Lysander spent the next few days in quiet observation, carefully noting the subtle shifts in the castle’s atmosphere. The announcement of the succession trial had stirred the court into a frenzy. Every whisper, every glance between nobles seemed loaded with hidden meaning. Alliances were forming, but as quickly as they were built, they crumbled under the weight of ambition. The true trial hadn't even begun, yet the real game—the game of power, of manipulation—was already well underway.

It was a beautiful thing to behold.

On the surface, everything remained calm. The royal family carried out their usual duties, and the court continued to revolve around the King’s decrees. But underneath, there was a palpable tension—a tightening web that Lysander knew would soon begin to strangle those who underestimated its complexity.

And then there was Sibel.

Of all his siblings, she was the one who concerned Lysander the most. Where Valen was predictable in his arrogance, Sibel was unpredictable in her righteousness. She believed in honor, yes, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t bend the rules if she thought her cause was just. Unlike Valen, who sought the throne for its power, Sibel genuinely believed she was the best choice for the kingdom. Her convictions made her dangerous—because they made her unpredictable.

It was on the fifth morning after the King’s announcement that Lysander found himself summoned to the training grounds, where Sibel was in the midst of sparring. Her movements were a blur of precision, every strike of her sword calculated, every block perfectly timed. She fought with a grace that belied her strength, and though her opponent—a seasoned knight—was formidable, he struggled to keep up with her relentless attacks.

When the bout finally ended, Sibel stood over her opponent, her chest heaving with exertion but her expression calm. She glanced toward Lysander as she sheathed her sword, her eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

“You’ve been watching me for a while now, brother,” she said, her voice steady but with an edge of challenge. “Are you here to finally step into the ring, or will you continue to plot from the shadows?”

Lysander smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t dare challenge you, Sibel. I know when I’m outmatched.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you?”

There was a pause, thick with unspoken tension. Sibel wiped the sweat from her brow, her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving Lysander’s. She was reading him, just as he was reading her.

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“You always did prefer your mind to your sword,” she said, her tone carefully neutral.

“And you always preferred brute force,” Lysander replied smoothly, his voice light, almost playful. “Though I must say, your technique is impeccable.”

Sibel’s eyes flickered with something—annoyance, perhaps? It was brief, but Lysander caught it. She didn’t appreciate being reduced to brute force, even in jest. That was something he could use later.

“We each have our strengths,” she said, her tone measured. “But in the end, it will be deeds, not words, that decide who wears the crown.”

Lysander’s smile widened slightly. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Sibel gave him one last, searching look before turning back to the knight, offering him a hand to help him up. As she walked away, Lysander watched her closely, his mind already calculating the next step. Sibel was strong, yes, but strength alone wasn’t enough. She relied too much on her own sense of justice, her own belief in right and wrong. That would be her undoing.

But not yet.

As he turned to leave the training grounds, Lysander’s thoughts shifted back to Valen. His older brother had been unusually quiet these past few days. It wasn’t like him to disappear without making some grand show of his intentions. That, more than anything, put Lysander on edge. Valen was up to something, and Lysander needed to find out what.

Later that evening, Lysander made his way through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors, his steps silent on the stone floor. The palace was vast, with hidden passageways and secret chambers known only to a select few. Over the years, Lysander had discovered many of them. It was one of the advantages of being overlooked—people rarely noticed when you were there, listening, learning.

Tonight, he was headed for the northern wing, where Valen’s chambers were located. His brother’s guards were stationed outside the door, as expected, but Lysander knew of a way in that didn’t require confronting them directly. A servant’s passage, hidden behind a tapestry in a seldom-used hallway, led directly into Valen’s quarters. Lysander had used it before, and tonight would be no different.

The passage was narrow, barely wide enough for Lysander to squeeze through. It smelled of dust and damp stone, the air cool against his skin. As he approached the end, he paused, listening carefully. He could hear voices—faint, muffled, but unmistakable.

Valen was meeting with someone.

Lysander leaned closer, pressing his ear to the wall. The voices were clearer now, though he still couldn’t make out every word. But he didn’t need to. The tone of the conversation told him everything he needed to know.

Valen was making deals. He was building alliances.

Lysander smiled to himself. He had expected nothing less.

But then something caught his attention—something that made his smile falter.

The name.

“My sister will not be an issue,” Valen was saying, his voice low but firm. “Sibel’s too focused on her own ideals to see what’s really happening. As for Lysander… leave him to me.”

The reply was too quiet for Lysander to hear, but Valen’s next words were unmistakable.

“I’ve already set the pieces in motion. Soon, father will have no choice but to name me heir.”

Lysander pulled back from the wall, his mind racing. So, Valen had made his move. He was manipulating their father, orchestrating events behind the scenes. But what exactly had he done? And how long had this plan been in motion?

More importantly, what would Lysander do about it?

He couldn’t confront Valen directly—not yet. That would be playing into his brother’s hands. No, he needed to bide his time, to let Valen think he had the upper hand.

For now, Lysander would watch, would wait. He would gather his own allies, build his own web of influence. And when the time was right, he would strike—not with brute force, but with precision.

Just like a serpent in the grass, waiting for the perfect moment to sink its fangs into its prey.

As Lysander slipped back through the passage, his mind was already three steps ahead. Valen thought he had the game won, but he was wrong.

The game was just beginning.