The news reached Lucian at dawn: General Corvain was returning to the capital.
Riding hard. Urgent. As if hell itself pursued him.
Lucian’s blood turned to ice.
His father had been dead less than a month. The funeral rites barely completed. The crown still felt foreign on Lucian’s head, the throne still too large beneath him. And now the Undefeated General was racing back to the capital with an urgency that spoke of purpose, of intention, of—
“Your Majesty.” Captain Varen stood in the doorway, his face tight with concern. “The General will arrive within hours. Should we prepare the guard? Fortify the palace?”
Lucian’s mind raced. The General had been at the northern border when his father died. Three weeks away. He should have sent condolences, should have waited for permission to return, should have—
But instead he was riding back as if racing against time itself. Why? What was so urgent that he couldn’t wait for a formal summons?
Unless he wasn’t planning to wait for permission at all.
“Arrest him,” Lucian heard himself say.
Varen blinked. “Your Majesty?”
“When the General arrives, arrest him. Take his weapons, his armor. Hold him in the lower cells.” Lucian’s voice was steadier than he felt. “Do it quickly, before he can organize any resistance.”
“But, Your Majesty—”
“That’s an order, Captain.”
Varen hesitated, then bowed. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
After he left, Lucian stood alone in the throne room, his heart hammering.
He’d just ordered the arrest of the realm’s greatest general. The man who’d served his grandfather, his father, who’d held the borders for eighteen years. The man the army loved more than any Emperor.
But what choice did he have? The General was riding back with desperate urgency. The nobles were already whispering, already questioning whether the second son could really hold the throne. Already wondering if perhaps someone stronger, someone more capable, someone who’d actually proven himself…
Lucian had seen this coming from the moment his father died. Had known the General would be a problem. How could he not be? The legendary warrior, the brilliant strategist, the man who commanded absolute loyalty—of course he’d move to take the throne now, while Lucian was still vulnerable, still untested.
Better to act first. Better to remove the threat before it could materialize.
Even if his hands were shaking. Even if something in his chest felt wrong about this.
Hours later, Captain Varen returned.
“It’s done, Your Majesty. The General is in custody.”
“Did he resist?”
A pause. “No, Your Majesty. He… he surrendered his weapons without protest. Allowed himself to be taken. Even now, he hasn’t demanded to speak with you, hasn’t claimed any rights or privileges. He just… accepted it.”
Something cold settled in Lucian’s stomach. “I see. Thank you, Captain. That will be all.”
But after Varen left, Lucian couldn’t settle. Couldn’t focus on the documents waiting for his attention, couldn’t think about anything except the man now sitting in a cell beneath the palace.
The man who hadn’t resisted.
Why hadn’t he resisted? If he’d come to seize the throne, why surrender so easily? Why allow himself to be arrested without even a protest?
As evening fell, Lucian found himself descending the stairs to the lower cells. He told himself he was going to confront the General, to demand answers, to understand what plot was being hatched.
But truthfully, he didn’t know why he was going. Only that he had to see for himself.
The cells were cold, damp, lit by flickering torches. The guards snapped to attention when they saw him, but Lucian waved them away.
“Leave us. I’ll call if I need you.”
They hesitated, but obeyed.
Lucian walked down the corridor until he reached the last cell. And there, sitting on the narrow bench, was General Matthias Corvain.
Except he didn’t look like the Undefeated General.
He looked like a man.
No armor. No weapons. Just the plain, dirty undertunic he’d been wearing beneath his traveling clothes. His face was streaked with road dust, his hair crushed flat from his helmet, sweat-stained and disheveled. His hands—hands that had wielded swords for eighteen years—rested quietly on his knees.
He looked exhausted. He looked… ordinary.
When he saw Lucian, he immediately stood and bowed. The formal bow of a subject to his Emperor, held for the proper length of time before straightening.
When he met Lucian’s eyes, his face was calm. No anger. No fury. No defiance.
Just quiet acceptance.
