The castle of Caelum stood as a monolith against the horizon, its towering spires piercing the sky like jagged fangs. Built of pale stone, it shimmered in the midday light, a beacon of the kingdom’s might. But Lysander, the youngest prince of Erathia, saw it not as a symbol of power—but as a grand stage for a very different kind of play.

He stood on the balcony of his chamber, high above the bustling capital below. From here, he could see the entirety of Caelum’s winding streets, the market squares where traders bartered for goods, and the river that flowed like a silver thread through the heart of the city. But his eyes were not on the city today.

Today, Lysander was watching his family.

In the castle’s courtyard, a small crowd had gathered. His father, King Ealdred, sat on a grand chair of oak, observing with a weary gaze as the two eldest children sparred with practice swords. Sibel, the eldest daughter, moved with the precision and grace of a seasoned warrior. Her blade flashed in the light as she struck at Valen, the elder brother, who laughed as he parried her blows with ease. The clang of steel against steel echoed through the air, but to Lysander, it was little more than background noise.

“Theatrics,” Lysander muttered, leaning against the stone balustrade. “All for father’s approval.”

He knew this display wasn’t about training. His siblings were performing, as they always did, vying for the King’s attention. Sibel with her prowess in battle, Valen with his charm and bravado. Both of them desperate for their father to see them as the rightful heir. But Lysander had no interest in proving himself with a sword. His strength lay elsewhere—where the real power resided.

A knock came at his door, breaking his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, turning away from the balcony.

The door creaked open to reveal Alden, Lysander’s most trusted servant. The man was old, with a weathered face and a limp in his step, but his loyalty had never wavered. He was more than a servant; he was a confidant.

“My lord,” Alden began, bowing slightly, “your presence has been requested in the council chamber.”

Lysander raised an eyebrow. “The council? Or my father?”

“The King,” Alden replied. “It seems he wishes to speak with all of his children.”

Lysander sighed inwardly. He had expected this. The King was nearing the end of his reign, and the matter of succession loomed like a storm on the horizon. Yet, Lysander felt no anxiety over the inevitable discussion. He had been preparing for this moment his entire life.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Very well,” Lysander said, adjusting his coat. He glanced at the mirror, his reflection staring back at him—sharp, angular features, dark eyes that gleamed with a quiet intelligence. He was the youngest, yes, but he was far from naïve. He understood the intricacies of human nature better than anyone else in his family, and that understanding was the key to controlling them.

As he made his way through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, Lysander’s mind was already at work, calculating every possible outcome of the conversation that awaited him. His siblings would no doubt use this opportunity to make their cases, each presenting themselves as the rightful heir. Sibel would speak of strength and honor, of her ability to lead armies and defend the kingdom. Valen would boast of his connections, his charm, the alliances he had cultivated with the noble houses. And Alaric, the middle child, would likely remain silent, indifferent to the entire affair. His apathy was both his strength and his weakness.

Lysander smiled to himself. Let them talk. Let them fight. He would be the one pulling the strings from the shadows.

The council chamber was already filled when he arrived. His father sat at the head of the table, his once-powerful frame now hunched with age. His mother, Queen Anara, sat beside him, her expression soft but worried. Sibel and Valen stood on either side of the room, like predators circling their prey. Alaric, as expected, was absent—probably at the arena, gambling away what little fortune he had left.

“Lysander,” King Ealdred greeted him, his voice roughened by time. “Join us.”

Lysander bowed respectfully before taking his place at the table. His eyes flicked briefly to his siblings—Sibel’s jaw was set in determination, Valen smirked as if he already knew what would be said. Neither of them acknowledged him. Good. Let them underestimate him.

The King cleared his throat. “As you all know, my time as ruler is drawing to a close. I have led Erathia for many years, and it has been my honor to do so. But now, the kingdom needs new leadership—fresh blood to guide it into the future.”

Lysander could almost feel the tension crackling in the air. His siblings leaned forward slightly, anticipation gleaming in their eyes. They were waiting for him to name a successor.

But the King wasn’t finished. “I will not make this decision lightly. Each of you has your strengths, your qualities that would make you a worthy ruler. But the crown is not simply given—it must be earned.”

Lysander’s lips twitched into a faint smile. Earned. How amusing. His father spoke as though this were a game of merit, where the best would naturally rise to the top. But Lysander knew better. The crown would go to whoever played the game the best, not to the most honorable.

“I have decided,” the King continued, “that over the coming months, I will observe each of you closely. Your actions, your decisions—they will all factor into my choice. Show me that you are capable of ruling Erathia, and the throne will be yours.”

Lysander’s mind was already racing. This was exactly the opportunity he had been waiting for. He would not compete with his siblings on their terms—no, that would be foolish. Instead, he would manipulate the game to his advantage, quietly pushing the pieces into place while they were too distracted by their own ambitions to notice.

As the King finished his speech, Sibel was the first to speak. “Father, you know I have dedicated my life to defending this kingdom. I am ready to lead.”

Valen nodded in agreement, though his smirk remained. “As have I, father. The noble houses already look to me for guidance. I have the alliances we need to secure Erathia’s future.”

Lysander remained silent, watching them with cold detachment. Let them posture. Let them make their claims. He would not tip his hand so easily.

The King nodded thoughtfully, his eyes flicking to Lysander. “And you, Lysander? What do you have to say?”

For a moment, the room fell silent. All eyes were on him. Lysander took a deep breath, feigning modesty.

“I have no grand claims to make, father,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Only that I will do what is necessary for the good of the kingdom.”

The words were simple, but they carried a weight that his siblings’ grand speeches did not. He saw the flicker of recognition in his father’s eyes. Lysander wasn’t here to compete—he was here to win.

And so, the game began.