The corridors of the palace stretched endlessly before Ryan, their opulence muted by the late hour. Moonlight filtered through tall, arched windows, casting silver streaks across the marble floors. Kaelith's bare feet padded softly beside him, her arm locked around his waist as she half-dragged, half-supported him toward the royal wing.
His blood left a faint trail behind them, a crimson thread weaving through the shadows, but neither dared pause to clean it.
"Almost there, Your Highness," Kaelith whispered, her voice tight with effort. Her warmth pressed against his side, steadying him as his vision swam.
The wound on his head throbbed, each step sending a fresh spike of pain through his skull, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward. He needed answers—and he needed strength. His mother surely had the latter, and might also have the former.
They reached a set of double doors, intricately carved with golden vines and crowned with the Armedius family crest.
Kaelith swallowed hard, then pushed the doors inward. They were locked.
Ryan knocked against it, a dull sound echoing in the corridor.
"Mother?" His voice rasped. He knocked again. Silence.
Kaelith's eyes flicked to him. He jerked his head right. They moved, her arm tight around him, down a shadowed hall, past a dragon tapestry. A small door creaked open. Candlelight danced inside, a single flame on a table. Lysandra stood by the window, violet gown catching the glow, hair spilling like ink down her back.
She turned. Amber eyes locked on him.
"Ryan." Her voice hummed, soft and deep. Two steps, and her fingers brushed his cheek, cool against his skin. Blood crusted his hair. She sank to her knees, gown fanning out, palms pressing his scalp.
A faint light flared beneath her hands. Warmth seeped in, slow at first, then steady. The ache dulled, the fog lifted. She drew back, his head clean, skin whole.
She was a Healer.
Her lips tilted up. "Better?" She rose, fingers sliding through his hair, lingering at the ends.
He nodded, breathing a deep sigh of relief. "I can finally hink straight!"
Ryan's gaze then moved to Lysandra—gown hugging her hips, pooling on the floor as she leaned back against it. He only saw that much.
Then, his body slumped in exhaustion and his eyes closed, he fell on her chest with no energy left to bear.
A smirk flickered on her face. "Look, you are all well again, just a bit tired. So, what happened?"
Kaelith shook her head. "I do not know, your majesty."
Though she looked calm, Kaelith saw a storm hidden in Lysandra's eyes.
"Kaelith." Lysandra didn't look away from her son. "Fetch water."
The girl ran away, though with a look of worry.
…
Morning.
Ryan leaned against his mother's thigh, hands wrapped around her waist. The warmth of his mother's fingers brushing against his scalp was a silent reminder of her presence. In the flickering glow of early morning and still-lit lanterns, Lysandra's gaze was unreadable—cool, assessing, and yet laced with something tender.
"You handled yourself well, even though it was luck that saved you," she murmured. "Not many would have walked away from such an attempt unscathed—body might heal easy, but mind rarely does."
"Maybe I wasn't lucky," he grumbled. "Maybe I just used my wits."
"Sure, sure, my prince."
She ruffled his hair.
Ryan smirked. "They should have sent a better assassin."
Lysandra chuckled, and the sound was warm, rich. "They didn't expect you to survive. And that arrogance is why they failed."
"Heh, my momma knows me well. So, do you have any suspects, my lady?"
She exhaled softly, almost amused. "There are three. For one, Duke Vermillion."
Ryan's fingers tapped against her thighs, memories stirring. Duke Vermillion, a man who had turned scheming into an art form, never made a move without envisioning three steps ahead.
His daughter had been put forth as a potential royal consort to Ryan many a times, a pawn meant to secure his influence in the throne's inner circle. That would also turn Ryan himself into a puppet prince. But since Lysandra rejected the proposal outright, it would have been a matter of practicality to erase Ryan entirely.
No prince, no obstacle.
Indeed, Duke Vermillion had a clear motive.
"Then?"
"House Calvert."
House Calvert's matriarch, Lady Eleanor, was an orchestrator in the truest sense. A woman who thrived in the realm of unseen power, who built empires not through steel, but through whispers and carefully placed hands. The shadow power.
If she was involved, it wasn't just about eliminating him—it was about altering the entire balance of power within the kingdom. His death wouldn't be the end of her game; it would be the opening move.
That bitch.
And indeed, in a world where superhumans existed, keeping royal power was not an easy feat.
"Why would she target me specifically, though?"
"Because you are a big fish which can be caught by a small hook. You have a high status, but you are weak, my son."
Ryan bit Lysandra's thigh.
"Ouch, stop that!" She gave a smack on his head. "I am just telling the truth."
"Who is the final suspect?" he asked.
"House Dainforth."
The most personal of the three. Lady Dainforth's eldest daughter had been persistent. Too persistent. A political match would have been beneficial to their house; a Puppet Prince would have been a great addition—and Ryan's rejection was something they had not taken lightly.
He had been quite mocking when he rejected them, too, so that was understandable.
To them, it wasn't just a refusal—it was an insult. The kind that required retribution.
He huffed. "Even if we dragged them out into the open, announce the assasination attempt, it wouldn't matter, right?"
Lysandra nodded her head slightly, watching him. "No. It wouldn't. Royals don't dirty their own hands, Ryan. You know that. Borrowed blades, whispers in the dark—no evidence sticks. Even if we shouted it from the spires, they'd just smile and cut off the borrowed hand."
The attack had been orchestrated through borrowed hands, distant blades wielded by men who did not even know the true masters they served. That was the way of noble games—every move calculated, every consequence planned for. Ryan's survival had merely been an unexpected variable.
He frowned, burying his face in her thighs, feeling gloomy. "So it's a ghost hunt. No proof, no justice. Anyone can just come and try to kill me."
She became silent.
He bit her thigh again. She caressed his hair.
"Then I just have to grow stronger," he said.
She nodded, smiling. "Indeed, what if you can't become stronger physically, political and financial power is no joke."
He bit her thighs hard this time, making her ouch in pain. "Stop that, now!"
He nodded. "Okay."