Lucian looked at Varric, his brows knitting in disbelief, the words caught in his throat for a moment.
Given the long history of animosity that once festered between the different races of present-day Nythera, the thought would struck anyone as absurd, how could the son of the vampire king possibly rule over the werewolves, their sworn enemies for generations?
Yet, here they were, living proof of the impossible. It wasn't just a story whispered in taverns or recorded in the kingdom's archives, it was reality.
And that reality existed because His Majesty, King Zevryn, was not only the son of the late Vampire King Eryx Aldebane, but also of Her Majesty, Queen Elvarya Aldebane.
Lucian's gaze shifted for a moment, as if picturing the boy-king's rise. He remembered the stories, the awe, the fear.
Zevryn had ascended the throne of Nythera when he was only ten, after his parents had been killed by some unknown cause. At the time, the air had been thick with doubt.
People whispered in markets and corridors, wagering how long the child would last before the kingdom fell into chaos.
But that was when Zevryn had left everyone stunned.
It was then revealed that Zevryn, born of the two most powerful beings to have ever lived possessed powers far beyond mortal comprehension.
He didn't merely maintain the fragile unity his parents had built; he strengthened it, weaving together a kingdom where vampire, werewolf, witch, and other races no longer waged war.
He had ended centuries of bloodshed, pulling the edges of Nythera and the lands around it into a single realm ruled by unshakable law.
Now, no witch was considered lesser than a vampire, and no vampire stood above a werewolf. Every being had a place, protected under the laws Zevryn had carved into the very bones of the land.
No one needed to fear an unprovoked attack in the dead of night; peace was no longer a dream but a decree.
Lucian thought grimly, if a ten-year-old Zevryn could achieve what generations of kings and queens had failed to do, what could he accomplish now, in his thirties?
He imagined the man as he was now, experienced, more powerful, surrounded by the loyalty of his people. From wide-eyed children who admired him to battle-scarred elders who feared him, all followed him.
Respect or fear, it didn't matter. Opposing him was no different from signing your own death sentence.
Lucian's eyes returned to Varric, his frown deepening. Why? Why was the man trying to do this? Of all people, Varric knew Zevryn best.
"Prime Minister Varric," Lucian said slowly, his tone sharp but tinged with disbelief, "don't you know that because His Majesty Zevryn is Queen Elvarya Aldebane's son, that alone is enough for people to love him immensely, not to mention the unfathomable powers he has! He has a vampire king's blood in his veins. He will never age!"
Lucian's voice rose slightly, the words edged with frustration. He simply couldn't understand why Varric would make such a suicidal move. What had pushed him this far?
Varric's eyes lowered, his fingers curling loosely at his sides. He sighed, the sound heavy, almost weary. Lucian's question hung between them, but in his mind, Varric knew the truth, this path would not be easy, perhaps not even survivable.
No one knew better than him the cost it would demand. And yet, the burn in his heart, that consuming fire, refused to let him stop.
The betrayal he had endured, even after sacrificing everything for them, was a wound that festered in the deepest chambers of his soul. It gnawed at him, rotting away what little warmth he had left.
That ache-sharp, relentless would only be eased the day he saw Eryx Aldebane's son drown in the same crushing agony he had once felt.
Lucian stood silently, his jaw set, as if carved from obsidian. The faint flicker of torchlight danced across his sharp features, casting shadows that deepened the tension between them.
"Lucian," Varric began, his voice smooth but laced with a predator's cunning, "I know what this will require. And I know that Zevryn, being as powerful as he is, will be a great hurdle. But I also know…" He leaned forward slightly, the glint in his golden eyes hardening into something dangerous. "The Zevryn Aldebane who forged the great kingdom of Nythera when he was only ten… is not that same Zevryn anymore."
The statement hung in the air like a blade suspended over their heads.
"I know how much of a shell Zevryn has become over these past twenty years," Varric continued, his tone both mocking and calculating. His lips curled into a faint smirk. "How the immortality that should have been an advantage, an obstacle to us has become a curse to him. Since the day he failed to save his queen, it's been eating him alive."
Lucian's eyes narrowed slightly, but he stayed silent.
"I waited twenty years, Lucian," Varric went on, taking a slow step forward, his boots echoing against the cold stone floor. "Not just because I needed someone like you to rise into power, but because I knew time would hollow him out. These years have made Zevryn into the shell he is now-barely living, barely breathing, while praying that death will finally greet him."
He scoffed, tilting his head with feigned pity.
"All because of losing his queen? Pathetic." His smirk deepened. "So as the prime minister of this kingdom, I am merely fulfilling my duty by removing the hopeless king it's burdened with."
His words slithered into the silence like venom.
Then, slowly, Varric turned his gaze back to Lucian, who remained still but unblinking. "To the question you asked earlier, why I am telling you all this, it's because I want you to become the next king, Lucian. And don't worry…"
His voice softened, but it carried an edge. "I know you're not ready yet. You'll surely decline my offer. But what I want you to know is that I will be waiting. One day, you'll be ready and when that day comes, you will seek me out yourself."
The words echoed in Lucian's ears, each one striking like a war drum. His chest rose with a slow, steady breath. Just as he was about to answer, something deep inside him stirred. It was primal, fierce, an awakening.
A shiver ran down his spine, and his gaze sharpened. His eyes, once their usual hue, darkened into a pitch black abyss. His breathing grew heavier, and the air around him seemed to shift, growing heavier, charged. It was no longer Lucian standing there. It was his wolf.
Varric's gaze flicked over him, and he chuckled low in his throat, as though he had been expecting this. "It seems it is midnight already," he remarked, his tone almost playful.
Then, a sound broke the moment, the distinct rhythm of footsteps echoing in the corridor behind him. Varric's smirk faltered just enough to betray curiosity as he slowly turned around.