Chapter 28: Shadows of Brilliance
Morning light spilled across the palace training grounds, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. In the center of the practice area, Ethelia moved through sword forms with methodical precision—each strike carrying the weight of years, each movement honed through countless repetitions.
'So this was the Art of Rebels,' she thought, blade cutting air with sharp efficiency. 'I thought I'd have to kill someone. Thought mercy meant weakness. That strategy without bloodshed was just... cowardice dressed in clever words.'
She wore tight black training clothes that allowed maximum mobility. Ten-kilogram weights circled each wrist—heavy enough to slow most warriors, but she'd trained with them so long they'd become extensions of her body.
'But he saved millions. Turned traitors into fanatics. Made rebels loyal again and call it liberation.'
Her mind drifted despite her focus, replaying moments from their training sessions.
'He's so effective in almost every way. Strategic. Seductive. Terrifyingly intelligent.'
She increased her pace, sweat beginning to bead on her skin despite the mild winter morning. Her body moved faster, harder, pushing toward the finish of her routine.
'And more importantly—how can he be that much...'
The memory surfaced unbidden—Lucien leaning in during their sparring, close enough to feel his breath, his violet eyes studying her like she was a puzzle worth solving. The way he'd moved with deceptive clumsiness that couldn't possibly be real. The moment they'd fallen, her on top of him, the world narrowing to just that contact.
'I barely traced his movements any of those times when he came dangerously close.'
She didn't know if she meant his sword work or something else entirely.
She brought her blade down on the armored training dummy with devastating force. The sword sheared through reinforced leather and metal framework, splitting the construct cleanly in two.
"Whoa... Lady Ethelia, you are—"
Cian's voice came from behind her, making her spin with residual combat instinct. He stood at the edge of the training grounds, holding a towel like an offering.
"—amazing! I wonder what drives you so intensely."
He approached with careful steps, genuine admiration lighting his features. His eyes tracked the line of her body—the way tight clothing clung to muscular curves, how sweat made her skin glisten in morning light, making her look simultaneously powerful and achingly feminine.
She took the towel, pressing fabric against her face while trying to slow her breathing. Exhaustion left her unaware of how close he'd moved, how his proximity carried implications she was too tired to notice.
"Why are you here?" She studied him with that directness that intimidated most people. "Is something important?"
"I just wanted to see how a Death Knight trains." His smile seemed genuine enough, though something flickered beneath—admiration mixed with something more complex. "It's not every day one gets to witness greatness in practice."
"I thought you were skilled in combat yourself?" Surprise colored her voice.
Cian laughed—self-deprecating, a little embarrassed. "Ah... not really. I'm a courtier. Politics and strategy, not swordplay. Different battlefields entirely."
They began walking toward the palace gardens, falling into easy stride together. Morning mist still clung to the ground in places, creating atmosphere of isolated intimacy.
"Oh. But we're even, then." Ethelia pulled on an extra layer of clothing, suddenly conscious of exposure in ways battle never made her feel. "I don't understand how courts work at all."
She stopped at the edge where rock pathway met garden green, turning to face him directly.
"Do you understand how that Art of Rebels actually functioned? The mechanics of it?"
'I need to understand. Need to see the pattern. If I'm going to survive in this world of mind games, I need to learn how Lucien operates.'
Cian's expression shifted—frustration bleeding through before he could mask it.
'I couldn't even have genuine conversation without Lucien inserting himself between us somehow. Even when he's not here, he dominates every discussion.'
"It's a three-step technique," he said carefully. "Or maybe more like multiple steps with traps woven throughout. Strategic layers. You'll understand it yourself eventually."
"But it's remarkable that he saved so many people from potential sacrifice, isn't it?" Fascination animated her features, making her look younger, more open. "Even with my title and strength, I couldn't have accomplished that. He's genuinely caring... it seems. Though somehow utterly unpredictable."
'The way he talks to me . The way he feels is different. The way he looked at me like I was worth understanding.'
