Later that day, in the council chamber of Veridion, tension hung thick in the air. The long wooden table was cluttered with maps, reports, and untouched goblets of wine. King Edric Valenholt sat at the head, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles as they debated war strategy.
Duke Lucien D'Aragon—the Crimson-Eyed Beast— stood apart from the murmuring men, his presence alone commanding attention.
His title was no exaggeration. It was a legend.
But it was not just his eye that had earned him his name.
He had turned the tide of war at Verranor, where his army had faced certain defeat and was outnumbered, and surrounded. Yet when Lucien entered the fray, his gaze burning like an omen of death, everything changed.
He cut through enemy lines like a force of nature—too fast,unstoppable. Where he passed, only corpses remained. The golden fields of Verranor had drowned in red, the rain unable to wash away the bloodstains.
From that day forward, he was no longer just Duke Lucien D'Aragon. He was the Crimson-Eyed Beast.
Now, years later, he stood in the council chamber, listening to men who had never held a sword argue over warlike merchants debating trade.
"We should reinforce the eastern border," one noble suggested. "It is the weakest point."
Another scoffed. "And leave the west exposed? If the enemy strikes there, we'll be overrun!"
Lucien exhaled sharply. "Enough." His voice was calm, but the weight behind it silenced the room. All eyes turned to him.
"The enemy is waiting for us to hesitate," he said, stepping forward. "They have already tested our defenses in the west. They will strike there again."
He moved his gloved hand over the map. "We move first. Reinforce the western border before they expect it. We dictate the pace of this war, not them."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some nodded in agreement; others hesitated, weighing his words.
King Edric studied the map, considering. Finally, he nodded. "We move at dawn."
Lucien inclined his head, satisfied. The decision was made.
As the council shifted to discuss logistics, Prince Alaric finally spoke—not to challenge, not to argue, but in a smooth, measured tone. "An excellent strategy, Duke Lucien," he said, a polite smile curving his lips. "A bold move indeed. I only hope our enemies will not anticipate it as well."
Lucien met his gaze. There was nothing in Alaric's expression to oppose. No disapproval, no open dissent. Only that same careful diplomacy, that same unreadable charm.
A lesser man might have ignored it. But Lucien had seen men die with that same empty smile.
The meeting continued, the nobles preparing for the next steps. Yet as the chamber filled with plans and discussions, Lucien knew—some battles were fought with steel. Others, in shadows.
After the council meeting ended, the chamber slowly emptied of its boisterous voices and lingering tension. In the quiet corridors of Veridion's palace, Prince Alaric beckoned Duke Lucien with a subtle nod and a slight smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Later, in the private confines of Alaric's richly appointed chamber, the atmosphere was markedly different—calmer, yet laden with unspoken intent. Soft candlelight danced across ornate tapestries, and the air carried a hint of spiced wine.
"Duke Lucien," Alaric began his tone smooth and measured as he gestured for Lucien to sit. "Your strategy earlier was impressive, as always. But there are details I'd like to understand better."
Lucien, still the picture of composed authority, settled into a carved chair. "Of course, Your Highness. I am at your disposal."
Alaric leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. "Our Western defenses—your insistence on reinforcing them first—implies you have insights that we have yet to see in full. Tell me, what do you know of our enemy's next move?"
Lucien studied the prince for a long moment. "I have observed their patterns. They test our boundaries, probing for hesitation. I expect another strike where our defenses are weakest."
A shadow flickered across Alaric's face, barely noticeable beneath his polished veneer. "And are you certain that our plans are foolproof?" he pressed softly, his words laced with an undercurrent that hinted at deeper doubts.
Lucien's crimson eye, steady as ever, met Alaric's gaze without flinching. "Confidence is built on preparedness, Your Highness. I assure you, our strategy will hold."
Alaric's smile remained polite, but his eyes betrayed a different thought—a calculation. "I hope so, for all our sakes. The cost of failure would be… unacceptable." His voice dropped almost imperceptibly as if sharing a secret. "You must understand, Lucien, that while we present a united front, there are forces within this court who prefer… alternative outcomes."
Lucien inclined his head slowly, the faintest hint of caution in his tone. "I am well aware that not all share our vision for Veridion. Rest assured, my plans are made with every contingency in mind."
The prince paused, his gaze shifting as if weighing his next words carefully. "I appreciate your dedication, Duke. I only seek clarity—nothing more. We must ensure that our war is fought not on whims but on certainty." His tone was soft, yet every syllable carried a subtle weight of challenge.
Lucien's expression remained unreadable. "Then you have my full cooperation," he replied evenly. "I trust that the king's will guides us both."
For a moment, silence fell between them. The flicker of candlelight and the rustle of fine fabrics were the only sounds. Alaric finally rose, his smile polite but his eyes calculating. "Very well, Duke Lucien. I look forward to seeing our plans put into motion at dawn. May our course be as clear as your strategy."
As Lucien departed, the prince's smile faded into a thoughtful frown. In that quiet chamber, beneath the cordial words and the formal courtesy, Alaric's mind was already scheming—seeking an edge, a weakness in Lucien's bold stance that he could exploit when the time was right.
