without waiting for further questions. His boots echoed up the stairs. Cold sweat clung faintly at the base of his neck, though his expression remained unreadable.
He didn't stop until he reached the guest chambers prepared for him.
His aide, Mikhail, stood waiting outside with a robe and a small box.
"Your Highness," Mikhail said, nodding, "the ceremonial suit has been adjusted. No need to wear a veil."
"Of course not," Lucien replied, brushing snow from his shoulder. "It's not as if I'm the one being paraded."
"Though I suspect you'd handle it with more grace than the bride."
"I doubt it," Lucien muttered. "No one reacts well to being discarded."
Mikhail raised a brow but didn't comment. He opened the door for him and followed inside.
The room was warm, barely. A fire crackled in the corner hearth. The formalwear lay folded neatly across the armrest. Black, silver, and icy blue. Plain but regal.
Lucien removed his cloak and loosened the fastenings at his neck.
"How long until the ceremony?" he asked.
"Four hours."
"Enough time to work."
"You're the groom."
Lucien gave him a tired look. "And a sovereign."
"That's not common knowledge."
"It doesn't have to be."
He sat at the desk, rolled his shoulders once, and began to write.
New orders. Updated routes. Instructions to seal the northern rift if energy levels peaked again. The ink dried quickly, the parchment stacked neatly to the side. His fingers moved with practiced ease.
No hesitation.
No emotion.
Mikhail handed him a sealed packet after the last document was signed.
Inside was the ceremonial ring.
Lucien stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he tucked it into his inner coat pocket.
"Get the horses ready," he said softly.
"We'll take the closed path," Mikhail confirmed. "Avoid the capital crowd."
Lucien nodded, standing slowly.
Everything felt strangely quiet.
The sky outside had gone pale with snow.
He watched the flakes fall for a while, unmoving.
No one cared what he thought.
No one asked what he felt.
He didn't feel much, honestly.
Not nervous. Not angry. Not excited.
Just… ready to get it over with.
The empire had finally found a use for him. A title to give him. A name to throw away if needed.
So he would play his part.
Wear the suit.
Exchange the vows.
Smile once, maybe.
Then go back to the only thing that ever made sense.
War.
The sovereign of the North bowed to no crown, and wore no chains.
He simply sighed and walked away.
*****
The hall was far too lavish for something this quietly humiliating.
Lucien stood tall near the altar, cloaked in imperial blues and cold silver trim, broad-shouldered and pristine in posture. The oath blade rested lightly at his hip, ceremonial but sharpened. His gloves were off, as required. His jaw set in its usual line — calm, cold, unreadable.
Across the marble floor, nobles murmured behind lace fans and silk sleeves. The northern lords were mostly silent, disciplined. But the southern and western nobles were less discreet, their voices like flies circling an open dish.
"A man, right? It's a man under that veil."
"Why is the bride wearing a suit?"
"Is this even legal?"
Lucien ignored them all.
His eyes were on the steps ahead, waiting.
He didn't feel embarrassment. Not quite. He felt resigned. Focused.
The emperor had not stopped the ceremony.
Neither had Duke Valerian.
Which meant — they knew.
Everyone involved knew that the bride was a man. And yet, not one voice rose in objection.
He was being married off to a substitute. And no one had the decency to inform him.
Still.
He was Lucien.
Even as a bastard. Even without a title. Even born of a hostage princess and raised in the shadows of war, he was a man of principle.
If the empire had given him this task, he would see it through. Quietly. Properly. With all the dignity he had left.
The music changed.
A hush fell over the chamber.
The bride entered.
Lucien blinked once.
Ah.
He had expected someone trembling, hiding behind silks and lace.
But no.
This one walked upright.
Shoulders squared. Veil hanging delicately from a silver pin, the figure beneath dressed in a tailored black suit — smooth, sharp-lined, and formal. Long silver hair framed the veil, shining faintly beneath the chandeliers. Boots stepped evenly over the stone floor, never faltering. He didn't flinch under the pressure of hundreds of eyes.
Lucien tilted his head slightly.
Interesting.
Not what he expected.
But then again — nothing today had gone as expected.
When the bride finally reached the altar, Lucien noticed the faint scars on his gloves. Worn hands. Not a noble who spent his days in gardens.
Someone who fought.
He could respect that.
The emperor stood and gave a brief speech. Something about peace. Alliance. Unity of north and west.
Lucien didn't hear most of it.
He kept his eyes on the man before him.
When it was time to speak his vow, he stepped forward with a calm breath.
"I vow to guard, to stand beside, and to honor this bond. In duty. In name. In peace."
His voice didn't waver.
And then the other answered, softly.
"I vow to accept, to walk beside, and to uphold this alliance. In law. In path. In pact."
Lucien blinked.
That voice.
It brushed something familiar.
The gold oath magic shimmered faintly between them, wrapping their fingers with divine threads before fading like wind-blown dust.
Ceremony continued.
Then came the rings.
He took the offered one — smooth silver set with pale opal — and reached for the bride's left hand.
He hesitated only for a second when the gloved fingers reached toward him.
The bride's hand was tense. Cold.
Lucien gave a quiet breath and lowered his voice.
"It's fine," he whispered. "All is fine. I won't drop it."
The fingers twitched slightly but didn't pull away.
He slid the ring on gently.
And that was when he saw it.
The other hand — just slightly visible now as the bride adjusted his balance.
On the right hand, middle finger, rested a ring. Dark. Engraved. Old.
It wouldn't have meant anything to anyone else.
But to Lucien?
He knew that ring.
Knew it well.
His breath caught for the briefest moment.
That ring — it didn't belong to any noble house.
It belonged to a sovereign.
The Sovereign of the East.
Impossible.
His mind raced.
No one else knew. No one else would recognize it. But Lucien had seen it once — blood-slicked in a battlefield, raised toward the sky like a threat. He'd fought against the one who wore it, too recently to forget.
And yet…
He looked back down at the bride's hand.
Still, the man hadn't flinched. Hadn't said a word.
The emperor gave the final command.
"You may lift the veil."
Lucien hesitated.
No.
It couldn't be.
It shouldn't be.
But—
He reached up anyway.
Fingers brushed the thin silver cloth.
And in a slow, soft movement, he lifted it.
The veil fell away.
Lucien's eyes widened.
Silver hair.
Golden eyes.
Calm expression.
A faint scar at the temple.
His chest tightened.
No. No way.
Not him.
Not him.
Not the bastard who trespassed into his domain and killed a wanted criminal without permission. Not the man who walked out of demon fire as if born of it. Not the same damn idiot he almost stabbed last week near the Rift.
Lucien stared.
The man blinked slowly.
Lucien finally said, quietly and full of dread—
"…What in all gods-damned hells is this nightmare?"