"Yes..." Cian's voice flattened slightly. "Very remarkable."
'Why does she look at him like that? Why does everyone eventually look at him like that?'
They walked in silence for a moment before he asked, "Why hasn't he been training? It's been four days since your sessions began. Two days since you last worked together."
"I don't know." Ethelia frowned, realizing she'd been unconsciously expecting him to appear. "And I need to travel to Knight Island in a few months for the annual gathering. All twelve Death Knights convene when the new year comes."
A flicker of anxiety crossed her features—brief but genuine.
'Marakanda will be there. Rank One. The apex I'm trying to reach. And she'll see right through any weakness.'
"I imagine he's probably sleeping. Or perhaps..." Cian trailed off, something complicated crossing his face. "Never mind."
He stopped walking and turned to face her fully. The words came out more earnest than he'd intended, carrying weight he hadn't planned to give them.
"You're the most different woman I've ever encountered, Lady Ethelia."
The compliment landed unexpectedly, making heat rise to her cheeks that had nothing to do with training.
"Hm?" Her carefully cultivated composure cracked. "I... w-what should I say to that?"
'Why does this make me flustered? I've faced armies. Killed men without hesitation. But genuine compliments feel like attacks I can't....'
Cian smiled—warm and seemingly sincere—before offering a slight bow.
"Just an observation. I should return to court duties."
He left, not giving her time to respond, leaving her standing there confused and off-balance in ways combat never managed.
'What was that?'
---
In Lucien's chamber, afternoon light filtered through silk curtains, creating atmosphere of suspended time. The prince remained asleep—having migrated to his bed sometime after dawn. Silver-white hair spread across pillows like spilled moonlight, body relaxed in rare vulnerability.
Stella moved through the room with practiced silence, tidying automatically while her mind wandered paths it shouldn't.
She sat in the chair beside his bed, studying his sleeping face with something approaching reverence and grief intertwined.
'I don't understand, but four years ago when you first did that to me...'
Her hand reached out, hovering above his bare shoulder without quite touching.
'I knew I was your nurturing maid. Knew the role I played after Queen Serenya died. But you were the one who initiated everything—who looked at me like I mattered, who made me feel seen.'
She let her fingers brush his skin—feather-light, barely contact at all. The touch was maternal and possessive and something far more complicated all at once.
'It would have been better if it was just for political connections. Just for pleasure and manipulation and all the things princes use servants for.'
Her hand trailed lower, tracing the definition of muscle beneath pale skin. Not overtly sexual, but intimate in ways that felt more dangerous than any physical act.
'But you've become something else entirely. Something I don't have words for. Like you're dying from the inside while everyone sees only brilliance.'
She stood, moving to adjust his blanket—tucking it around him with care that felt absurd given their history, given what they'd done together in this very bed.
'You probably had something so painful happen before all this. Something no one knows about that carved out whatever makes people feel normal things.'
She was thirty-eight years old—almost the age Serenya would have been if she'd lived. Had carried the same responsibility of nurturing a motherless prince.
But where Rose De Colisson had offered warmth and apple pies and genuine affection, Stella had offered her body when a confused sixteen-year-old boy had reached for comfort in the only way he understood.
And she'd never stopped.
At the doorway, she paused and looked back.
'I'll always be here for you. Even though I'm almost your mother's age—old enough to have been the one who raised you alongside the Queen. Even though this is wrong in ways I can't quite name.'
Her hand rested on the doorframe.
'Even though I'm one of dozens. Even though you'll never look at me the way you looked at that girl last night. Even though you're becoming different every day and I can't stop it.'
She left without saying any of it aloud.
Behind her, Lucien's eyes remained closed. But his breathing had changed—just slightly, just enough.
He'd been awake for the last five minutes.
Listening. Cataloging. Feeling absolutely nothing except the faint interest of recording another person's emotional attachment for future use.
