Lucien's fury pulsed now—not in wild flares, but in sickening, silent waves.
The kind that scorched the ribs from the inside out.
His jaw clenched so tightly the bones groaned beneath the strain. Eyes fixed forward, but not seeing. Not truly. Just the blur of noble faces—watching. Whispering. Judging.
'He won.'
No one said it aloud.
They didn't need to.
It was in their silence.
In their refusal to meet his gaze.
In the slow, smirking poison Lucavion had poured into their wineglasses and left them to sip.
Lucien had lost his face. Before the banners. Before the bloodlines. Before the empire itself.
And what made it unbearable—unthinkable—was who had caused it.
Not a rival duke.
Not a political opponent.
Not even a rogue noble with House behind him.
But a boy.
A commoner.
'He doesn't even have a name.'
And yet he stood there—smiling still, smug and untouchable.
Lucien's vision blurred at the edges, not from power summoned, but from pure, soul-clawing indignation.
