Life in the Imperial Palace for Vaelorian had become a relentless, suffocating performance. He moved through his days as if wading through thick, sweet syrup—beautifully presented, utterly inert. Every breath was a calculation, every smile a lie directed at his father, his council, or the Sorverigen ambassadors. His only solace was the daily reminder that with every ridiculous, frivolous decision, he was inching closer to freedom, even if that freedom came at the expense of his own dignity.
The stakes had risen sharply with the arrival of Princess Lyra of the Sorverigen Empire. She was in the Capital for the upcoming flurry of events centered on Vaelorian's upcoming twenty-first birthday, an elaborate political spectacle intended to cement their union before the Winter Solstice wedding.
Vaelorian found Lyra to be everything he was pretending not to be: sharp, politically astute, and terrifyingly ambitious. She moved through the Palace like a general, observing, calculating, and rarely allowing a genuine emotion to show. He treated her with careful, exaggerated politeness, bordering on distracting foolishness. During a formal dinner, while she was discussing trade logistics with his father, Vaelorian spent twenty minutes attempting to balance a porcelain cup on each other, only stopping when the entire table had fallen silent in baffled horror.
Lyra merely offered a tight, glacial smile. "His Highness is certainly a... spirited individual," she commented to the Emperor, her tone making it clear she found Vaelorian utterly unsuitable for anything but jester work.
Vaelorian was internally delighted. He continued to go along with everything—the fittings for his new, impossibly ornate clothing, the planning of the balls, the forced public appearances with Lyra on his arm—all while acting with the intellectual depth of a puddle. His heart remained a hollow echo, the only sharp, painful sensation being the memory of Riven's crying face.
He's better off without me for now, Vaelorian reminded himself constantly. Riven excels when he's allowed to move freely, and I will make sure that will be his future.
While Vaelorian played the buffoon in the suffocating splendor of the Palace, miles away in Aurelia, Riven and Barron were proving to be an unexpectedly formidable team.
Riven had found that throwing himself into the role of Lord of the Marches was the perfect antidote to lingering heartache. He approached the manor's ledgers and the needs of his tenants with the same intense focus he once applied to combat strategy. He was precise, fair, and utterly ruthless when dealing with corrupt middlemen or inefficient suppliers. He had replaced Vaelorian's betrayal with purpose.
"The harvest from the western grain fields is ten percent below average, but the taxes we collected from the tenants there are precisely average," Riven stated one sunny afternoon, his finger tracing a line on a ledger. "That means the Steward is either misreporting the harvest, or he's charging the tenants a rate we aren't seeing. Either way, that bastard is up to something sketchy."
Barron, despite his initial ineptitude with paperwork, had found his true utility as Riven's enforcer and strategist.
"I say we corner that sneaky Steward in the cellar and make him count grains of rice until he tells the truth," Barron suggested, leaning over the table, his arms crossed.
"A good plan, but we can't do that." Riven replied, shaking his head. "Too stressful. We'll send a message to him tomorrow that we'll be inspecting the tenant Lodges the day after. He'll have one day to decide if he wants to fix the books or have us talk to the people he's stealing from. He'll fix the books."
Their combined energy was potent. Riven was the sharp mind, calculating efficiency and fairness. Barron was the blunt force, providing simple, moral clarity and the physical presence that ensured compliance. Barron might not have learned to balance a ledger, but he learned the people, earning their respect with his straightforward honesty and strength.
In just a few short weeks, the manor's profitability stabilized, the tenants were happier, and Riven felt a satisfying pride in the tangible results of his effort. He was building something real, something he could control. Who knew building a second life was that easy, huh?
In a hustle of coordinated effort, Riven and Barron had utterly mastered this art of 'lord duties'. The wistful, fragile hope that had been the real Riven's unattainable dream of making his father proud was now a bustling reality, not just functioning, but flourishing—a direct and stunning reflection of what raw determination and desperation can do.