The summons came at the worst possible moment.
Lan stood shirtless before his chamber's fractured mirror, obsidianblack fingers tracing the new scars that latticeworked his torso—some from the lash, others from the sutra's unforgiving awakening.
The dark qi had settled into his left arm like ink dropped in water, staining him from fingertips to shoulder in swirling patterns that pulsed faintly when he called upon them.
Then the pounding at his door.
"His Majesty demands your presence by first light."
"Understood" Lan smirked at his reflection.
———
Morning came
The throne room stank of perfume and panic.
Lan entered to find the entire royal council assembled, their jeweled robes and carefully arranged faces doing little to hide their unease. At the center of it all sat King Aldric, his crown gleaming under the chandeliers, his expression carved from ice.
And at the foot of the dais—
Tailors.
A dozen of them, their arms laden with bolts of fabric in imperial black and silver. Master Tuvell stood foremost, his measuring tape coiled around his neck.
"Ah," Lan murmured, stepping into the light. "I see we're skipping the pretense of choice."
The king's jaw tightened. "You will be fitted. Here. Now. Where the council can ensure you don't disgrace us."
Lan spread his arms, the now barely visible markings on his left side catching the light. "By all means."
The tailors descended like they were vultures.
Pins pricked Lan's skin as the tailors worked, their hands trembling whenever they brushed his corrupted arm. He stood motionless, enduring their touches with detached amusement, watching the council's reactions over their bent heads.
Duke Veyl looked ready to spit venom. His son's killer, standing unpunished, being draped in imperial colors—it was more than the old wolf could bear.
"Your Majesty," the duke seethed, "this is madness. The princess doesn't want him there as a guest—she wants a jester. A weakling to contrast her chosen warriors."
Councilor Braynt nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering. "Imagine the humiliation when he fails some imperial test. When he proves Solaris breeds nothing but—"
"Nothing but what?" Lan interrupted mildly.
The room stilled.
Braynt's face purpled. "You dare—"
"I dare ask what you were about to say, Councilor." Lan tilted his head, the motion making a tailor yelp as a pin scraped his neck. "Nothing but...?"
King Aldric slammed his scepter down. "Enough! You stand there with no remorse, after nearly getting yourself killed provoking the imperial princess, and you have the gall to—"
"Provoke?" Lan chuckled. "She put a dagger to my throat, Father. I merely reminded her that even princesses must occasionally mind their manners."
A shocked inhale from the court.
Duke Veyl surged forward. "You see? This arrogance will get us all killed! He's not fit to—"
"Not fit to what, Your Grace?" Lan's voice dropped, the shadows in the room deepening subtly. "Not fit to stand where you think your son should have? Not fit to survive what Gareth couldn't?"
The duke recoiled as if struck.
Lan turned back to the king, ignoring the tailor now frantically measuring his shoulders. "You fear embarrassment? I'll make you a promise, Father. When I return from that banquet, the only ones humiliated will be those who doubted their prince."
Silence.
Then—
A soft clink.
One of the silver measuring tools slipped from a tailor's grip, hitting the marble floor. The sound seemed to break whatever spell had gripped the room.
King Aldric exhaled slowly. "Six days left," he said at last. "Prove me wrong."
Lan smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
"Oh," he murmured, "I intend to."
The fitting concluded with glacial politeness. The tailers fled as soon as they were dismissed. The council dispersed in muttered clusters, shooting glances at Lan like he'd grown a second head.
Only Duke Veyl remained, blocking Lan's path at the doors.
"You think yourself clever," the duke hissed, his breath reeking of wine and rage. "But I've sent word to certain... friends manning the roads to the imperial city. They'll ensure you don't return."
The prince could have punished his audacity then and there, plotting to kill a prince and even admitting to it, if it were any other prince that was grounds enough to join his son.
But then—
Lan considered him. Considered the grief and fury twisting the old warrior's face. Considered how much more rewarding it would be to bring the duke an end more agonizing than a simple beheading.
So instead, he leaned close.
"Tell me, Your Grace," he whispered. "Does your wife still visit Gareth's grave at midnight? Does she still whisper how much she misses him?"
The duke froze.
Lan stepped around him. "Give her my regards."
Lan had barely reached the corridor when the whispers started.
"Since when does he speak like that?"
"Did you see his arm?"
"It's like that's not the prince we knew."
He blinked, flexing his fingers. No. He wasn't.
And soon—
Very soon—
The entire empire would learn the difference.
———
Soon, night fell again.
Lan slipped through the palace corridors quiet and unnoticed. The moon rose a pale yellow over Rehon Forest as he reached the tree line, where the air smelled of pine and something metallic.
He needed to test his progress.
This was the perfect place for that.
A twig snapped.
Lan froze.
Between the gnarled oaks, something moved—a hulking, wolf-like shape with too many joints in its legs. Moonlight glinted off its saliva-coated fangs as it sniffed the air, its nostrils flaring at Lan's scent.
Then its head snapped up.
A wolf? Not quite.
But close.
The creature's eyes burned with unnatural violet fire, its matted fur giving way to patches of glistening scales along its spine. It crouched, haunches trembling with premised violence.
Lan's eyes narrowed as he raised a hand.
The beast charged—