As Tristan climbed into the carriage, Alfred leaned in slightly toward Lucien. "The young lady from the stall was Lady Roschella, daughter of Duke Ecklette."
"I see," he replied dismissively, following after his brother.
"I'm glad we resolved the matter before it escalated," Alfred murmured, closing the door behind them with a sigh of relief.
Duke Ecklette was one of the neutral faction leaders, a key figure overseeing the empire's trade and economic affairs.
Settling across from Tristan, Lucien glanced out the window. The setting sun bathed the cobblestone streets in a warm, amber glow. As the carriage rolled on, the lively chatter faded into a tranquil hum.
"So, what did you think of the lady at the stall? She was pretty, wasn't she?" Tristan leaned back with a smirk—the kind that spelled trouble. He clearly knew who she was.
Lucien's eyes drifted back to the passing scenery outside. "If you're so taken, why not court her yourself?"
Tristan chuckled. "Tempting, but I'm not the one she kept glancing at."
He shrugged. "Love doesn't matter when it comes to power."
In this era, marriage wasn't about affection; it was politics dressed in ceremony. Love was optional, a luxury few could afford.
"You're right," Tristan admitted, the amusement fading from his face. "But let's be honest. If you managed to court her, your chances of becoming Crown Prince wouldn't be so far-fetched."
Lucien spared him a glance, brow furrowed. "Why would I want to be Crown Prince? You're the firstborn."
It was true that Godfrey's faction had been quietly pushing for it, but he had no interest in the crown. Besides, according to the novel, Tristan was destined to be the Crown Prince.
Tristan blinked. "Wait—you don't want the crown?"
Lucien's frown deepened. "No. Why would I?"
Tristan stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Don't tell me you don't want to be Crown Prince either?" Lucien guessed.
Tristan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning away with a muttered, "This is madness."
Lucien's brows knitted. If not for the throne, then what drove Tristan to kill his brother? Or was that… just a lie?
Tristan exhaled, regaining his composure. "Anyway, give me your hand."
Lucien eyed him warily. "For what?"
He clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Just give me your hand."
Lucien hesitated but eventually extended it. The moment Tristan clasped his hand, a sharp current shot through his palm. He yanked back, but it was too late.
A faint glow pulsed beneath the fabric of his glove, outlining the shape of an eagle, its wings outstretched, eyes eerily still.
"What in the world did you just do?!" Lucien pulled off the glove and rubbed at the mark, but it wouldn't fade.
Of course. He should've known better than to trust him.
"If you ever need anything," Tristan said, his voice unusually solemn, "show that to the Rebirth Mercenary Agency. They operate across the continent—Diamond Rank. And don't worry about the cost. It's covered."
Lucien met his gaze, eyes cold. "So, branding me without consent was your idea of help?"
Tristan sighed in resignation. "It's not a brand—it's a mark of passage. Only those in the network can see it. It tells them you have my backing."
"And why would I ever need that?" Lucien asked curtly, slipping his glove back on with a snap.
Tristan didn't flinch. "Because one day, you won't have guards at your side, or your mother's shadow to hide behind. When that day comes, I want you to have a way out."
Lucien scoffed, returning his gaze to the window. "You sound like you're expecting me to fail."
"I'm expecting the world to come for your throat," Tristan replied bluntly. "And when it does, I'd rather you have more than just your title to shield you."
Lucien tilted his head toward Tristan, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "You assume I'll run?"
"I assume you'll survive." Tristan leaned back, arms folded. "And I'm not the only one who thinks so."
Lucien regarded him in silence, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone as their eyes locked. The air thickened with unspoken tension.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself. His gaze dropped to the faint mark still pulsing beneath his glove.
A Diamond-ranked mercenary agency, Tristan said. Despite his supposed "kind gesture," something didn't quite add up.
Lucien looked up to meet Tristan's eyes. "How many requests can I make?"
"It's unlimited. You can request as much as you like."
Oh? Lucien arched a brow. Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place.
The corner of his lips curled. "You own it, don't you?"
"Wha—no!" Tristan jerked upright, his calm façade shattering. "Are you mad? If the court discovered I was raising an army in secret, they'd hang me by dawn!"
Lucien hummed, unconvinced. "Is that so?" He was far too easy to read.
Mercenary agencies were divided into five ranks: Bronze, Silver, Gold, Platinum, and Diamond. Their classification depended on quests completed, total revenue, and annual contributions to national Monster Subjugation efforts. Only agencies ranked Platinum or higher were even permitted to open branches across borders.
There was no way Tristan could afford the services of a Diamond-ranked network operating throughout the continent, let alone pay them upfront on a prince's allowance.
