Chapter 25 : The Poison of Knowledge
Saffron light from oil lamps painted the throne room of Zyrick Palace in shades of amber and copper. Four hours had passed since the banquet's conclusion. Outside, true night had settled over the capital—the kind of darkness that made travelers grateful for stone walls and locked doors.
Inside, only those who'd traveled from Siena remained, gathered around Duke Vasant's throne in informal council. The day's events had left them with questions that demanded answers before sleep could come.
"Princess Thalira, you'll be staying at Zyrick Palace tonight." Duke Vasant gestured to nearby guards. "Prepare the guest chambers. It's a safety protocol—no travel after dark."
Thalira's frustration was immediate and obvious. "What? Why would we need this protocol when we're in the Aurelith Empire?" She looked to Minister Graham as if expecting him to override this absurd restriction. "I'm a Princess of Aurelith. Why would I need to fear anyone?"
The words carried that particular arrogance of youth that had never encountered real danger—the naive certainty that titles provided protection against all threats.
Minister Graham rose from his seat with deliberate slowness, the movement drawing every eye. "Princess Thalira, you're correct that we're within imperial territory. But safety protocols exist regardless." His tone was patient but firm, the kind reserved for children who needed gentle correction. "You are of imperial bloodline. We cannot risk your safety, even here."
He glanced at Duke Vasant, a silent message passing between them.
"Your chambers have been prepared and are waiting, Your Highness." Vasant's voice carried genuine hospitality despite the underlying tension.
Thalira huffed but stood, signaling for Senior Maid Zeta to follow. The older woman rose with barely concealed impatience—whether at the delay or at thoughts of what waited back in the capital, no one could quite tell.
Once they'd departed and guards had been posted at appropriate distance, Duke Vasant leaned forward in his throne.
"So—" He spoke quietly, almost reverently. "Do you understand what kind of genius that plan was, Minister Graham?"
General Onnes shifted in his seat, wine glass forgotten in his hand. Generals Baschain and Masoo leaned in as well, drawn by the promise of understanding what they'd witnessed.
"The Art of Rebels was never about force." Graham's voice carried a fascination that seemed to surprise even him—as if he'd forgotten what it felt like to be genuinely impressed by strategy. "It was nothing less than... well, magic of a sort."
He paused while two maids entered with wine. The servants moved with practiced silence, filling glasses and departing without a word. Cold night air crept through the chamber's high windows, carrying the chill that always followed sunset in Zyrick.
Once they were alone again, Graham continued.
"The first stage was changing the image of Imperial Law itself. The tax adjustment made the Empire appear merciful, generous even. And the hidden increase in goods prices?" He smiled slightly. "Brilliant. The people feel relief without realizing the actual burden barely changed. Perception became reality."
Duke Vasant nodded slowly, beginning to see the architecture of it.
"Second—and this was crucial—sending a Princess of the Empire to the banquet." Graham's fingers tapped against his wine glass. "When a key member of the imperial family attends, you cannot deny the invitation. You cannot twist the circumstances or claim ignorance later. Those who refused to come would reveal their guilt through absence. So everyone came. They had to."
General Onnes set down his glass carefully, as if afraid any sudden movement might shatter his growing comprehension.
"But the last part—" Graham's voice dropped lower, carrying wonder and something approaching awe. "The last part I couldn't understand until I watched it unfold in real time. The poison rumor used their own guilt against them. Their own paranoia became the test. And then—" He shook his head. "Then we gave them what they could never expect. Forgiveness. Reward. Mercy they didn't deserve."
He took a sip of wine, letting the mechanics sink in for the others.
"It shattered them. Remade them. Without a single sword drawn."
General Onnes was the first to speak, his voice rough with emotion. "Most of all—I don't know Prince Lucien's true reasons, but this saved millions of people from the cruel outcomes of war. Especially from our own armies."
The admission hung heavy in the room. The unspoken acknowledgment that even "righteous" conquest left trails of suffering.
