Chapter Two: The Crown Prince

The corridors of the imperial palace stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of marble and shadow.

Ethan walked stiffly, every step echoing too loudly against the floor. His borrowed boots clicked in a rhythm that betrayed the nervous tremor running through him. Two guards followed at a distance, their armor polished, their faces expressionless. They didn’t look at him. They didn’t need to. To them, he was Prince Adrian their master, their burden.

But Ethan felt like a fraud in every breath he took.

He tried not to stare at the palace itself, though it was impossible not to. Columns soared toward vaulted ceilings, frescoes told the story of an empire’s conquests, and golden candelabras flickered with steady flames. Everything was vast, magnificent… suffocating.

And he was being led straight into the lion’s den.

The council chamber doors loomed ahead, massive oak carved with the empire’s sigil: a serpent coiled around a sun. As the guards pushed them open, Ethan swallowed hard, willing his legs not to falter.

The moment he entered, the room fell silent.

A dozen men and women in ornate robes sat around a long crescent table. Their gazes turned as one toward him. Some narrowed in disdain, others hardened in calculation. Not a single pair of eyes held warmth.

Ethan’s skin prickled. They’re waiting for me to mess up.

He remembered the book. Adrian had indeed messed up sneering at the ministers, mocking their worries, laughing off discussions of famine and trade. He had played the villain so convincingly the people cheered at his downfall.

If Ethan followed that path, he’d walk himself to the executioner.

So he forced his lips into a neutral line and bowed slightly at the table. It wasn’t deep Adrian wouldn’t grovel but it wasn’t careless either.

“My apologies for the delay,” he said, trying to shape the words with formality instead of arrogance.

A flicker of surprise crossed a few faces. Ethan saw it, stored it away.

“Your Highness,” Chancellor Renard drawled, folding his hands atop the table. His hawk-like nose made his already sharp features more severe. “We did not expect you to grace us with… punctuality.”

A ripple of quiet amusement swept the chamber. Mockery. Testing him.

Adrian would have lashed out. Ethan clenched his jaw instead.

“I see my past habits precede me,” he replied carefully. “I intend to change that.”

The laughter died. Silence filled the chamber once more, but it was different this time uncertain, edged with suspicion.

Ethan sat in the seat reserved for the second prince, every muscle rigid, his palms damp against the carved armrests. He tried to appear composed, but his heart was thrumming so violently he feared they could hear it.

The chancellor cleared his throat. “Very well. We have matters of urgency. The eastern provinces report crop failure. If relief is not sent soon, famine will spread before winter ends.”

Ethan’s chest tightened. He had read this before. Adrian had mocked the issue, claiming peasants were exaggerating and should “learn to starve quietly.” The words had sealed his reputation as a monster.

He couldn’t repeat them.

“Then relief must be sent,” Ethan said, forcing his voice steady. “Food from the capital’s stores, if necessary. And funds redirected to secure next season’s planting.”

The councilors blinked at him.

One of them, a gray-haired noble with ink-stained fingers, frowned. “Your Highness… you propose diverting your household’s funds?”

Ethan hesitated. His pulse stuttered. That wasn’t what he meant but the look in their eyes told him he’d stumbled onto something bigger. Adrian’s fortune was bloated with excess. His ledger of indulgences flashed in Ethan’s mind. Gambling, feasts, vanity.

If he wanted to survive, he had to cut ties with that past.

“Yes,” Ethan said, his voice firm. “Start with mine.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

No one moved. The councilors exchanged looks, brows knitting. Some suspicious, some startled, others calculating.

And then a voice spoke from the far end of the chamber.

Deep. Steady. Commanding.

“My brother grows wise.”

Ethan’s head snapped up.

He was here.

Crown Prince Lucian.

The man from the book’s pages. The empire’s perfect heir.

Lucian sat at the head of the table, his posture regal, his presence undeniable. Black hair framed a face carved with severity, his expression unreadable yet suffused with authority. His eyes cool, sharp, almost too perceptive were fixed on Ethan.

The air itself seemed to shift under his gaze.

Ethan’s throat went dry. He had prepared for this, dreamed of this meeting in fevered fragments since waking in Adrian’s body. But no amount of preparation could match the sheer weight of being seen by Lucian.

He tried to hold his brother’s stare, though every. instinct screamed to look away.

Lucian’s lips curved just slightly. Not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. Something unreadable.

“I am glad,” Lucian continued, his voice smooth as steel, “that the second prince has taken an interest in his duties. Perhaps the empire has not wasted its patience after all.”

The words were mild. The tone was not.

Ethan bowed his head faintly. “The empire deserves more than my negligence, Brother.”

The chamber held its breath.

The councilors stared, some with widened eyes, others with suspicion flickering like embers. For Adrian to show humility especially toward Lucian was unthinkable.

Lucian’s gaze lingered, heavy and assessing, as though peeling back layers of skin and bone to see what lay beneath.

Ethan’s hands clenched under the table. He felt naked, exposed, as though Lucian could sense every false note in his borrowed voice.

But Lucian said nothing more. He only turned to the council and gestured for them to continue.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of numbers, disputes, and reports. Ethan forced himself to listen, to nod, to speak only when necessary. Each word felt like walking on a tightrope strung over a pit of knives. Too much arrogance, and they’d see him as the Adrian of old. Too much meekness, and they’d suspect something was wrong.

By the time the chancellor declared the session adjourned, Ethan’s back ached from sitting so stiffly. His head throbbed with effort.

The councilors rose, filing out with whispers trailing in their wake. Ethan stood last, eager to escape, when a voice stopped him.

“Adrian.”

He turned.

Lucian remained seated at the table, his gaze fixed solely on him. The other nobles had already left; the chamber was nearly empty.

Ethan’s chest tightened. He forced a steady breath. “Yes, Brother?”

Lucian rose slowly, every movement precise, controlled. His presence filled the chamber effortlessly, the way sunlight fills a room. He walked toward Ethan, each step unhurried yet heavy with purpose.

When he stood before him, Ethan realized just how much taller Lucian was. How much colder his eyes seemed up close.

“You’ve changed,” Lucian said softly.

Ethan’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Lucian tilted his head slightly, studying him like one might study a dangerous animal that had suddenly learned a new trick.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” Lucian murmured, his voice low, his tone unreadable. “But I will find out.”

His hand brushed Ethan’s shoulder briefly as he passed by, the touch light yet commanding. Then he strode out of the chamber, leaving Ethan rooted to the spot, his heart pounding like a war drum.

Ethan pressed a trembling hand to his chest.

He had survived the council. Barely. He had even surprised them.

But Lucian wasn’t fooled.

The crown prince had seen through the mask.

And Ethan knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that his survival would depend on more than just playing the part of a reformed prince.

He would have to face Lucian.

And win his trust… or be destroyed by him.

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