"I'm just… friendly with the owner," Tristan muttered, eyes skittering away like a guilty child caught in a lie.
"Friendly enough to be offered a blank check?" He pressed on.
Tristan groaned, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. His gaze darted, as though searching for an exit, or maybe a better lie. After a beat, he slumped back with a sigh of surrender.
"Fine. You're not wrong. But it's not what you think. I'm not raising an army. As I said, it's insurance. For both of us."
Lucien studied him quietly. The fact that Tristan so easily revealed such a secret was staggering. That level of trust he was placing in him was… absurd. Ridiculous, even.
And yet, it left a strange weight in his chest he couldn't quite shake.
Were the real Lucien's feelings messing with him again?
Lucien sighed and shifted his attention to the streaks of sunset bleeding across the glass. All he'd ever wanted was the bare minimum of interaction with the protagonist—no camaraderie, no closeness, nothing that might tether him to the novel's plot.
He shouldn't have trusted me… just like I did.
"Listen," Tristan's voice cut into his thoughts. "You might be against this idea, but until then, use it. Or don't. Just know it's there."
Lucien didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the window, the reflection of passing light flickering across his eyes.
But why did Tristan own a mercenary agency?
Lucien knew the story had diverged from the book he'd read, yet the fact that it spanned the entire continent was staggering. That meant Tristan must have established it long before he ever inhabited Lucien's body.
Is Tristan— His eyes glided toward Tristan's reflection on the glass. —a transmigrator like me?
Lucien leaned against the cushion.
Of course, it was just a hunch. But if that were true, then Tristan had no reason to care about—or trust—him at all.
Was there something missing?
Something he wasn't aware of?
Moments later, the carriage slowed to a stop before Tristan's quarters. Alfred was quick to open the door.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Tristan said, already stepping down.
"Wait."
Tristan paused.
Lucien tossed a small red velvet box his way, which Tristan caught deftly.
"For your mother."
He opened it, expression unreadable as his gaze flicked from the contents back to him. "You didn't have to. Our relationship… it's beyond repair."
Lucien shrugged. "Then throw it out."
Before Tristan could say anything more, Alfred shut the door. The carriage lurched forward once more, leaving silence in its wake.
***
Tristan stared flatly at the emerald-studded brooch resting in the velvet box.
"Your Highness, is something wrong?" Gilbert's voice came from behind.
Tristan let out a long, weary sigh and slipped the box into his magical ring. "Luce found out I own an eagle."
Gilbert blinked, startled. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know." Tristan rubbed his temple. "I just gave him the 'eagle treat' and answered a question. Somehow, he saw right through it."
Lucien was sharp—he knew that. But to connect the dots that fast? That was absurd!
Gilbert's expression darkened. "What if His Highness reports it to the Emperor?"
Tristan shook his head. "He won't. I trust him."
Gilbert exhaled slowly. "Then let's hope that trust isn't misplaced."
"It's not."
They moved into the arched hall, Gilbert falling into step beside him.
"Status update?" Tristan asked.
"I've already dispatched several squads, as ordered," Gilbert replied.
Tristan gave a firm nod. "Good."
At the plaza, he'd received a report indicating a high probability that the cult's hideout lay somewhere in the forest along Zerounix's outskirts. Now, with multiple squads combing the area—
"Let's just hope they bring back good news," he muttered.
Thanks to the reach of his mercenary agency across the continent, Tristan had been able to track the cult faster than ever. This time, he wouldn't let the Empire fall apart—not like before.
Turning down the corridor, his eyes landed on Helene standing in the center of the hall, her signature icy composure as unshakable as ever. He clicked his tongue when a bitter taste rose in his mouth.
"You've returned?" she asked coolly.
"None of your business," he shot back, brushing past her without slowing his stride.
But after a few steps, Tristan halted, a thought gnawing at him. With a resigned sigh, he turned back and met Helene's cold gaze head-on.
He stepped closer. "Hold out your hand."
A flicker of confusion crossed her face, but she obeyed. Tristan placed a small red velvet box in her palm, then turned on his heel without waiting for a reaction.
"Tristan," Helene called softly.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. Her expression hadn't changed, but something subtle flickered in her eyes—hesitation, perhaps. Her fingers curled into the folds of her dress as though weighing her words.
Tired of waiting, he started to walk again. What did I expect?
"…Thank you."
The words stopped him mid-step. His eyes dropped to the marble floor, jaw tightening as a lump formed in his throat.
"…You're welcome," he said at last.
Without another word, he walked away, but the echo of her voice lingered long after, rattling the calm he fought so hard to keep.