Lucian inclined his head just enough to acknowledge the weight of the throne, but when he spoke, his voice carried—not loud, not meek, but balanced like a blade resting on its edge.
"Because, Your Majesty, your sons are watched."
The chamber stilled. Whispers died on parted lips. Even the torches seemed to gutter lower, as though the fire itself wished to hear.
Lucian went on, each word measured, deliberate.
"They are heirs to Evermore. Every step they take, every word they speak, is shadowed by noble eyes and eager tongues. A hunt, they say, is sport. But in truth? It is theatre. The forest will not only test their arrows—it will test their command. And if the court sees them falter, if the nobles return whispering that the Crown Prince cannot even keep his tutor at heel…"
He let the thought trail, just long enough for it to rot sweetly in the air. Then he bowed lower, elegant, almost mocking in its grace.
"…then the throne itself loses teeth."
