Diana sat in the grand reception hall of the Empress's palace, waiting.
The morning sun streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows over the polished marble floor. A tea set rested on the low table before her, steam rising from the delicate porcelain cup. The scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the air, sweet yet sharp.
The noble faction's representative was late.
Diana's lips curled slightly.
She wasn't surprised.
Viscount Gerald Martein was a man of calculation. He was neither an ally nor an enemy—just a fat, greedy noble who had spent years slowly siphoning funds from the Empress's treasury. Not enough to cause alarm. Not enough to raise suspicion. Just a little here, a little there. A missing gold bar. An overpriced contract. A tax exemption that shouldn't exist.
It had gone unnoticed before.
But not anymore.
Diana had spent the last night reviewing financial records, tracing the missing wealth. There was a pattern—small, careful thefts disguised as routine expenses. And at the center of it all was Martein.
A lesser Empress might have exposed him immediately. Might have made a spectacle of his crimes, had him dragged before the court in disgrace.
But Diana wasn't a fool.
The noble faction was a collection of old bloodlines and greedy merchants. They did not swear loyalty to the Emperor or to the Queen. They followed wealth. Influence. Opportunity.
Martein was just a symptom of the disease.
Eliminating him wouldn't solve the problem.
But controlling him? That was an opportunity.
A polite knock on the door broke her thoughts.
"Your Majesty," a servant announced, "Viscount Martein has arrived."
Diana set down her tea and straightened her posture. "Send him in."
The doors opened, and a round man waddled into the room, his expensive silk robe stretching across his bloated stomach. Rings adorned his fingers, each one a sign of his ill-gotten wealth. He bowed deeply, though Diana noticed he struggled to rise again.
"Your Majesty," Martein greeted, a carefully practiced smile on his lips. "It is an honor."
Diana studied him, silent.
He had come alone, without attendants. That meant he was nervous. Good.
"Viscount Martein," she said smoothly. "You requested an audience. I assume it is important."
Martein hesitated, dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief. "W-Well, yes, Your Majesty. There have been… troubling rumors."
"Rumors?" Diana arched an eyebrow.
Martein forced a chuckle. "About Your Majesty's sudden interest in financial matters. The noble faction is… concerned."
Diana let the silence stretch.
Martein squirmed under her gaze. "Of course," he added hastily, "we only wish to ensure that the Empress's esteemed position remains secure. Such sudden changes may cause unrest among the court—"
Diana leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. "You're worried about your pockets, Viscount."
Martein paled. "I—I would never—"
She cut him off with a small smile. "You've been embezzling from the Empress's treasury for years."
The blood drained from his face.
Diana watched him struggle for words, watched his fingers twitch as if he wanted to reach for the nonexistent sword at his waist. He was ready to beg, to deny, to plead for mercy.
But she didn't give him the chance.
She picked up a small pouch from the table and tossed it toward him. It landed with a soft clink. Gold.
Martein stared at it in disbelief. "…Your Majesty?"
Diana's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I am not here to punish you, Viscount. I am here to make a deal."
His breath hitched. "A… deal?"
"You are a greedy man," Diana said calmly. "And greedy men are predictable. The noble faction does not care for loyalty. It cares for profit. I can give you that."
Martein swallowed hard. His fingers twitched toward the pouch, but he didn't dare pick it up yet. "And… in return?"
Diana's gaze turned sharp. "Information."
Martein blinked. "I—"
"You hear things," Diana continued. "You know which nobles are scheming, which merchants are cheating their contracts, which generals are looking for war. I want all of it."
Martein licked his lips. "If the Emperor—"
"The Emperor has no use for you," Diana said smoothly. "I do."
He flinched.
Silence hung between them.
Then, cautiously, Martein reached for the pouch. He weighed it in his palm, the gold heavy and real. A test. A taste.
Slowly, a new expression crept onto his face.
Not fear.
Greed.
"…Very well, Your Majesty," he murmured. He bowed deeply, this time with true respect. "You have my loyalty."
Diana smiled.
Loyalty bought with gold was temporary.
But that was fine.
Temporary loyalty was still useful.
