Lucien knew better than to look for a crown.
There was none.
The chamber they brought him to was not a throne room, nor was it meant to impress. It was circular, windowless, buried deep beneath the upper halls of the palace complex where the Four Great Families conducted matters that could not be spoken aloud.
The stone here was old.
Older than the Seravain name.
Lucien sat in a chair that was slightly too large for him, his feet hovering just above the floor. He kept his hands folded in his lap, fingers laced tightly enough to hurt. He had learned early that pain made him still.
Across from him, the council seats remained empty.
One of them would have been his father's.
That chair, too, was empty.
The whisper beneath the stone pressed faintly against his awareness, restrained but attentive. Lucien ignored it. This was not a moment for listening.
This was a moment for enduring.
The doors opened.
They did not announce the arrivals.
Four figures entered first — representatives of the other Great Families. Each wore their colors subtly, woven into cuffs or clasps. None of them looked at Lucien directly.
Then his father entered.
Lord Alaric Seravain did not rush.
He never did.
His presence altered the room not through force, but through certainty. He wore no ceremonial regalia, no blade, no signet displayed openly — only dark formal attire and the Seravain ring on his right hand.
Lucien felt the shift immediately.
The adults straightened.
The room listened.
His father took his seat at the curved table, not at the center — there was no center here — but at the position where the stone floor bore faint scratches from decades of unmoved chairs.
Seravain did not move.
Others adjusted around them.
Lucien watched silently.
"You may begin," his father said.
One of the councilors cleared his throat. "Lord Seravain. We appreciate your presence."
Alaric inclined his head slightly. Not gratitude. Acknowledgment.
"The incident involving your son," the councilor continued, "has raised concerns among the families."
Lucien felt the word incident settle into his bones.
"My son collapsed," his father said calmly. "In a private garden. Under strain."
Another councilor spoke. "This is not the first irregularity."
Lucien's breath tightened.
Alaric did not look at him.
"Define irregular," his father replied.
A pause.
"We fear," said Lady Corven of the Ashmere line, "that Lucien Seravain may be… unsuited to bear the responsibilities his position will eventually require."
Lucien stared at the stone floor.
He counted the faint cracks between tiles.
"One," his father said softly, "does not bear responsibility in the Four Families."
Several eyes flicked toward him.
"One survives it."
Silence.
"The Seravain heir's condition," another councilor pressed, "introduces uncertainty."
Alaric folded his hands.
"Uncertainty," he said, "is the foundation of this alliance. If you desired stability, you would have crowned a monarch centuries ago."
Lucien felt something cold move beneath the floor.
The river listened.
"We propose," Lady Corven continued carefully, "temporary measures. Reduced exposure. Fewer appearances. Delayed succession planning."
Lucien's fingers clenched.
His father finally turned his head slightly — not toward Lucien, but toward the speaker.
"You propose," Alaric said, "to weaken my house under the pretense of caution."
"That is not our intent."
Alaric smiled faintly.
"It never is."
The council shifted.
Lucien felt suddenly very young.
Very visible.
"Lucien Seravain is a child," his father said. "He is not unstable. He is unfinished."
"That does not reassure us," one of the others said.
"It should," Alaric replied. "Because unfinished things can still be shaped."
Lucien's stomach twisted.
"This council exists," Alaric continued, "to maintain balance among the Four Families. Not to test how far one can be pushed before it responds."
The implication settled heavily.
"You will not isolate my son," his father said.
"You will not diminish his standing."
"You will not whisper contingency plans behind closed doors."
Each sentence was measured.
Each one a threat wrapped in restraint.
"And if we disagree?" someone asked quietly.
Alaric leaned back.
"Then," he said, "you will remember what happened the last time Seravain was cornered."
No one asked him to clarify.
Lucien felt the pressure beneath the stone deepen — slow, patient, aware.
The council bowed their heads, some reluctantly, some with calculation already flickering behind their eyes.
"As you wish, Lord Seravain," Lady Corven said.
Lucien knew — with a clarity that frightened him — that it was a lie.
The meeting ended without ceremony.
As Lucien stood to leave, his father placed a hand on his shoulder.
The weight of it was grounding.
Protective.
Temporary.
"You did well," Alaric said quietly.
Lucien nodded.
He did not speak.
As they walked away together, Lucien understood something with awful certainty:
His father was not defending him because Lucien was weak.
He was defending him because the world had already decided Lucien would be dangerous — if he lived long enough.
And beneath the palace of the Four Families, something ancient stirred, curious about the child everyone feared would grow.