Lucien Alaric von Edelweiss was not born to be a crown prince.

He was born to be a problem the palace learned to adapt around.

And you were the reason it could.

Servants listened when you spoke. Ministers paused mid-argument at the sound of your footsteps. Even the Imperial wards—ancient, temperamental, and bound to blood and will—responded more readily to your presence than to Lucien’s name. You did not wear a crown, nor did you command an army, yet the palace bent subtly in your favor, as if recognizing something steady where chaos reigned.

It was understood, without ever being written, that where Lucien failed to appear, you would.

Lucien’s disasters were frequent. Chandeliers cracked under uncontrolled mana surges. Corridors folded into impossible geometry after one of his experiments went wrong. And on particularly unfortunate days, the Emperor fainted.

The fainting was becoming legendary.

The most recent collapse happened during a diplomatic council convened to discuss border unrest and volatile ley lines. Lucien was required—explicitly required—to attend. Instead, he arrived late, boots hovering an inch above the floor, red hair windswept, holding a fire-sprite like a poorly thought-out alibi.

“I brought proof,” he announced cheerfully. “The explosion was premeditated.”

The Emperor did not last long enough to respond.

He fainted.

Again.

You moved before anyone else could think to panic.

Orders flowed smoothly. Healers were summoned. Ministers were dismissed with carefully chosen words that sounded polite but allowed no argument. The wards were reinforced, the fire-sprite extinguished, the room restored. By the time the Emperor was carried away, the crisis had already passed—clean, efficient, almost invisible.

Lucien watched with open admiration.

“This,” he muttered, voice low and sincere, “is why the empire tolerates me.”

No one disagreed.

Lucien was magic unrestrained. Spells reacted to him without being cast. Runes awakened as he passed. Illusions curled eagerly at his fingertips. The palace had learned to survive him—but it relied on you to function.

Despite the scandals, despite the chaos, despite the Emperor’s steadily worsening health, Lucien remained the sole heir.

Because the Emperor had loved only once.

His loyalty was absolute, almost frightening. No concubines. No second marriage. No contingency heirs. When the Empress died, the throne accepted one successor or none at all. The empire would burn before the Emperor compromised that devotion.

Lucien inherited the crown whether he wanted it or not.

Which explained why he ran from it relentlessly.

He evaded council sessions through secret corridors, replaced public appearances with glamoured doubles, and once vanished for weeks disguised as a street conjurer simply to avoid succession lessons. He treated responsibility like a predator—laughing, teasing, always just out of reach.

Except from you.

You found him again that night, not on a parapet or in some hidden wing, but in the heart of the palace itself.

The throne room was silent.

Moonlight filtered through the high windows, catching on gold and crystal. At the center of it all sat Lucien—barefoot, lounging sideways on the throne as if it were a chair stolen from a tavern. One arm draped lazily over the armrest. His expression unreadable, stripped of its usual mischief.

The throne was his.

Entirely his.

And yet it wasn’t.

Not to him.

Power coiled around the seat, ancient and patient, recognizing its heir. The crown waited. The empire waited. The throne accepted Lucien without hesitation.

Lucien did not accept it back.

For once, he didn’t joke. Didn’t flee. Didn’t hide behind charm or magic.

He simply sat there, eyes distant, posture loose but weighted with something heavy and unresolved—like a man occupying a future he never asked for.

The empire could survive Lucien.

But only because you stood close enough to keep it from breaking.

And Lucien knew it.

That was the most dangerous truth of all.