Kael POV
The moment the Duke of the North leaves, the garden feels quieter.
Not empty. Just… altered.
I remain seated long after his footsteps fade, my teacup untouched, the steam long gone cold. The pavilion is still bathed in morning light, birds continuing their foolish little songs as if nothing of interest had just occurred.
But something did occur.
I smile to myself, slow and thoughtful.
Interesting.
I had invited Duke Lioren under the pretense of courtesy. That was the official reason. A ruler checking on one of his most powerful vassals. Tea, conversation, reassurance. Clean. Polite. Expected.
The truth, however, is far less noble.
I had invited him because he has been bothering me.
Not loudly. Not recklessly. But persistently, in the way a loose thread nags at the edge of your sleeve until you finally pull at it—only to realize the garment was never as secure as you thought.
My fingers tap once against the porcelain cup.
Duke Lioren of the North has been acting wrong.
Not incompetent. Not rebellious. No—worse. Thoughtful. Efficient. Quietly decisive. He removed three governors in less than a month, men who had survived court politics for decades. Men who, by all logic, should still be useful.
Yet Lioren dismissed them without spectacle. Without explanation.
I remember leaning back in my throne that day, listening to the report, amused.
So young, I had thought. Newly of age. Newly in power. Surely he would stumble.
Instead, he had cut cleanly.
Too cleanly.
And then there were the supply routes. The tariffs. The irrigation changes that angered merchants but strengthened the land. Moves that would not pay off immediately, but would make the North… stable.
Secure.
A foolish Duke plays for praise. A clever one plays for longevity.
That alone would have earned my interest.
But then I met him.
I close my eyes briefly, replaying the image without effort.
Dark clothing. Controlled posture. A presence sharpened by restraint. He bowed perfectly, but not excessively—no fear, no arrogance. His gaze steady, observant, guarded in a way that felt… practiced.
Not the cold tyrant the rumors promised.
Nor the fragile porcelain doll whispered about behind closed doors.
Something in between.
Something unfinished.
I let out a quiet breath, amused.
He tried to plan me.
I had seen it immediately. The careful answers. The measured tone. The way he spoke plainly without flattery, without drama. A survival tactic, not submission.
And yet—he failed.
Not disastrously. Not embarrassingly.
But charmingly.
Because no matter how controlled his words were, his body betrayed him in small ways. A tightening of the shoulders when I mentioned his birthday. A brief pause before answering questions about governance. The way his breath stilled—just for a fraction of a second—when I reached out and brushed his hair aside.
Ah.
I smile wider now.
That moment hadn't been planned.
I know myself well enough to admit that.
I am not a man ruled by impulse. I am indulgent, yes. Playful, certainly. Dangerous, without question. But I choose my actions carefully.
That touch, however…
That had been instinct.
Possession is a strange thing. It doesn't always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it slips in quietly, curling around your ribs before you realize it's there.
When my fingers brushed his cheek, I had expected him to flinch.
He didn't.
He froze.
And that—that—was far more interesting.
The kiss had followed naturally, like a conclusion my body reached before my mind bothered to argue. Light. Deliberate. Impossible to misunderstand.
A claim, if one knew how to read it.
And Lioren had read it.
Oh yes. I had seen it in his eyes. Not fear. Not offense.
Confusion.
Intrigue.
Heat he didn't yet know what to do with.
I chuckle softly, lifting my teacup at last only to realize it has gone cold.
Pity.
Still, I drink it anyway.
Lioren is not like the others.
That much is certain.
Most nobles either preen for my attention or tremble beneath it. They perform, constantly aware of the role they play in my world.
Lioren, on the other hand, behaves as if he has wandered onto the stage mid-act and is desperately trying to improvise his way through the scene.
And yet—he does not look foolish doing it.
That is the unsettling part.
There is something fractured about him. Not broken. Not weak. Just… layered. Like a man carrying memories that do not sit comfortably in his skin.
When he spoke of the North, there was sincerity. When he spoke of loyalty, there was steel. When he spoke of himself—
He avoided it.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I set the cup down and rise, pacing slowly within the pavilion. My hands clasp behind my back as thoughts align themselves neatly, one after another.
His birthday.
Eighteen.
The empire makes much of such milestones. Coming of age. Power. Visibility. Vulnerability.
And the Saintess is due to appear soon.
Ah.
Now there it is.
The reason the thread has been tugging at me all along.
The Saintess's arrival is not a secret to those who know how to listen. Whispers move faster than decrees, and I have ears everywhere. Every pieces are already shifting, long before the board is officially revealed.
And Lioren… has already removed three men who, surely, would have been among the first to kneel to her.
Coincidence?
I do not believe in those.
Which means one of two things is true.
Either Duke Lioren is far more perceptive than anyone realizes.
Or he is moving blindly toward the same future I am watching—by instinct alone.
Both possibilities are delicious.
I stop walking.
Perhaps that is why he unsettles me.
He reminds me of myself.
Not as I am now, adorned in silk and crowned in gold, but as I was before the throne. Before the calculations became second nature. Before every smile was weighed and every touch became a tool.
He reminds me of a time when the world had not yet decided what I was allowed to be.
And that… stirs something inconvenient.
I laugh quietly, shaking my head.
Dangerous thoughts.
But then—when has danger ever stopped me?
I move toward the edge of the pavilion, gazing out over the gardens. Somewhere beyond these walls, Duke Lioren is likely pacing his study, pretending to read documents while his mind races ahead of him.
Trying to not burn out.
Trying to plan.
Trying to stay one step ahead of a game he does not fully understand.
And perhaps that is why I want him.
Not because he is powerful.
Not because he is beautiful—though he is, in a way that defies expectation.
But because he does not yet know how deeply he has caught my attention.
I enjoy watching people realize that.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I will not rush him.
No.
Observation first.
I will watch how he handles the temple. How he prepares for his birthday. How he navigates the court when eyes turn sharper and smiles grow thinner.
I will see whether he bends.
Or whether he adapts.
My lips curve, pleased.
Either way, Duke Lioren will be fascinating.
And if, along the way, he becomes mine…
Well.
That would simply be the natural conclusion to a very entertaining beginning.
I turn away from the garden, already composing the next invitation in my mind.
After all—
Games are far more enjoyable when the most interesting piece doesn't realize it's being played.