Martein left soon after, walking briskly, no longer sweating. Diana watched the door close behind him, her expression unreadable.
Elise, who had been standing in the shadows, let out a quiet laugh. "He fell for it."
Diana exhaled. "Of course he did. He thinks he won."
Elise smirked. "And when he realizes you control him completely?"
Diana took another sip of tea.
"By then, it'll be too late."
*****
Lucien gripped his quill tightly, his small fingers trembling slightly as he copied the letters onto the parchment. The ink smudged in places, his strokes uneven, but he tried his best to stay neat. His other hand rested on the desk, the sleeve of his fine tunic barely concealing the fresh bruises forming along his wrist.
He didn't cry.
Crying would only make it worse.
The classroom was cold despite the warm sunlight filtering through the tall windows. Heavy bookshelves lined the walls, filled with thick tomes and scrolls too large for his small hands to carry.
At the head of the room, seated at a long oak desk, was Instructor Levit—a stern, aging man with a narrow face and a permanent scowl. His dark robes swayed as he paced behind Lucien's seat, his sharp eyes watching every movement.
Lucien forced himself to write faster. If he was too slow, the instructor would—
A sharp rap landed against his shoulder. The sudden sting made him flinch, but he didn't make a sound.
"Too slow," Levit snapped, his voice cold and disapproving. "Again."
Lucien swallowed and tried again, rewriting the same sentence with shaking hands.
His wrist throbbed.
His arms ached.
But he didn't stop.
"Pathetic."
Levit's voice dripped with disdain.
"Your posture is sloppy. Your strokes are uneven. Do you even have a brain in that little head of yours?"
Lucien bit his lip, keeping his eyes down.
"Speak, boy," Levit said sharply. "Or has your stupidity stolen your tongue as well?"
"...I'm sorry, Instructor," Lucien murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Sorry?" Levit scoffed. "You should be. You are the Imperial Prince, yet you write like a common street brat. Even your half-brother at your age could recite entire passages from the Holy Scriptures. And you can barely hold a quill properly."
Lucien squeezed his hands into fists. He already knew that.
He already knew he wasn't as smart as Roan.
He already knew he wasn't as strong as Elysian.
He already knew.
"Do you think your mother's favor will save you?" Levit sneered. "It will not. The Emperor does not need a weak heir. If you do not improve, you will become nothing more than a useless ornament in this palace. Do you understand?"
Lucien nodded quickly. "Y-Yes, Instructor."
"Then stop wasting my time."
The next few minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sound of scratching quills and rustling papers. Lucien's vision blurred slightly, his arms shaking from exhaustion, but he didn't dare stop.
The pain didn't matter.
The words didn't matter.
He just had to endure.
"Prince Lucien."
Lucien jumped at the sudden call of his name.
Levit was watching him closely, his cold eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"Recite the passage we studied yesterday," the instructor ordered.
Lucien's throat tightened.
He tried to remember. He really did. But the words were all tangled up in his head. The moment he reached for them, they slipped away like water through his fingers.
"I…" He hesitated, gripping his tunic tightly. "T-The first line is…"
A sharp crack echoed through the room as Levit's cane struck the desk beside Lucien's hand.
Lucien flinched violently.
"Wrong," Levit said, his voice a low growl. "Again."
Lucien's chest tightened. He lowered his head, his small fingers curling against his lap.
"You are the son of an Emperor," Levit hissed. "Yet you can't even recall a single passage? You are a disgrace, Prince Lucien. A weak, pathetic little disgrace."
Lucien's breath hitched.
It hurt.
Not just his arms. Not just his shoulders.
Everything hurt.
But he still didn't cry.
Crying wouldn't change anything.
Crying wouldn't make his father look at him.
Crying wouldn't make his brothers stop sneering at him.
Crying wouldn't make his mother love him more.
So he didn't cry.
Instead, he forced himself to speak.
"I—I'll do better, Instructor," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I p-promise."
Levit scoffed. "Promises are empty words from weaklings. But we shall see, won't we?"
Lucien swallowed his fear and tried again, forcing himself to remember the passage, forcing himself to endure.
Forcing himself to be strong.
Because if he wasn't…
If he wasn't…
Then what was the point of him being here at all?