The air in the Imperial Palace of Aethelgard did not just carry the scent of incense and old parchment; it carried the weight of a god.
In the heart of the Golden Throne Room, the "Iron Sun" sat. Emperor Maximillian von Valerius leaned back, his youthful face deceptively gentle. To a commoner, he looked like a poet—slender fingers, a soft jawline, and hair like spun sunlight. But those who looked into his eyes saw the abyss. His eyes were not merely blue, they were diamonds, and within them, the pupils were narrow, vertical slits.
The lineage of the Dragon.
Below him, a Marquis was trembling so violently that his heavy velvet robes rustled against the marble floor. The man had been caught embezzling funds from the Northern border defense—funds meant for House Kaelen's winter rations.
"Your Imperial Majesty," the Marquis choked out, his forehead pressed against the cold stone. "I... I have served for thirty years. It was a mistake of the ledger! I beg for mercy!"
Maximillian smiled. It was a beautiful, serene smile. "Mercy is for the gods, Marquis. I am merely a gardener. And a gardener must pull the weeds before they choke the lilies."
Without a word, the Emperor's aura expanded. The temperature in the room plummeted. The guards, elite knights of the Empire, reflexively lowered their heads, unable to breathe as the draconic pressure crushed the oxygen from the air. The Marquis didn't even have time to scream. With a casual flick of Maximillian's hand, a blade of condensed mana—shimmering like a dragon's scale—severed the man's head.
There was no blood on the Emperor's shoes.
"Clean this up," Maximillian whispered, the deadly slit in his eyes slowly widening back into a human circle. "I have to check on my son. He had a coughing fit this morning, and the doctors say the spring pollen is particularly aggressive this year."
The transition was terrifying. One moment, he was a monster from the ancient world; the next, he was a doting father concerned about a breeze.
In the East Wing, behind three layers of enchanted glass and guarded by the Emperor's most trusted shadows, lived the "Diamond" of Aethelgard.
Prince Lucian von Valerius sat by the window, a silk blanket draped over his knees. His hair was even brighter than his father's, falling like a waterfall of gold over his shoulders. His skin was translucent, so pale that the veins at his wrists looked like delicate blue threads.
He looked as though a single harsh word would shatter him.
"Your Highness," a soft voice whispered from the shadows.
Lucian didn't turn. He stared out at the sprawling capital city of Oakhaven. "Report."
The shadow materialized into a young man with dark, messy hair and eyes like a hawk—a commoner spy, one of the many Lucian had personally recruited from the Underworld using untraceable gold.
"The four Dukes have arrived in the capital for your Enrollment Ceremony tomorrow, My Prince. House Kaelen brought their heir, the Winter Wolf. House Aurellia has already bought out the three largest jewelry boutiques to prepare 'tributes' for you. House Selene's heir is in the Royal Library, and the Morvane twins... well, they haven't been seen, which means they are already in your walls."
Lucian let out a soft, wet cough into a silk handkerchief. When he pulled it away, there was a faint smear of red. To anyone else, it was a sign of a dying prince.
To Lucian, it was a nuisance. His body was a furnace; the Dragon Blood in his veins burned so hot that it ruptured his human capillaries. He wasn't weak. He was too strong for a mortal vessel.
"Let them come," Lucian whispered, his voice smooth and devoid of the rasp he used in public. He folded the bloodied handkerchief and tucked it away. "The Winter Wolf wants a master. The Golden Tongue wants a treasure. The Sage wants a riddle. And the Shadows... they want a god to worship."
His diamond-blue eyes flickered. For a split second, a flash of gold passed through his pupils—a draconic slit so sharp it could pierce through stone.
"They think they are coming to the Academy to protect a fragile prince,"
Lucian said, a small, dark smile playing on his lips. "They don't realize I am the one who invited the wolves into my parlor."
He stood up, his "weakness" vanishing instantly as he stretched his limbs.
Tomorrow, the game would begin. He would be the sickly prince, the fainting flower, the delicate treasure of the Emperor. He would let them fight over him, let them obsess over his every breath, and let them tear each other apart to earn a single glance from him.
And while they were blinded by their own possessive hunger, Lucian would weave the strings.
The Diamond Prince was ready to play.