It was two days until the first day of school, and Yvain had quite the to-do list. First off, he immersed himself in the political intricacies of Inkia and its two dominant factions.

“Let me enlighten you about the ‘first prince’s’ party,” Finn began. “Prince Locan Inkor is the King’s first legitimate son who defied the odds—he actually survived past toddlerhood. With a favored queen mother held in high esteem, he’s even touted as the crown prince by some, but that’s hardly a hard-earned title.”

Finn leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. “The real puppet master behind this party is none other than Queen Celia, his mother. Cold, ruthless, and an expert in manipulation, she’s revered not merely for her lineage or alleged beauty, but for her rather impressive management skills of the royal household. Nothing can escape her control, not even a single mouse.”

Yvain could feel the impending pressure of a headache.

“So, let me get this straight: Prince Locan doesn’t actually have any sway over his own party?” the boy queried.

“Exactly,” Finn replied. “And trust me, he couldn’t care less. Despite his undeniable political acumen, Locan prefers the role of the reluctant observer. He knows every move his mother makes and possesses almost the same information as her, yet he’s jaded enough to dodge anything that resembles actual responsibility. It is, ironically, why he’s able to avoid danger.”

Yvain nodded.

“Okay, now, can you tell me where His and Her Majesties have wandered off to? I’m afraid we can’t proceed with our plans without them,” Finn said, rolling his eyes.

“And the Prime Minister’s faction?” Yvain asked, raising an eyebrow.

Finn blinked, then cleared his throat. “Well, the Prime Minister is quite the royal pain, actually. His faction has always opposed the royal family’s influence, and, astonishingly, that hasn’t changed in decades. But the two factions are the same in their principles—like the same actors wearing different costumes.”

He continued, explaining that the Prime Minister was the latest installment of a long line of past kingmakers. His father’s failure to crown a king was a scandal that still echoed through the halls of power, all thanks to Rafaye Inkor—the shrewd yet resilient current king.

So, although both the royal and political factions paraded around with the same governance style and philosophies, they were like two sides of a tainted coin—different surfaces, same rot.

That was in the past, but now, Rafaye had remarkably grasped a semblance of balance. After marrying Queen Celia—his rather astute partner in this dance of power—and allowing her to bear their son, Locan, he managed to use them to fight against the Prime Minister.

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He graciously permitted her to establish the first prince’s faction. “What a generous monarch he is, allowing her to play politics while he avoids the Prime Minister entirely.”

Pity the poor Prime Minister; he was left shadowboxing with the queen and her reluctant prince while Rafaye enjoyed a royal tea party, blissfully ignoring the disagreements brewing beyond the castle walls.

The façade of governance continued, with everyone playing their part, while Rafaye sipped his tea, chuckling softly at the spectacle.

“Is Rafaye planning on crowning Locan, then?” Yvain asked.

“You can’t say for sure. Rafaye always had cards up his sleeves—though now a few of them are marked. Remember, he was supposed to detain my family and shove me into war if Soulnaught had gone through with the attack,” Finn replied, the gravity of the situation not lost on him.

Yvain hummed thoughtfully, though it sounded more like a chuckle. Not only that, Rafaye might just be the architect behind using the mythical community as pawns against Burn and stirring Wintersin to unleash its power on Soulnaught too.

“It’s safe to assume that Rafaye raised Queen Celia and Locan mainly to keep tabs on the Prime Minister,” Finn said, shaking his head as if lamenting the absurdity of it all. “As for who he’ll choose as his successor…”

“Well, whoever wins the royal lottery, I assume?” Yvain quipped, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

Finn nodded. “Now, please tell me when Emperor Burn and his wife will return. Please, Your Majesty.”

“Then, who was the Prime Minister’s brilliant choice as Locan’s contender?” Yvain inquired.

“It’s a tad premature for them to make any decisive calls,” Finn stated, shaking his head. “Locan happens to be the oldest legitimate prince, but there are two other legitimate princes still too young to even grasp the weight of a crown. And don't get me started on the countless illegitimate princes lurking in the shadows.”

“Ah, but one illegitimate prince outshines the others. The illustrious Prince Lance Inkor. Talented, yes, but choosing to live like a ghost. His personal life is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and frankly, it’s all the rage,” Finn recalled.

“Do you have any information about him?” Yvain asked.

Finn hummed, “Well, one day, out of the blue, he presents his wife at the royal ball. And just like that, poof—Miss Evere appears. It’s a bit weird, this woman. No one knew where she came from or her identity. She also never spoke with anyone except him.”

“Does the king favor him?” Yvain inquired, eyebrows arched in curiosity.

“It’s quite peculiar, really,” Finn replied. “The king seems to have ignored him completely… Well, considering he's invisible and apparently prefers it that way, perhaps it’s absurd for the king to be wary. Or maybe they’re involved in some dealings while the rest of us twiddle our thumbs in the light.”

“Why do you think that?” Yvain mused. “Do you suspect something?”

“Oh, just a hunch,” Finn chuckled. “Unlike your run-of-the-mill illegitimate princes, our dear Prince Lance was acknowledged well into his adulthood. A tad late for a family reunion, if you ask me.”

“Now, don’t change the subject again. We must begin our plan soon, so please contact Emperor Burn—”

Yvain shook his head, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “He won’t be needed.”

A profound silence enveloped them as they locked eyes.

“I’ll be in charge, not Papa—I mean, His Majesty or Master,” Yvain declared, an unnervingly cheerful smile on his face.

Silence.

More silence…

“You will… take charge?” Finn asked, disbelief lacing his tone, barely above a whisper.

Yvain nodded vigorously, as if he’d just announced he was going to hunt giant beetles on a summer afternoon. “Yep! Please take care of me. I’ll be the one to conquer Inkia for them.”

This twelve-year-old boy, champion of chaos...

…

…

“THIS IS NOT WHAT WE AGREED UPON!” Finn exclaimed.