The council chamber emptied out slowly after the King’s declaration, but the tension that had hung in the air lingered, like the distant rumble of thunder. Valen and Sibel left first, exchanging words in hushed tones, their postures rigid with barely concealed rivalry. Lysander watched them go, his face a mask of calm indifference. But inside, his mind was already whirring, plotting, dissecting the first move in the game of succession.

He remained seated, his hands resting lightly on the table before him as his father and mother exchanged quiet words. King Ealdred seemed more tired than ever, his once sharp eyes now clouded with age. Lysander felt a pang of something—pity, perhaps?—but he quickly buried it. Sentimentality had no place here.

“My son,” the King called, his voice softer now, as if the weight of his announcement had drained him. “Stay a moment.”

Lysander stood, his movements precise and deliberate. “Of course, father.”

Queen Anara rose from her seat as well, glancing between her husband and her youngest son. “I’ll leave you both to talk,” she said, her smile faint but warm. She gently squeezed Lysander’s shoulder as she passed, though there was a sadness in her gaze that he didn’t miss.

As the door closed behind her, Lysander turned to face his father. The King’s eyes, though tired, still held the authority of a man who had ruled for decades. Yet now, they were searching, as if looking for something within Lysander that had not yet been revealed.

“You are not like your siblings,” Ealdred said after a long pause.

Lysander smiled faintly. “That’s hardly a revelation, father.”

The King chuckled, a sound that was more of a wheeze. “No, I suppose it isn’t. But that’s precisely why I worry for you.”

“Worry for me?” Lysander’s voice held a note of amusement. “Father, I assure you, I am more than capable of handling myself.”

“It’s not your capability I question,” the King replied, his tone growing serious. “It’s your ambition.”

Lysander raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the sudden shift in the conversation. “My ambition?”

Ealdred leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Valen and Sibel—they wear their ambitions on their sleeves. They fight for the throne because they believe it’s their right. But you… you are different. You play a much quieter game.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Lysander didn’t respond immediately. His father wasn’t wrong—he did play a quieter game. But that was the advantage, wasn’t it? He didn’t need to boast or flaunt his worth. He simply needed to wait, to watch, and to strike when the time was right.

“Father, you make it sound as though my ambition is something to be feared,” Lysander said, his voice as smooth as silk.

The King’s gaze hardened slightly. “Not feared, Lysander. Understood. You are my son, and I know you have a mind sharper than any blade. But the crown is not a game of intellect alone.”

Lysander tilted his head slightly, curious. “Then what is it, if not a test of wit?”

Ealdred smiled sadly. “It is a test of the heart. And that, my son, is where you may find yourself at a disadvantage.”

Lysander frowned, but before he could respond, his father waved a hand, dismissing the conversation. “Enough for now. You will all have your chance to prove yourselves in time. Just… remember what I’ve said.”

With that, the King stood, and Lysander bowed slightly as he left the chamber. But as the door closed behind him, the words still echoed in his mind. *A test of the heart?* What did his father think this was, some noble quest for honor? Lysander knew better. Ruling wasn’t about heart. It was about control.

Control of people. Control of power. And control of perception.

As he walked through the castle halls, Lysander’s thoughts turned to his siblings. Sibel and Valen—they were both predictable in their methods. Sibel would use her strength, her unshakable belief in justice. Valen, on the other hand, would charm and manipulate, leaning on his relationships with the noble houses. But both of them were too focused on the obvious routes to power. Neither of them understood the subtler, more delicate art of subterfuge. Neither of them saw the bigger picture.

Lysander did.

He paused as he reached the courtyard, watching as the servants cleared away the remnants of the earlier sparring match. The echoes of clashing swords still rang faintly in the back of his mind, but now, it wasn’t steel that would determine the outcome of this battle. It was the unseen strings, pulled from the shadows.

A slow smile spread across Lysander’s face. The game had truly begun, and his father’s warning—though well-intentioned—only served to further solidify his resolve. He didn’t need heart. He needed strategy. And in that, no one could surpass him.

As he stood there, his mind already weaving plans and contingencies, a familiar voice broke through his thoughts.

“Plotting again, little brother?”

Lysander turned to see Valen approaching, his ever-present smirk in place. Valen had always exuded confidence, his tall, broad frame and easy charm making him the golden child in many eyes. But Lysander saw beyond the surface.

“Isn’t that what we’re all doing?” Lysander replied smoothly, meeting his brother’s gaze without flinching.

Valen chuckled, though there was no warmth in the sound. “Oh, I don’t need to plot. I already know how this will play out.”

Lysander raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Of course,” Valen said, his smile widening. “Father may be testing us, but we all know how this ends. Sibel will push too hard, burn herself out. Alaric doesn’t even care enough to participate. And you…” He tilted his head, looking Lysander up and down. “You’re too clever for your own good, but cleverness won’t win you the throne.”

Lysander said nothing, letting the words hang in the air between them. Valen’s arrogance was a weapon, one that Lysander could—and would—use against him in time. For now, though, he allowed his brother to bask in his perceived superiority.

“You’ve always been too quick to underestimate me, Valen,” Lysander said finally, his voice soft but laced with meaning.

Valen shrugged. “Maybe. But you’ve always been too slow to act. That’s why I’ll be the one wearing the crown.”

With that, Valen turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Lysander standing alone in the courtyard. But Lysander didn’t feel the sting of his brother’s words. In fact, he felt nothing at all.

Because while Valen was playing a game of words and bravado, Lysander was playing a game of strategy. And in this game, the one who acted too soon often found themselves ensnared in their own trap.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the castle grounds, Lysander allowed himself one final thought.

Let him think he’s won. It only makes the fall that much sweeter.