Silverware chimed softly against porcelain, blending with the warm scent of baked bread and herbs that filled the hall. Morning light streamed through the tall arched windows, spilling across a long banquet table laden with delicacies. The Emperor and his advisors dined in solemn silence, while butlers and maids stood motionless along the walls.
Tristan spread blackberry jam over warm bread before taking a bite. After two harrowing weeks at sea, even the simplest sweetness felt like luxury. The imperial delegation had finally arrived in Estrine—the Elven Kingdom—the day before.
The doors burst open with a sharp clang. A knight in full armor strode inside, visor lifted just enough to reveal his grim expression. Cyrus set down his cutlery, dabbing his mouth with a napkin; the others followed suit.
"Your Majesty." The knight bowed, presenting a letter sealed in imperial wax, then stepped back.
Cyrus broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. His face—usually unreadable—flickered with the briefest shadow. The air grew thick, tension coiling like a drawn bowstring. Advisors traded uneasy glances.
After what felt like an eternity, the emperor laid the letter down and wove a silent magic spell around the table. His gaze swept over the council, fingers drumming lightly against the marble.
"Prince Lucien and Lady Roschella were kidnapped yesterday."
Tristan stiffened. His heart plummeted, nausea rising in his throat. What? How—there's been no report of this.
Cyrus gestured toward the letter. "The kidnappers demand we cancel the peace talks and declare war on Zerounix. In exchange, they'll release Lucien and Lady Roschella. They've given us five days to respond."
His voice hardened. "This confirms the same third party orchestrated the false-flag ambush on my son's convoy."
A ripple of alarm swept through the hall. Advisors exchanged frantic looks, whispers swelling into a low, fevered hum.
An elderly advisor raised his hand. "Your Majesty, we must cancel the peace talks—"
"Have you gone mad?!" a sharp-eyed man snapped. "Declare war now, and we throw away everything we've worked for. We'd be walking straight into their trap!"
"Prince Lucien's life is at stake!" the elder shot back. "Delay too long, and we lose any leverage. Who knows what they'll do next?"
"If we rush blindly, how can we trust their claims?" another voice cut in.
"But do we have the luxury of time?" a fourth countered. "They've kidnapped the Prince and a Duke's daughter! What if they kill one to prove their seriousness?"
The room erupted, voices clashing, chairs scraping, reason drowned beneath panic.
Tristan's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. Strategy, leverage, timing—the words spun around him. How dare they—?
"Enough!" Tristan roared, slamming the table. Silence crashed down. He glared around the chamber, chest heaving. "Stop treating my brother's life like a pawn on your damned board!"
Advisors shifted, eyes darting away, unwilling to meet his gaze.
How dare they speak of Lucien as if his life were nothing more than a coin to be bargained for?!
"Tristan," Cyrus said slowly, exhaling wearily, "your brother's life is not a game. Nor are these peace talks."
His ruby eyes scanned the room indifferently. "Whatever happens during the negotiations with Zerounix, we must stall for time. That will give the search parties a chance to locate my son."
A murmur of reluctant agreement spread through the hall.
Tristan's gaze fell to the letter, fists clenching beneath the table. Five days… how could they possibly find him in that time?
A chair scraped. Cyrus rose, laying a firm hand on Tristan's shoulder as their eyes met. "Hold fast. We will find your brother."
With a flick of his wrist, the transparent dome dissolved. Straightening, the emperor faced the councilors. "This breakfast is adjourned. We reconvene in the courtroom."
"Understood," they replied in unison, bowing before filing out with Cyrus and his knights.
Silence settled. Tristan sat motionless, staring blankly at the untouched plate as his thoughts collided.
Who took him?
The cult?
No—that made no sense. They sought only the artifact, nothing more. Lucien's abduction by the cult occurred much later—after the fall of Godfrey's duchy.
Then who was it this time? His mother? His grandfather?
Tristan's heart hammered against his ribs, a chill racing down his spine. His fingers dug into his trousers, knuckles whitening.
If Lucien dies…
His breath hitched.
…what would become of this world?
"…Highness! Your Highness!"
Gilbert's shout snapped him back to reality. Tristan blinked, realizing his body was trembling, his breath uneven, sweat clinging to his skin.
Gilbert's grip loosened, worry etched across his face. "Your Highness, are you all right?"
Tristan dragged both hands down his face, forcing a breath. "…I'm all right."
"I've heard… the news," Gilbert said carefully.
Tristan's head whipped toward him, fury igniting in his chest. "What the hell were they doing?! How could this happen?!"
Why did disaster always find his brother? Why—despite everything he had done—did it never stop?
Gilbert, outwardly calm, laid a sealed letter on the table. "This came with Her Majesty's."
Tristan snatched it and tore it open:
« After two hours of lost contact with the team guarding Prince Lucien, a search party was dispatched. But the forest was already in flames. A letter was left at the Empress's tent along with strands of the prince's hair and his crest, stating that he and Lady Roschella had been taken. The kidnappers demand that the peace talks be cancelled and war declared on Zerounix. »
The parchment crumpled in his fist. Flames flickered to life, devouring it to ash as rage seared through him. His jaw locked, eyes burning with barely restrained fire.
"Send word to every eagle across the continent," he growled. "Tell them to find the fledgling."
Gilbert bowed low. "At once, Your Highness."