"To victory! To the heroes! To the Kingdom!"
The roar of the crowd was nauseating. George III stood on the dais, his voice booming with a manufactured warmth that didn't reach his eyes. Lucius watched from the shadows of the military section, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth. This wasn't a memorial; it was a PR stunt. The King was using the corpses of men like Lucius's father to pave the way for his own agenda.
"Victory is for the living," Leif Strauss whispered beside him, his voice like grinding stones. "The dead don't get a share of the spoils. Remember that, Lucius. Stay alive, or you're just another line in a speech."
Lucius looked at the old General. "I'm not planning on dying for a king who can't even remember my father's name, Uncle."
Leif didn't answer. He grabbed Lucius's arm and hauled him toward the private reception rooms. "Enough talk. We're going to see the man himself. Don't fuck this up."
The private room felt like a pressurized chamber. The air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the overwhelming, stifling authority of the Augustus bloodline.
George III sat behind a heavy mahogany desk. He looked up, his eyes sharp as scalpels.
Leif Strauss snapped a perfect military salute. Lucius, caught between his body's fading muscle memory and his soul's modern hesitation, delivered a salute so clumsy it looked like he was trying to swat a fly.
George III's lip curled in a micro-expression of disgust. "Leif. I see the Sheffield line has finally produced someone who can't even handle a basic greeting. Why is this... child in my office?"
"Reinhard is dead, Your Majesty," Leif said, ignoring the insult. "He died in the Southern Continent for your 'victory'. Lucius is the last Sheffield. I want his title finalized. Today."
"The law is the law, Leif," the King replied, his voice a smooth, cold vibration. "The boy is fifteen. The politicians in the House of Lords will howl if I hand a Barony to a child who looks like he'd trip over his own sword."
"The politicians don't bleed in the trenches. We do," Leif growled.
Lucius stayed silent, but his mind was working at high speed. Instigator instincts kicked in. He wasn't looking at a King; he was looking at a dealer. And George III was holding all the cards.
"Leave us, Leif," George III suddenly commanded.
Leif stiffened. "Your Majesty—"
"Get out. I want to see if there's anything left of the Sheffield fire in this boy, or if he's just a pretty shell."
Leif cast a worried glance at Lucius and stepped out, the heavy doors thudding shut. The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a normal teenager.
"Step closer, Lucius," George III said.
Lucius moved, feeling the hidden Assassin characteristic in his blood vibrate in protest. It hated the King's authority. It wanted to strike, to kill, to hide in the shadows.
"Do you know why the Sheffields are still just Barons after six hundred years of service?" George III asked, leaning back.
"I assumed we were just bad at kissing boots, Your Majesty," Lucius replied, his voice surprisingly steady.
George III laughed—a dry, joyless sound. "Honest. I like that. But no. Your ancestors were offered Earldoms. They refused. Your great-grandfather could have been a Duke if he'd played his cards right. But they stayed Barons, clinging to their borders like starving dogs."
Lucius frowned. Why the hell would anyone refuse a Duke's title?
"Because of a prophecy," the King continued, his gaze boring into Lucius's soul. "Four hundred years ago, a high-ranking member of the Life School of Thought—those snake-worshiping bastards—left your family with a riddle: 'When other Pathways sprout, that shall be the day the Sheffields rise.'"
George III stood up, walking around the desk until he was inches from Lucius. He was a head taller, radiating a sense of power that made Lucius's skin crawl.
"For centuries, the Sheffields stayed in their lane, waiting for a 'sprout' that never came. And now, here you are. The last one. Carrying a 'gift' from a Demoness in your blood," George III whispered, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, Lucius. Are you the sprout? Or are you just the weed that finally kills the garden?"
Lucius felt a cold sweat on his back. Life School of Thought? Prophecy? "I'm just a boy trying to keep his house, Your Majesty," Lucius said, playing the part of the modest orphan.
"Don't lie to me," the King hissed. "I can smell the Assassin potion on you. I can see the rot in your spirit. If you want your title, you'll be my eyes in Backlund. You'll watch the nobles, you'll watch the churches, and you'll report to me. The Sheffields were always the Crown's hounds. Don't make me put you down."
The King turned away, the pressure lifting slightly. "Go. Think about the prophecy. And think about which 'pathway' you really want to walk. Because in my Kingdom, there is only one law: the King's word is fate."
Lucius bowed—properly this time—and walked out. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Rise? he thought, a cold grin forming on his face as soon as the door closed. I'm not here to rise, George. I'm here to burn the whole theater down.