Galvestone Imperial Palace.
Lucan sat alone in the courtroom, the strategic map sprawled across the table like a problem refusing to solve itself. He stared at it until the lines blurred, frustration tightening the muscles in his jaw.
Unable to stay still any longer, he rose sharply from his seat.
His hands folded behind his back out of long habit as he paced the length of the room, boots tapping a steady rhythm against the stone floor.
Each turn only made his thoughts circle harder. He stopped once to knead at his temples, trying to ease the pressure gathering there.
After several strides back and forth, the weight of duty tugged him again toward the table. He returned to it slowly, leaning forward with both palms pressed against the wooden surface, his eyes drawn back to the map.
His eyes were heavy with sleep, but somehow he managed to still read through the navigations, changing some markings.
He had been the king's royal advisor for years, a position earned through more than just loyalty. Brought to the court as a boy who had lost his mother to war, he had grown up amid strategy, politics, and the heavy weight of responsibility.
The grief that had marked his childhood had forged him into a man both sharp and relentless—a man who rose quickly through the ranks.
Even when the king had rebuked him for nearly costing a soldier his life, he had been determined to mend the rift, to restore the fragile trust between them. Duty and loyalty had always driven him, even when the consequences were severe.
He hovered over the map, eyes darting from one marked border to the next. A pulse of frustration tightened his jaw.
"This is all wrong," he said under his breath, but the words came out harsher than he intended.
His foot began tapping rapidly against the stone floor, a nervous rhythm he couldn't control. He dragged a hand across his face, then stepped back from the table entirely, the distance doing nothing to slow the churn of his thoughts.
"Go to bed."
A voice came from behind him. It carried the softness of a request.
Still, there was a trace of humor in it, something teasing, as if the speaker knew exactly how restless he was and found it slightly amusing.
Lucan recognized that voice, and more than anything he wished she hadn't come.
Lydia lingered at the doorway for a long moment, watching him wrestle with himself over the map. Then, almost without a sound, she glides in.
The candles along the walls flickered as she passed, shadows dancing across the stone floor, lending her movements an ethereal, almost otherworldly quality.
Lucan's foot tapping slowed, and for a fraction of a moment, the storm in his mind seemed to pause, caught in the quiet authority of her presence.
Her footsteps echoed faintly as she made her way to where he stood.
The candles flickered as she passed, throwing long, wavering shadows that stretched on the walls.
"What are you doing here?"
His voice was steady, but a thread of unease ran through it.
"You worry too much."
She purred, gliding through the room like a sneaky cat.
"It is my job."
He answered, his sharp eyes tracing the subtle marks on the map.
Lydia was wearing a black robe, exposing her cleavage and her collarbones. The scent of her perfume fizzled in the air, causing an intoxicating but dark cloud around Lucan.
Her long, wavy red hair fell over her shoulders in rich, lustrous strands. Her green siren-like eyes had softened with age, but they held a depth and clarity that spoke of experience, not fading.
She lurked around the table, then drifted to his side. Her scent wafted through his nostrils, brushing against his senses in a way that made him shift uneasily.
"Looks perfect to me," she said, glancing down at the markings on the map with a faint, teasing smile.
"Then you must be blind."
He cursed under his breath, snatching the map from the table with a sharp motion. Without looking at her, he moved to the side of the room.
Snapping the map open, he stood by a burning candle, holding it up so the flickering light traced the outlines and navigational markings. He squinted, trying to force clarity from the maze of lines before him.
"I am willing to help if you let me," she said softly, clasping her hands together.
"Leave!" he commanded sharply.
Her brows furrowed at the tone, and the fine lines on her forehead became more pronounced.
She reclined against the edge of the table, one arm draped casually over its surface, the candlelight casting soft shadows across her face. Her legs stretched out beneath her, arched slightly, yet she spoke with precise authority.
"You've dismissed my words countless times at meetings," she said, her voice sharp but controlled.
"I assumed by now you would have learned your lesson, you arrogant bastard."
She let out a quiet sigh, leaning back slightly against the table.
"You are nothing but the leftovers dragged out from the smear that happened at Nehoviah," Lucan spat.
"A woman who was shown mercy by the King—you have no right whatsoever to even be seen at council meetings. If anything, it's a taboo."
He stepped closer to the burning candle, the map rolled tightly in his hand, his eyes blazing with fury.
She let his words wash over her, each one sharper and more rash than the last. For a moment, she said nothing, merely taking them in.
Then, a bitter scorn escaped her lips.
She let her tongue trace the length of her bottom lip before pressing her lips tight.
Then, moving away from the table, she glided toward a statue of Kyron standing tall in the corner of the room. Her steps were quiet, the soft rustle of her robe echoing faintly against the stone floor.
Her eyes danced across the carved features of his face. Crossing her hands over her chest, she straightened up and then began.
"One would say the marks on this map make it seem as though we're ready for war," she began, her voice calm.
"But a closer look shows otherwise. These markers… they're all in the wrong places. If nothing is corrected, our soldiers will be marching straight into disaster."
Her eyes flicked toward a picture across the room.
She moved away from the statue, gliding across the room until she reached a portrait hanging on the far wall. The painting depicted Kyron's late wife, Wimma, her presence captured in brushstrokes that seemed almost alive.
"The red mark on the map towards the eastern woods? It should be shifted west. That way, we can ambush them before they even reach Galvestone."
She continued, her eyes settling on the portrait, staring deep into Wimma's gaze as if searching for something beyond the canvas.
The flickering candlelight played across her face, highlighting the calm intensity in her expression.
"The black dot on the mountains should be propelling downwards; Ragaleon would want to take the safer route for his men."
She said, then paused, then returned back to the table. She leaned back slightly, letting her confidence linger in the quiet room, as if daring him to challenge her knowledge.
She swipes some strands of her hair behind her ear, exposing the leer scripted on her face all this while she had been talking.
"The other black dot on the forest to the east?" she said, tilting her head as her fingers traced lazily on the surface of the table.
"That's just formality. Completely useless. Ragaleon would never have his men march through that route; he's too predictable for that."
She shifted her weight against the table, still perfectly at ease, letting the candlelight pool around her.
"And the red dot on the river toward Galvestone…" She cooed, slowly raising her gaze to gauge his reaction.
"That shouldn't be here either. It belongs to the West. That's the territory we should be watching; any real movement will come from there."
Her gaze slid across the room to him, steady and self‑assured.
Luncan's face felt as though it might fall off; his expression became taut. His eyes widened with each word she spoke; every observation and every correction was perfectly accurate.
He let his gaze settle on the red spot in the eastern woods. He had been standing over the map, holding it, yet she had pointed out all of this without even glancing at it.
Lucan's face tightened, his jaw rigid. Slowly, he rolled the map closed.
Then he fixed her with a deadly gaze, sharp enough to cut through the flickering candlelight.
"How…?" he demanded, voice low but trembling with controlled anger. "If you knew this, why didn't you point it out sooner?"
"Ragaleaon will have his men marching to our gates any moment from now, and you let this happen?!
She looked away, without a care in the world. Her gaze drifted toward the candlelight dancing on the walls, as if his words barely registered.
There was not a flicker of worry or guilt in her expression, only the serene, unshakable composure of someone completely in control.
He gnashed his teeth in anger, moving in her direction.
"I wasn't present at the last meeting," he began, voice tight. "The least you could have done was…" He paused, his eyes drifting toward where she lounged at the table, calm and unbothered.
His gaze flicked to the map. "The markings… Who—who strategized this?"
She glides her eyes slowly to where he stands, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.
"That would be me."