'Stella. Still useful. Still loyal. Still trying to save something that died years ago.'
He kept his eyes closed and returned to the emptiness that felt more like home than any warmth ever could.
---
ELSEWHERE IN THE PALACE
In a bathing chamber three corridors away, Judas reclined in his chair while a young maid worked soap across his deformed back. Steam rose in lazy spirals, creating false atmosphere of luxury.
"I didn't know my nephew was becoming this... great."
The word came out layered—sardonic, worried, excited all at once. Strategic brilliance. Political genius. The golden prince who solved problems with mercy instead of massacre.
'It'll be entertaining to watch how this unfolds.'
His hand moved suddenly—gripping the maid's wrist and pulling her forward. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of his chair.
He grabbed her breast through wet fabric, squeezing with casual cruelty that made bile rise in her throat.
She made no sound. Didn't resist. Her face went blank—the practiced emptiness of someone who'd learned that reaction invited worse things.
'Please let this end quickly. Please don't let him—'
Inside, she felt her stomach turn. Felt the familiar shame and helplessness that came with being powerless in proximity to power. Felt herself disappear into the numbness that made survival possible.
Judas released her almost as quickly as he'd grabbed her, attention already wandering to other calculations. He seemed to have forgotten she existed the moment his hand moved away.
"Continue," he said dismissively.
She resumed washing his back with shaking hands, grateful and disgusted in equal measure.
'This great nephew of mine,' Judas thought, settling deeper into comfortable scheming. 'Let's see how brilliant you remain when real games begin.'
His laughter echoed soft against tile walls—almost gentle, like kindness, if you didn't know better.
---
In his training room, Darian drove his fist through a wooden practice post. The impact sent splinters flying, left his knuckles raw and bleeding.
"Mercy."
Another post shattered under his assault.
"Forgiveness."
He grabbed a third post and ripped it from its mounting.
"Political genius."
"I could have ended that rebellion in three days. Could have shown the entire empire what real strength looks like—decisive action, overwhelming force, clear consequences."
Blood dripped from his hands onto the floor, mixing with sawdust and sweat. This was his routine—every day, for years now. Violence against inanimate objects because he couldn't direct it where he really wanted.
"But no. Let the clever prince solve it with words and tricks. With manipulation disguised as compassion. Making traitors love their shit and call him merciful for forging them in the first place."
He drove his fist into stone wall—stupid, painful, necessary. The impact sent shock waves up his arm that felt almost good.
"Everyone sees brilliance. Father sees genius. The ministers see the future. Even that Death Knight bitch looks at him differently now."
Another punch. Knuckles split further. The pattern was escalating—more posts broken, more blood spilled, more fury that had nowhere to go except inward.
"I see weakness disguised as strategy. Cowardice dressed up in philosophical bullshit."
But even as he thought it—even as he destroyed his own training room in impotent rage—doubt gnawed at him with familiar teeth.
"What if I'm wrong?"
The question crept in like poison, the way it always did eventually.
"What if mercy actually is stronger? What if Father's right to value him more? What if I'm the inferior one—too stupid to see that force isn't the only form of power?"
He grabbed another post and held it, breathing hard, bleeding freely.
"What if he's not pretending at all? What if that's his real strength, and I'm just... not enough?"
The post cracked in his grip.
"No. No, he's weak. Has to be. Because if he's not—"
Darian couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't face what it meant if Lucien's way actually worked better than brute strength and clear hierarchy.
He threw the broken post across the room and stood there shaking—from exertion, from fury, from fear he'd never admit aloud.
And tomorrow, he'd be back here doing the same thing.
Because the alternative—accepting that his brother might actually be superior—was impossible to contemplate.
Night would fall again soon. The palace would light its thousand candles. People would move through their roles—servants serving, nobles scheming, warriors training, princes playing whatever games princes played.
And somewhere in the center of it all, Lucien would eventually wake.
The world would shift when he did.
It always did.