They stared at each other in silence. Lucian found he couldn’t speak, couldn’t form the accusations he’d been preparing all day.
Finally, the General spoke. His voice was rough, hoarse from travel.
“When will my execution be, Your Majesty?”
Lucian stared at him, shocked into stillness.
The silence stretched. Lucian’s mind had gone completely blank.
The General’s expression didn’t change, but after a moment, he spoke again. Softer this time. Almost pleading.
“Please, Your Majesty. I won’t resist. I just… I would like to know if this is my last night.”
His gaze drifted to the narrow window high in the cell wall, where moonlight barely filtered through. As if he wanted to see it one more time. As if he was memorizing it.
“I…” Lucian’s voice came out strangled. “I haven’t… I didn’t…”
He hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t planned beyond the arrest. Had acted out of fear and panic and the desperate need to protect himself from a threat he was certain existed.
And now he was staring at the Undefeated General—covered in road dust, wearing a dirty tunic, standing in a cell—and all he could see was a man who’d accepted his death with the same quiet dignity he’d shown when he’d knelt on the palace steps to swear loyalty to Lucian’s father twenty years ago.
A man who wasn’t demanding anything. Wasn’t even asking to know why. Just asking if tonight was his last.
“Why?” Lucian finally managed. “Why do you think I would execute you?”
The General lowered his head slightly, not quite meeting Lucian’s eyes anymore.
“I know you have always hated me, Your Majesty. I know I was always better than you at everything—at fighting, at strategy, at winning your father’s approval. I know that my existence has been a shadow over you your entire life.”
The words were matter-of-fact, not cruel. Just stated as simple truth.
“I also know,” he continued quietly, “that the nobles are whispering of rebellion. That they speak my name as an alternative to the throne. That my mere existence gives them hope that they can overthrow you and install someone they consider more… worthy.”
He lifted his gaze back to Lucian’s.
“I understand that my death satisfies your anger and protects the realm. When I swore to serve the Emperor, to serve the realm, I swore I would give my life for it. I always knew this day would come. I just… I didn’t expect it would be by the headsman’s axe rather than on a battlefield.”
His voice was so calm. So accepting. As if he’d already made peace with it.
“I only ask,” he said again, even softer, “if tonight is my last. So I can prepare myself. Make my peace.”
Lucian stared at him. Stared at this man who’d spent eighteen years defending the realm, who’d won every battle, who’d been loyal to three Emperors without question or hesitation. This man who thought Lucian hated him. Who believed his death was inevitable and just.
Who was standing in a dirty cell, asking only to know when he would die, so he could spend his last hours looking at the moon.
Lucian closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly. Then opened them and walked to the wall where the cell keys hung.
The General took a step back, clearly expecting Lucian to enter the cell. Perhaps to do it himself. Perhaps to—
But Lucian took the key, unlocked the cell door, and pulled it open. Then he stepped back.
“Come out, General.”
They looked at each other. Lucian slightly stressed, his hand still on the door. The General completely confused, not moving.
“Do you know,” Lucian said into the silence, “what people were saying when you rode back into the capital as if hell itself was chasing you?”
The General frowned slightly. “That I was coming to serve my Emperor?” he asked, uncertainty clear in his voice.
Lucian let out a long breath. “No, General. That was not the impression you gave. Rather, it looked like you were coming to kill me.”
The General recoiled as if struck. “Never, Your Majesty. I would never—”
“Yes,” Lucian interrupted. “I realize that now.”
He gestured again at the open door. “Go to your chambers. Rest. Clean yourself. And tomorrow, you can come to the audience hall and swear your loyalty to me formally. As is proper. As you should have been able to do from the start, if I hadn’t…” He paused. “If I hadn’t panicked and had you arrested like a criminal.”
The General didn’t move immediately. He seemed frozen, trying to process what was happening.
“Your Majesty, I don’t understand—”
“I know you don’t,” Lucian said, and there was something almost like exasperation in his voice now. “Just… go, General. Please. Before I change my mind and feel even more foolish than I already do.”