"I agree completely." General Masoo's weathered face showed rare vulnerability. "When we merged Kingdom Nurin into the Empire—I remember. Millions could have become spoils of war. The Emperor stopped it then, too. Chose integration over domination."
"But there's something even more interesting." Graham's eyes tracked to each face in turn. "Someone like Prince Lucien helped merge kingdoms like Nurin and Quinoa in ways most of us couldn't conceive. Strategies that preserved lives instead of ending them."
He paused, then added with deliberate weight: "But don't mistake him for a hero. He's killed many people when he deemed it necessary. Ordered deaths without hesitation when the calculation demanded it."
General Baschain—who'd been notably quiet until now, who'd always aligned himself with Empress Althaea's faction—frowned. "But what can he really do? At the end, he's just a young man who sleeps with women in different ways. Talented, yes, but ultimately..." He trailed off, the dismissal clear.
Graham sighed—a sound heavy with exhaustion and disappointment.
"General Baschain, you're forgetting something fundamental." He set down his wine with deliberate care. "Once, in the past, Emperor Emrik asked Lucien to become Crown Prince. I was present for that conversation."
General Onnes choked on his wine, sputtering and raising a hand in apology while trying to catch his breath.
The revelation hit like a physical blow.
"He refused," Graham continued into the stunned silence. "Said it wasn't in his plan. That the position would draw unwanted attention to activities he preferred to keep... flexible."
Duke Vasant looked like a man who'd just realized he'd been swimming in deeper waters than he'd imagined. His hands gripped the armrests of his throne.
General Baschain's face had gone pale, then flushed with something between embarrassment and recalculation.
"I suggest—" Vasant's voice came out strained. "I suggest we call it a night. I don't think I can handle any more revelations this evening."
No one argued. They rose, gathering themselves, moving toward their respective chambers with minds full of uncomfortable new understanding.
The Serpent Prince wasn't what any of them had believed.
And that realization was more unsettling than any of them wanted to admit.
---
THREE HUNDRED MILES AWAY — Capital Siena, Imperial Palace
Prince Darian's chambers reeked of wine and sweat and desperation masked as dominance.
"Please—it hurts—" The maid's voice came muffled, pleading, her face pressed against silk pillows that probably cost more than her family earned in a year. " I can't do it !"
Darian didn't slow. Didn't soften. Just continued with the brutal efficiency of someone who confused power with pleasure, violence with virility.
"Shut up," he growled, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises. "You should be grateful. Do you know how many would kill for this opportunity?"
She bit down on the pillow to muffle another cry.
His mind wasn't really on her anyway. It circled endlessly around the same bitter truth that had been eating at him since Ethelia agreed to train his brother.
'Lucien.'
Always Lucien. The pretty one. The clever one. Debauched little boy .
"My father waits for him," Darian muttered to himself, rhythm becoming more aggressive. "Courts wait for him. Even she—" The memory of Ethelia's rejection three years ago flared hot and acidic. "Even she chooses him over me."
The maid whimpered, trying to shift position, but his grip tightened around her throat — almost choking.
"I'm the Crown Prince," he said to the darkness, to himself, to whatever gods might be listening. "I'm the one who'll rule. I'm stronger. Better in combat. Everything a ruler should be."
But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at the edges like rats in grain stores.
Because strength in battle hadn't been enough to make his father look at him the way he looked at Lucien. Hadn't been enough to make Ethelia want him. Hadn't been enough to make the court respect him instead of merely fear him.
He finished with a grunt, pulling away without care for the woman beneath him. She scrambled off the bed immediately, gathering her torn clothing with shaking hands, not looking at him.
"Get out," Darian said, already reaching for more wine.
She fled.
He sat on the edge of his bed, naked, drunk, angry at everything and nothing, staring at shadows cast by guttering candles.
'Why does everyone choose him over me?'
The question had no answer.
Just the wine, and the darkness, and the growing certainty that no matter how much strength he accumulated, his brother would always be different and unpredictable.
And that knowledge tasted like poison.