The door to Bartholomew's chambers exploded inward, causing his attendants to jump. The Second Prince stormed in, his face twisted with rage, his aura manifesting as a crushing pressure that made the air heavy and difficult to breathe.
"Out!" he roared. "Everyone out!"
His servants scattered like startled birds, all too familiar with their master's temper.
Only his personal guard, Marcus, dared to remain, standing silently in the corner as Bartholomew paced the room like a caged beast, each step leaving faint cracks in the marble floor from his poorly contained aura.
"Can you believe the audacity?" Bartholomew snarled, his words dripping with venom. "That pompous Lord Chamberlain from House Draconus, treating me - ME - like some common petitioner! 'Lady Valerie is occupied with her studies,'" he mimicked in a mocking tone. "'Perhaps His Highness would care to schedule a formal audience through the proper channels?'"
He seized a priceless vase from its pedestal and hurled it against the wall, taking savage pleasure in the sound of shattering porcelain.
"And to think," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "that while I'm denied entry, that bastard trash is spending time with her. Flying through the night on her wyvern like some... some..."
Words failed him, and he let out a frustrated growl. Marcus remained perfectly still, knowing better than to interrupt his master's tirade.
"House Draconus's wyverns are meant to serve a greater purpose," Bartholomew declared, moving to the window. Below, he could see the massive creatures in their temporary stables, their scales gleaming in the morning light.
"Their strength combined with our military might... we could reshape the empire. Expand our borders beyond anything Father has achieved."
He turned sharply, his eyes blazing. "But now that weakling is interfering. Spending time with her, poisoning her mind with his presence. How dare that bastard walk anywhere near her shadow, let alone breathe the same air as someone of her standing!"
Bartholomew's aura pulsed with renewed fury as his thoughts turned to the greater political landscape.
He already had more than enough to deal with - particularly the matter of Lyanna. His dear sister, the Crown Princess, the acclaimed genius warrior of this generation, the perpetual obstacle between him and his rightful place on the throne.
"I've spent years," he muttered, more to himself than to Marcus, "carefully arranging everything. Building alliances, identifying weaknesses, and positioning myself as the true heir the empire needs. Lyanna's influence grows by the day - did you know she's now commanded the loyalty of three more border legions?"
His fist slammed into a nearby table, his aura-enhanced strength splintering the runically enhanced wood. "Everything must be perfect. The timing, the execution - one misstep and it all falls apart. And now..."
He gestured violently at nothing in particular. "Now that worthless bastard decides to crawl out of his hole! Why couldn't he stay hidden in his villa like usual? Reading his books, failing at magic, being the perfect embarrassment to the family name. But no, he has to choose NOW to start showing his revolting face!"
A knock at the door interrupted his rant. "What?" he barked.
A servant's trembling voice came through the wood. "Your Highness, Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Camilla, has agreed to your request for a meeting. She's waiting in her chambers."
Bartholomew's expression shifted instantly from rage to careful calculation. "Very well. Tell her I'm on my way."
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
The Empress's private chambers were a study in understated elegance, much like the Empress herself, everything of true significance was carefully hidden beneath a beautiful facade.
Empress Camilla looked up from a series of complex magical diagrams as Bartholomew entered. "My dearest son," she said warmly, though her eyes remained sharp and calculating. "What brings you here in such a state?"
"Mother," Bartholomew began, struggling to contain his anger, pleading with her as though he were a toddler throwing a tantrum, "that bastard Mikhail is-"
"Mikhail?" she interrupted, her lip curling slightly. "What has your father's... indiscretion been up to now?"
Bartholomew explained the situation, his words becoming more heated as he described Mikhail's growing closeness with Valerie. The Empress listened silently, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the air that left faint traces of magical energy.
"I see," she said finally. "While this is... concerning, I'm afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to. With Grand Mage Thorne unavailable, the magical preparations for the Rite of Imperial Ascendancy fall to me. The protective barriers alone require-"
"The Rite," Bartholomew interrupted, his eyes suddenly gleaming, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. "Mother, wouldn't the festivities before the duel provide a perfect opportunity?"
Camilla raised an elegant eyebrow. "Oh?"
"It's traditional to have exhibition matches before the main event, is it not? To entertain the crowds?" A cruel smile spread across Bartholomew's face. "What if I were to challenge my dear brother to a friendly bout?"
The Empress's lips curved into a matching smile. "Ah, I see. A public demonstration of the difference between true imperial blood and... lesser stock."
"Exactly," Bartholomew's voice was thick with anticipation. "I would only humiliate him a little. Just enough to remind everyone of his proper place."
"It would be completely appropriate," Camilla mused, her tone deceptively light. "After all, what could be more natural than brothers engaging in a friendly match? And if the bastard's incompetence is exposed before the entire empire... well, that's hardly your fault, is it?"
She rose gracefully, moving to a cupboard filled with delicate crystal bottles. From these, she selected one containing a shimmering liquid that seemed to absorb and twist the light around it - an enhancement potion of her own creation, designed to temporarily boost aura manifestation beyond safe limits. In the hands of someone like Bartholomew, it would make him look impressive and particularly dangerous before all who watched the duel.
"The preliminary festivities begin in three days," she said, examining the volatile concoction. "That should give you plenty of time to prepare a suitable demonstration of the difference between true nobility and common blood." She handed him the bottle, which felt unnaturally cold to the touch. "Use it wisely. The effects last only minutes, but that should be more than enough time."
"Thank you, Mother," Bartholomew said, bowing deeply. "I won't disappoint you."
As he turned to leave, Camilla's voice stopped him. "Oh, and Bartholomew? Do try to keep the permanent damage... minimal. We wouldn't want to upset your father unnecessarily."
Bartholomew's smile was all teeth. "Of course, Mother. Just enough to teach him his place."
After her son had gone, Empress Camilla returned to her magical diagrams. Everything was proceeding according to plan. Soon, House Draconus would be dealt with, and then... well, there would be time enough to properly address the matter of her husband's bastard.
She hummed softly to herself as she worked, the sound flowing in harmony with the subtle crackle of magic that filled the air. In three days, the empire would be reminded of the proper order of things. And this time, there would be no interfering Grand Mage to protect the boy.