Slowly, carefully, the General stepped out of the cell. He and Lucian stood there in the narrow corridor, the Emperor and the General, both of them unsure what happened next.
Finally, Lucian turned and began walking back toward the stairs. After a moment, the General followed.
They walked in silence through the palace. Guards stared but said nothing as the Emperor and the newly-released prisoner passed by. Servants stopped and bowed. Courtiers whispered behind their hands.
Lucian led the way until they reached the wing where the General’s chambers had always been—maintained for him even during his long years at the border, ready for whenever he might return.
“These are still yours,” Lucian said quietly. “They always were. Tomorrow morning, after you’ve rested, come to the throne room. We’ll do this properly.”
The General looked at him, still clearly confused, still trying to understand. “Your Majesty… I truly didn’t… I wasn’t coming to…”
“I know,” Lucian said. He did know now. Looking at this man—exhausted, dirty, standing in a cell waiting calmly for death because he thought it was his duty—Lucian knew he’d been wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.
“Rest, General,” he said again. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He turned to leave, then paused and looked back.
“And General? Next time you need to return to the capital urgently… perhaps send a messenger ahead explaining why. It would save us both a great deal of trouble.”
The General’s lips twitched slightly. Almost a smile. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll remember that.”
Back in his private chambers, Lucian poured himself wine with shaking hands. He drank half the glass in one swallow, then refilled it and walked to the window.
Out there, in chambers not far away, the Undefeated General was finally getting the rest he clearly desperately needed. The man who’d ridden for days—weeks—to get back to the capital. Who’d surrendered without resistance when arrested. Who’d sat in a cell asking only to know if he’d see another sunrise.
Who thought Lucian hated him. Who believed his death would be just.
Who hadn’t come to seize the throne at all.
Lucian shook his head, took another drink.
A military genius the General might be. Brilliant in strategy, undefeated in battle, legendary in his ability to outthink any enemy.
But when it came to politics? When it came to understanding how his actions might be perceived? When it came to basic common sense about not racing back to the capital immediately after the Emperor’s death like he was planning a coup?
The man was an absolute idiot.
Lucian laughed—a short, slightly hysterical sound. He’d arrested the realm’s greatest general because the man hadn’t bothered to send word ahead that he was coming to pledge his loyalty. Had been prepared to believe the worst because it had never occurred to Matthias Corvain that riding back with desperate urgency might be interpreted as anything other than devotion to duty.
An idiot. A brilliant, loyal, absolutely politically tone-deaf idiot.
And tomorrow, Lucian would have to stand in the throne room and accept his oath of loyalty as if he hadn’t just imprisoned him without cause. Would have to find a way to explain to the court why the General had been arrested and then released within hours.
Would have to somehow salvage this disaster and make it clear that he trusted his father’s greatest general, that there was no rift between them, that the realm was stable and secure.
Lucian drained his wine glass and set it down.
It was going to be a very long day tomorrow.
But at least—at least—he hadn’t executed an innocent man out of fear and paranoia. Hadn’t killed the one person who might actually be able to help him hold this realm together.
That was something.
He looked out at the moon—the same moon the General had been gazing at through his cell window, thinking it might be his last.
“You’re an idiot, General,” Lucian murmured to the night. “But at least you’re a loyal idiot. I suppose I should be grateful for that.”
Tomorrow, they would do this properly. Tomorrow, the General would kneel and swear his oath, and Lucian would accept it, and they would begin the work of ruling this realm together—Emperor and General, exactly as it was meant to be.
But tonight, Lucian allowed himself a moment to feel the full weight of how badly he’d almost failed. How close he’d come to making a catastrophic mistake out of fear.
How much he still had to learn about being an Emperor.
The wine was gone. The moon was high. And somewhere in the palace, a general slept, still alive, still loyal, still utterly oblivious to how much danger he’d been in.
Lucian shook his head one more time and finally turned away from the window.
Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.
Because he wasn’t sure he could survive many more days like this one.