Two guards dragged a man down the long, torch-lit corridor. The walls were damp stone, echoing each footstep with a hollow weight. The man's boots scraped along the ground; his body limp but his eyes alert, darting from side to side. Blood crusted his lip. His cloak, though torn and dirtied from the scuffle, still bore the emblem clear as daylight: a silver sword entwined with a dragon.
Imperial spies.
At the end of the corridor sat a man with black hair, his frame tall and lean, draped in robes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. He sat on a modest throne—not a grand seat of gold and velvet, but a functional piece carved from obsidian, cold and severe. This was Lucan.
The spy was thrown to his knees before Lucan, the guards stepping back without a word. The sound of the spy's knees hitting the stone echoed like a hammer blow.
Lucan's eyes narrowed, focusing not on the man's bruises or bleeding temple, but on the emblem. The dragon and sword. That symbol screamed volumes.
"Imperial," Lucan muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. That emblem wasn't worn by accident. If one spy had made it in, he hadn't come alone. They never came alone.
He stood slowly, the motion smooth, precise. Calculated. Lucan was a man of thoughts before words. And right now, his mind was racing.
"Where are the others?" Lucan asked, his voice quiet but sharp.
The spy lifted his head. There was blood in his teeth when he grinned.
"Already far away," he said, voice hoarse.
Lucan's jaw clenched. That grin—that confident, mocking grin—irritated him more than any insult.
"What did they hear?" Lucan asked. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. His words carried weight by sheer force of intent.
The spy chuckled. It was a hollow sound, like laughter in a crypt.
"Enough."
Enough. That one word did more damage than a dagger in the back.
Lucan didn't believe in mercy for spies, but he also didn't believe in lies at this point of capture. A man with a shattered kneecap and no hope of rescue didn't need to lie. Not unless it served some final purpose. And what purpose would this man have?
Lucan's thoughts spiraled fast. If they heard something... if they came and left that fast, they came for something specific. Something targeted.
But what?
He had secrets, yes. Every man in power did. But few of them would interest the Sage Empire. Most of them were internal, tactical, personnel-based. Nothing groundbreaking.
Except—
"Did you think your spy plan would actually work?" the spy interrupted his thoughts, the words soaked in venom and triumph.
Lucan snapped.
He struck the spy across the face with the back of his hand. The crack rang out like a whip. And in the moment of impact, something sickening happened. The man's head snapped back too fast, too hard—and shattered.
Yes, shattered!
The body slumped. The floor darkened with blood and brain.
Lucan stared.
Silence stretched for a full breath. Two. Three.
"Get this mess cleaned up," he said flatly.
And then he turned and walked out of the hall.
His mind wasn't on the corpse. It was on the implication.
'Did they hear about Riku? Shit.'
He moved quickly, boots echoing on the stone. His face remained calm, but inside, he was boiling. It had barely been two months since Riku left. The plan wasn't even in motion yet, just pieces gathering on the board. And now the enemy was already pulling strings?
...
..
.
How did a spy end up in his throne room, taunting him?
It didn't make sense. Unless...
Unless they knew Riku had been planted. Unless they intercepted something. Unless...
"Enough." That was what the spy said.
Enough.
Not everything. Not all of it. But enough.
Enough to ruin the plan? Enough to root out Riku?
He couldn't know for sure. And that terrified him more than he'd admit.
Back when Lucan first conceived the plan, it seemed impossible. Getting someone that deep into Sage territory? Insane. But the payoff could be enormous. And the more he thought about it, the more the plan sounded possible.
And now it might all be over.
Because of a single spy.
Or more than one. Lucan was no fool. That man didn't come alone. If they had the time to send one, they had the time to send two. Maybe more.
Lucan stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape.
He needed to act.
If the Sage Empire had eyes here, it meant one thing.
Lucan's fortress was compromised.
He turned and called for his spymaster.
And as he waited, he couldn't shake the echo of that last laugh—the shattered man's voice, already fading from memory, but not from meaning.
'Did you think your spy plan would actually work?'