He preferred the shadows.
The sun had dipped low by the time Duke Lucien returned to his estate. The moment he stepped inside, his butler, Aldric, was already waiting near the door with a look that was far too grim for someone about to deliver such chaotic news.
"My lord," Aldric said with a subtle bow. "A message arrived while you were away. Lady Evelyne will be arriving shortly."
Lucien paused, one brow arching slowly. "…Evelyne?"
"Yes, Your Grace. She insists this is merely a 'surprise visit.'"
Lucien sighed. "Which means she's planning something."
"She also asked if the rose garden was still intact and whether the kitchen had enough cream puffs," Aldric added without blinking.
Lucien muttered under his breath, then turned to the nearest footman. "Warn the staff. Brace yourselves. And tell the knights to remove their armor—if they value their lives, they'll learn to hold teacups without crushing them."
The butler cleared his throat. "Shall I prepare a formal welcome?"
"No.
Because Lady Evelyne D'Aragon wasn't just his cousin—she was a whirlwind of sugar-laced chaos wrapped in silks and smiles. She could command a tea party with the same ferocity others led troops into battle. And she had a talent for dragging the most hardened warriors into childlike games with absolutely no regard for rank or dignity.
By the time her carriage rolled through the gates, the estate was in a mild state of panic. Guards were hiding, maids whispering, and Lucien—well, Lucien was mentally bracing for impact.
Because when Evelyne arrived, it was never quiet. And no one, not even the Crimson-Eyed Beast, was safe from her brand of mischief.
The moment the carriage wheels touched the stone courtyard, the estate felt it—an energy shift, as if the very walls braced themselves for what was to come.
Lucien stood at the front steps, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His cape rustled gently in the evening breeze, but otherwise, he didn't move.
The carriage door flung open before the footman could even reach it.
Out leaped Lady Evelyne D'Aragon in a swirl of pastel skirts, lace, and uncontainable enthusiasm. She looked like springtime had exploded into noble form—fluttery, dramatic, and entirely too loud for the grim estate of Veridion's most feared duke.
"Lucien!" she squealed, dashing forward and nearly tripping over her ruffles. "I've missed you terribly, you cold-hearted brute!"
Lucien stepped slightly to the side just in time for her to miss colliding with him head-on. She threw her arms around him anyway.
"You didn't send a letter," he said, voice flat.
"I wanted it to be a surprise!"
"It was."
"I knew it!" she beamed, releasing him and spinning in a slow circle to admire the estate. "Ugh, everything's still so…gloomy. Perfect! My tea set will shine like a jewel against all this emotional damage."
Behind her, the footmen tried to carry down trunks that looked far too heavy for how easily she'd packed them. One of them groaned under the weight of a box labeled in delicate cursive: "Emergency Tea Party Supplies – Do Not Crush."
Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. "You didn't warn me because you knew I'd leave the country."
Evelyne winked. "Exactly."
She turned suddenly, hands on her hips. "Now then! I expect pastries within the hour, and I will be holding a very urgent tea party by the fountain. Everyone is invited. No excuses.
Lucien looked to Aldric.
Aldric looked to the heavens.
"Welcome home, my lady," the butler murmured.
Evelyne grinned. "Let the chaos begin!"
After her dramatic declaration, Evelyne marched off in the direction of the gardens, a trail of confused servants and teacups in her wake. Lucien stood motionless in the entry hall for a moment, expression unreadable.
Then he sighed, turned, and muttered, "To the study. Before she finds the wine cellar."
Inside his office, the world was quiet again—just the soft scratch of a pen and the rustle of parchment. Maps, letters, and sealed reports lay scattered across his desk, the aftermath of council meetings and looming war decisions. Lucien had just begun drafting a letter to General Vexlar when a familiar knock—too cheerful to be anyone else—rapped at the door.
He didn't even look up. "No."
The door creaked open anyway.
Evelyne poked her head in, eyes wide with innocence. "You don't even know what I'm going to ask."
"You're going to ask if I'm attending the masked banquet."
Her smile widened. "And?"
Lucien slammed the pen down with more force than necessary. "I'm not going. I never go to those ridiculous functions."
Evelyne strolled in like she hadn't just caused his blood pressure to spike. "But this year's will be delightful. Intrigue, gossip, delicious desserts. You love desserts."
"I love silence," Lucien growled. "And solitude. And not being dragged into overcrowded rooms full of simpering nobles who can't tell the difference between a military strategy and a dinner menu."
She perched on the arm of a leather chair, swinging her feet like a child. "You're going."
"I am not going."
"Oh, but you are," she said sweetly. "The king insisted. It's half-political, half-social—his exact words. Your presence is not only requested, it's expected."
Lucien stared at her. "You spoke to the king?"
She blinked innocently. "I speak to many people. I'm charming."
He pinched the bridge of his nose for the second time that day.
"Wear something dark," she added, hopping off the chair and skipping toward the door. "You'll blend in. Or don't—make a scene. Either way, I'll be watching."
"Gods help me," Lucien muttered.
From down the hall, her voice floated back: "Don't be late!"