Chapter 60

Third Person’s POV

In the City of Ravaryn, the air inside the Duke’s study felt heavier as usual—thick with quiet tension..

Duke Edric rose from his chair with unhurried grace, the faint scrape of wood against marble echoing softly through the room.

“Cole… do as I instructed.” His voice was calm. Final.

Cole bowed his head without question. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Edric’s gaze shifted.

“Marcus.”

The single word was enough to snap the younger man to attention.

Marcus stood straight despite the sling securing his injured shoulder, his posture rigid, eager. “Yes, Father.”

Edric approached him slowly, each step deliberate. Up close, his expression remained unreadable—eyes dull, almost detached, as though he were looking through his own son rather than at him.

“I’m leaving you in charge here.”

For a split second, Marcus’s composure cracked.

Excitement flickered in his eyes—sharp, bright, undeniable.

A chance.

Finally.

“Yes, Father,” he replied quickly, almost too quickly, bowing his head with barely contained enthusiasm.

Edric stopped just short of him.

“Do not disappoint me again,” he added, his tone unchanged. “Keep your wits about you. One misstep, and I will hear of it before you do.”

The words landed like a quiet threat.

Marcus swallowed, but the fire in his chest didn’t dim. If anything, it burned hotter. “You can count on me, Father.”

Edric said nothing more. He simply moved past him.

Like the conversation had already lost its importance.

Across the room, Lance watched the exchange with little effort to hide his disinterest. His gaze slid toward Marcus, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—something between amusement and quiet disdain.

Eager little fool.

Marcus, of course, didn’t notice. Or chose not to.

His focus remained fixed on the approval he believed he had just earned.

Moments later, the meeting dissolved. Orders had been given. Roles assigned.

Edric and Lance stepped out of the study together, their presence commanding even in silence as the guards straightened along the corridor.

Their destination was already decided.

The central city.

The Sovereign Assembly.

—

“Father.”

Lance’s voice cut through the low hum of the car’s engine, steady and controlled—just like his father. He sat across from Duke Edric, posture straight, gaze unwavering.

There was no hesitation in the way he looked at his father, no trace of the caution most men carried in the Duke’s presence.

“You indulge Marcus far too much,” he continued, his tone flat, almost clinical. “He’s nothing but a smug, lazy liar who only knows how to shout. He will ruin our plans.”

The car rolled forward, its tires gliding over the road, the only sound that followed his words.

Edric did not respond immediately.

He sat by the window, elbow resting against the frame, fingers lightly supporting his chin as his gaze remained fixed outside. The passing landscape reflected faintly in his dull eyes, unreadable as ever.

Then—

“Are you lecturing me right now?”

His voice was quiet.

But it carried enough weight to make the air inside the car feel suddenly suffocating.

For the briefest moment, Lance faltered.

It was subtle—a tightening of his jaw, a flicker in his eyes—but it was there.

“Not at all,” he replied, recovering quickly. “I am simply concerned that—”

“Do you think you could do better?” Edric cut him off.

This time, his eyes shifted.

Slowly.

They landed on Lance.

Sharp.

Unblinking.

Lance’s composure strained under the weight of it. His jaw tightened as he looked away, his gaze drifting toward the opposite window.

Silence stretched.

Then, a quiet chuckle broke it.

Low.

Dry.

Almost mocking.

“It’s rather amusing,” Edric said. “That lazy liar you speak of… is still far more useful than a coward.”

The words struck clean.

Precise.

Lance’s hand curled into a fist against his knee.

“Do not be so arrogant, Lance,” Edric continued, his tone unchanged as he leaned back slightly. “You sit where you are because you are my eldest son.”

The car seemed colder with every word.

“If not for that…” His gaze lingered on Lance just a moment longer. “Marcus would be in your place.”

A pause.

“You would do well to remember that.”

The finality in his voice left no room for response.

“Yes, Father…” Lance muttered, though the tension in his clenched fist betrayed him. The knuckles had gone pale, the restraint visible, barely contained.

Edric turned his attention back to the window, dismissing him as easily as he had cut him down.

Silence returned.

But it was no longer empty.

Across from him, Lance sat rigid, his thoughts burning beneath the surface, his pride quietly bleeding where his father’s words had landed.

And Edric—

He exhaled slowly, though the breath never quite reached relief.

Pathetic.

Both of them.

Two sons, and neither understood anything beyond their need to prove themselves.

