"Get up, Prince."
The blunt end of a training sword slammed into his ribs.
Lucien did not move. He didn't cry out. He didn't flinch.
Another blow, harder this time. The crack of wood on bone echoed through the courtyard.
"I said get up!"
Lucien rose slowly, lifting himself off the muddy ground with one hand. Blood trickled from his lip. His left eye was already swelling shut. The back of his shirt was torn from when they'd shoved him into the gravel.
Around him, the royal trainees snickered.
"Useless."
"Should've left him in the gutter."
"The Emperor should be embarrassed."
Lucien picked up the sword. His grip was steady.
The instructor watched with boredom. "Again."
The next strike came before he could ready his stance. The other boy's sword cracked across Lucien's shoulder, driving him back. Mud splashed his legs. He didn't even have proper boots—just thin-soled shoes handed down from some forgotten storage room.
"Too slow."
Lucien's vision blurred. His hand tightened on the hilt.
"Again," the instructor said without looking at him.
He stood. Again. And again. Until the sun dipped behind the walls and someone finally said, "Enough. He's done."
Not because they were worried.
Just because they were bored.
Lucien staggered back to the palace alone. No guards. No servants. No welcome.
No one ever waited for the fifth prince.
He slipped through the servant's hallway, soaked in sweat and dirt, barely seen.
Someone whispered, "I thought he was dead already."
He kept walking.
His quarters were at the far end of the northern wing. Cold, narrow, barely wider than a guard barrack. The only difference was the royal crest above the door. A cruel joke, really.
He entered without a sound.
The door shut behind him.
Silence.
Then, a deep sigh.
"I thought they broke your neck this time."
Lucien reached for the clasp of his shirt. His fingers moved carefully, unhooking the ruined buttons. The blood had already dried against his skin.
Behind him, a man stood with a towel draped over one arm and a basin of warm water on the table.
"Did you fight back?" the man asked.
Lucien didn't respond. He pulled off the shirt, peeling it away from the cuts. Then the undershirt. Then the wraps.
The silence shifted.
His attendant exhaled again, this time slower. "You look like you fought a bear."
Lucien's back was a map of old and fresh bruises. Scars overlapped in jagged lines—some clean, surgical. Others were ragged, burnt, or torn. A particularly ugly one ran from the base of his neck to his lower back. His ribs were bruised dark purple. His arms, corded with muscle, were littered with small burns and defensive wounds.
He looked nothing like the weak, starving prince the court saw.
This was a soldier's body. A knight's body.
Lucien was tall—too tall for most doors. His shoulders were wide. His chest, hard as armor. He was built like someone carved from war and left behind.
"Do you want the medicine?" the attendant asked after a moment.
Lucien shook his head. "I'll heal."
"Of course," the man muttered, turning to pour clean water into the basin. "You always do."
Lucien sat down. The wooden chair creaked beneath his weight.
The basin water steamed. His attendant—Weyl, the only one who stayed—knelt beside him with a cloth.
"You'll reopen the gash on your ribs if you don't sleep on your back."
Lucien didn't answer.
Weyl cleaned the wounds in silence. He didn't wince. Didn't comment. He'd seen worse. He'd treated worse. On this same body.
When he was done, he packed the supplies away and sat across from him.
"You know," Weyl said, "if you just showed that body once in public, they'd stop calling you a ghost."
Lucien opened his eyes. One glowed faintly red in the low light. "And then what?"
"They'd fear you."
"I don't want fear."
"You don't want to be mocked either," Weyl said. "But that's not working out, is it?"
Lucien didn't reply.
He reached into the drawer beside the bed. From within, he pulled out a small box.
Inside it was a hilt.
Weyl's face went blank. "You still carry that thing?"
Lucien's fingers closed around the hilt.
A whisper of cold air passed through the room.
And then—
The blade formed.
Black steel, etched with northern runes, stretched into a long, curved shape. It hummed faintly in his hand, reacting to his blood. The room's temperature dropped.
Weyl tensed, just for a second.
Lucien held the blade in his palm, staring at the faint lines of script burned into it. Old language. Forgotten by most.
Guardian's Oath.
He said nothing. Just stared at the weapon like it might one day bleed with him.
"That sword," Weyl muttered, "wasn't supposed to exist."
Lucien nodded. "She gave it to me."
Weyl didn't have to ask who.
Weyl leaned forward. "You could've come forward. Claimed her bloodline. Demanded the sword rights. The Empire can't deny a legal inheritance."
"They'd call me a bastard," Lucien said. "Call her a whore. Say I stole her blade."
"Would they be wrong?"
Lucien lifted the sword slightly. It glimmered, sharp and quiet.
"No," he said softly. "But they'd die all the same."
Weyl rubbed a hand over his face. "You really are your mother's son."
Lucien stood. "The Guardian of the North is a dead title. I don't need it."
"You're the only one left who qualifies."
Lucien walked to the window. Outside, the palace shimmered. Lights in every direction. Laughter from somewhere below. Music.
None of it reached this wing.
"I don't need titles," he said. "They can call me trash. A ghost. Useless."
He sat back down, pulled his undershirt over the bruises, slowly rewrapped his bandages.
"You know," Weyl said, his voice gentler now. "You don't have to keep doing this alone."
Lucien paused. "I do."
"No you don't."
Lucien stood again. "The Empire will never see me as anything but a cursed prince. I don't need them to understand me."
"And your brother?" Weyl asked.
Lucien's gaze darkened. "A puppet. A coward. The moment Father dies, he'll be devoured by the court."
The room fell quiet again.
Weyl turned toward the door. "You've got a summons tomorrow."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"An alliance marriage," Weyl said. "Arranged by His Majesty."
Lucien sighed. "Who's the poor fool?"
Weyl smirked. "Some useless bastard from the West."
Lucien didn't laugh.
But he did say, "Fitting."
He moved to the mirror, looking at his reflection. His hair was a mess. His jaw was bruised. His shoulders stiff. His eyes—one red, one black—looked tired.
He didn't fix any of it.
Weyl watched him silently.
Lucien's fingers brushed the old scar on his side. The one his mother gave him during their first real training. A warning.
He remembered her voice.
Never let them see the real blade.
He would keep hiding.
Until it mattered.