Chapter-2: The Mask Cracks
Lucien walked slowly toward the chaos, unhurried. Guards melted away before he even looked at them.
"My lord, why didn't you come earlier?" A boy—no, nearly a man now—turned to him, frustration and relief tangled in his voice. "You should have come sooner. These guards wouldn't let me—"
"Dreslin." Lucien closed the distance between them, pulling him into an embrace that looked almost fraternal. His hand settled on the boy's shoulder, firm and reassuring. "Do you really need to explain yourself to these people?" He gestured toward the garden. "Let's talk somewhere quieter. Shall we?"
Dreslin nodded, the tension bleeding out of his frame.
"May I ask, Your Highness," came a measured voice from behind them, "why this young man has permission to roam the Nurin Palace?"
Mireth Ombres, Chief Minister of Nurin State. Ambitious. Strict. A man who'd clawed his way up through merit and ruthlessness in equal measure. His eyes tracked Lucien with the wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust beautiful things.
'This boy must have something valuable,' Mireth thought, watching the prince's uncharacteristic warmth. 'Or perhaps all that business with maids and ladies was just camouflage. What's he really doing here?'
"Oh?" Lucien glanced back, one silver eyebrow raised. "I didn't realize Minister Ombres had taken such interest in our private conversations." He kept his hand on Dreslin's shoulder, a casual claim of protection. "Though I suppose blue butterflies are far more intimate than most human exchanges, wouldn't you agree?"
The words landed soft. Harmless, even.
But Mireth went rigid.
'Butterflies? Art on the back of— ' His mind raced. 'Does that mean he...with my...'
Rage and shock warred across his face for half a heartbeat before he locked it down. Confronting a prince directly would be suicide. Especially this prince.
"Mind if we take our time?" Lucien said, already turning away, guiding Dreslin forward with the easy authority of someone who'd never needed to raise his voice. Then, almost as an afterthought: "By the way, Sir Mireth—your daughter Ira is quite caring. And funny."
Salt in the wound.
Mireth stood frozen as they walked away, his thoughts a snarl of fury and helplessness. 'I thought he was just a naive prince chasing skirts. But he didn't spare even Ira? And why didn't those worthless spies tell me about this?'
The boy had devastated him without breaking stride.
---
The garden smelled of roses, lilies, and tea. Guards positioned themselves at a respectful distance near the benches while two maids lingered by the fountain, voices low and conspiratorial.
"Did you hear? Geilla is sleeping with Prince Lucien for many days—"
"If only I could've had that chance. He's so alluring. Like something out of a dream..."
"And here I am married to the dullest man alive. God, what a waste."
Lucien approached, bending slightly to meet their eye level. "Ladies, would you mind giving us some privacy?"
Both maids startled, heads whipping around. One of them—younger, dark-haired, with nervous hands—froze when she realized who'd spoken.
"M-Master Lucien...?" Her voice pitched high. Her lips twisted, trying to form words. Her body didn't seem to know whether to bow or flee.
"Hmm?" He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath. His violet eyes held hers, patient and predatory all at once. "Why don't we meet later? You should bring tea to my chamber this evening."
It wasn't a question.
"Y-yes, Your Highness." She curtsied clumsily, face burning, and fled with her companion.
Lucien watched them go, then turned to Dreslin with a slight smile. They settled into the open pavilion, surrounded by climbing vines and far enough from prying ears to breathe freely.
"Big bro..." Dreslin hesitated, then corrected himself. "Lucien. I finished what you asked for." He pulled a scroll from inside his coat and placed it on the stone table between them.
No guards nearby. No servants within earshot.
Lucien unrolled the parchment.
His expression shifted—just for a moment. The lazy mask cracked, and something sharp and hungry flickered beneath. An uncontrolled grin spread across his face, the kind that didn't calculate how it looked or what it revealed.
"You brilliant little bastard," he murmured, fingers tracing the design sketched across the page. Interlocking fibers. Tensile strength measurements. A fabric that could move like cloth but endure like steel plate.
Dreslin ducked his head, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure. "I wasn't sure the weave pattern would hold at first, but after testing different thread counts—"
"It's perfect." Lucien's voice carried genuine warmth now, the kind he didn't bother faking. "This changes everything."
Not just armor. Not just protection.
Another piece on the board. Another step toward something larger, something these people couldn't see yet because they were too busy watching him seduce their daughters and scandalize their priests.
Let them watch.
Let them think they knew what he was building.
By the time they realized, it would already be too late.