Lance, with his cold restraint. Marcus, with his reckless hunger.

Yet…

His gaze softened—just barely—as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Marcus…

That foolish, insufferable boy.

He reminded him of her.

Of laughter that once filled rooms like sunlight. Of warmth that had long since faded into memory.

His late wife.

The only person he had ever—

Edric’s expression hardened again.

And Lance…

Lance was too much like him. Too calculating. Too distant. A reflection he had no desire to face.

In the end, whether he admitted it or not—

His favoritism was not born from reason.

But from something far more inconvenient.

Something he would never name aloud.

Self-loathing.

—

Marcus’ POV

Finally.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my chest rising and falling faster than it should, like my body couldn’t keep up with the rush building inside me.

My lips slowly curled as Father’s voice echoed again in my head, clear as if he had just said it moments ago.

“I’m leaving you in charge here.”

A breath escaped me, almost a laugh.

“Finally…” I muttered, the word trembling with something dangerously close to exhilaration.

My gaze shifted to the side, landing on the gun resting on my bedside table. The metal gleamed under the light, quiet, patient—waiting.

For a moment, I simply looked at it, letting the weight of everything sink in. Then I moved, reaching for it, my fingers wrapping around the grip with practiced ease. Solid. Reliable. Unlike everything else that had slipped through my hands recently.

This… this was something I understood.

A slow grin spread across my face as I lifted it, the familiar weight grounding me.

“It’s time,” I whispered under my breath.

Lance’s face flashed in my mind—cold, distant, always looking down on me like I was nothing. A coward hiding behind that composed, untouchable act.

My grip tightened.

“See?” I scoffed quietly, tilting my head as if he were standing right in front of me. “Father chose me.” The words felt good. Too good. “Not you. Me.”

The thought alone sent a surge of satisfaction through me, but it didn’t stop there. Another face surfaced, and just as quickly, the warmth twisted into something harsher.

Lena.

That arrogant fraud sitting on a throne she had no right to. No royal blood. No rightful claim. Everything she had came from that dumb war—nothing but dumb luck. It made my jaw clench.

“It’s unfair…” I muttered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

My fingers adjusted on the gun as my thoughts sharpened, narrowing into something far more focused.

“I’ll burn you to ashes,” I said under my breath, voice low, steady. “And that good-for-nothing peasant you keep beside you… Miu.”

The name left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I pulled back the slide, the sharp click cutting clean through the silence of the room. The sound made something in me settle, like a promise finally taking form. A smile followed, slow and certain.

After this… after I kill them both…

Father will finally see me.

He’ll have no choice.

My eyes flickered back to my reflection, searching it, as if waiting for confirmation from the only person who could give it.

“…Right?”

–

Third Person’s POV

Earlier that day, the study was steeped in quiet, the kind that pressed against the walls and lingered in the air.

Duke Edric stood by the window, his back turned, hands clasped neatly behind him as he looked out over the vast grounds of Ravaryn. The light filtering through the glass barely touched him, leaving most of his figure in shadow.

“Listen carefully, Cole,” he said, his voice even, almost absent of emotion. “Marcus will take charge of this plan.”

Behind him, Cole stiffened.

His head lifted instinctively, surprise flickering across his face before he could suppress it. The words didn’t sit right—couldn’t sit right—but before he could form a response, Edric turned.

That was all it took.

Cole straightened at once.

“Though only in name,” Edric added, his gaze settling on him with quiet precision. “If I don’t give him something like this, he’ll rush in on his own… and ruin everything.”

There was no frustration in his tone. No disappointment.

Just certainty.

Cole hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Your Grace, that’s—”

“Necessary.”

The interruption was calm, but absolute.

Edric took a slow step forward, the faint echo of his shoes against the polished floor marking the shift in the room’s atmosphere.

“Let him defend the castle,” he continued. “Keep him occupied while the rest of the plan unfolds as intended.”

His expression remained unchanged, as if he were discussing something trivial—something already decided long before this conversation even began.

“He’ll be satisfied,” Edric went on, almost thoughtfully, “if he’s allowed to believe he’s commanding something of value.”

Cole lowered his gaze slightly, the meaning settling in.

An illusion.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady once more.

Edric turned back to the window, dismissing the matter just as easily as he had brought it up.

“I don’t expect him…” he said quietly, almost to himself, “to accomplish anyway.”

The words faded into the stillness of the room, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than before.