Chapter 22: Drake

While Fenric was living his simple life someone was living a total different life. In a lavish mansion that had once echoed with laughter, flirtation, and excess, silence now reigned. Prince Drake—once the empire’s most flamboyant and notorious royal—sat slouched in a velvet chair, his once-pristine tunic wrinkled and partially unbuttoned. A goblet of wine slipped from his fingers and shattered across the marble floor, staining it crimson. "Useless," he spat, flinging another empty bottle across the room. It hit a polished statue of his younger self and cracked the porcelain cheek. His golden hair, usually styled with obsessive perfection, hung in a messy curtain over his eyes. Dark circles marred his once-impeccable face. No women. No servants. No parties. No power. No freedom. "Fenric..." he growled, the name leaving his throat like venom. "You dare turn the court against me... in front of the Emperor... in front of everyone?!" He stood abruptly, knocking the chair backward, and began pacing like a caged beast. Drake clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palm. He closed his eyes—and he saw it. That cursed courtroom. The Emperor’s voice still rang in his ears, cold and absolute: "As for the Fourth Prince, he is now banned from leaving his quarters for the next ten years, and all his royal duties will fall upon the Third Prince." A pause. "And since the Third Prince is not as physically strong, the Fourth and Fifth Royal Knights will aid him." The crowd had frozen. Courtiers, ministers, generals—everyone stunned. Drake remembered how Myria Bloodrose and Roman Kaiser had stepped forward. No hesitation. No doubt. They knelt without a word of protest, as if loyalty to Fenric had been there all along, dormant beneath polished armor. "We will obey His Majesty’s orders." And that was it. His disgrace, sealed in front of the entire Imperial Court. Drake’s eyes snapped open, filled with hate. "Fucking bastard... now he’s pitied by them," he spat, pacing again. "Those two... they look down on me now. They kneel for him. Him! I can’t even kill that spineless little—" Click. The door to his private chambers opened without warning. Soft footsteps echoed in, firm yet elegant. His breath caught for a second before he turned, slowly. A tall, regal figure stepped inside—silver robes flowing like mist, face partially veiled, but unmistakable. Empress Balina. Drake’s mother. She closed the door behind her with quiet finality, her gaze cutting through the room like a sword. "What are you doing?" she asked, voice low and scolding, yet not without disappointment. Drake turned away and scoffed, not answering. But she advanced, sharp and composed, eyes narrowing. "What do you have to say now?" she continued. "You failed me. You let that Third Prince humiliate you in open court. And not only that but You’ve let them imprison you in your own mansion?" Her voice dropped, venom seeping through silk. "Ten years. Ten. Years. Do you understand what that means for our position in the court?" Drake whirled around, eyes bloodshot. "And what did you expect me to do?!" he shouted. "The Emperor cut me off! My estate is under audit! Imperial knights now serve him! You want me to fix that from inside a fucking cage?!" She didn’t flinch. She simply folded her arms and stared her son down, with the cold elegance only Empress Balian could wield. "No," she said icily. "I expected you to not underestimate your enemies. If you truly wanted to be the future Emperor, then you should’ve kept your record clean. No indulgences. No loose ends." She leaned in, her voice sharpening like a dagger. "That way, they never would’ve gotten the chance to imprison you." Those words stung harder than any lash. Drake flinched, jaw tightening with guilt—and humiliation. The Empress stepped closer, her perfume laced with roses and iron. "He will die," she whispered, her breath like frost. "In just one month. That poison was crafted by the court’s most loyal alchemists. It’s slow. Silent. Completely undetectable. Seventeen years of microdosing—every dose calculated, every symptom masked." She looked him dead in the eyes. "Even the greatest healers of the Empire wouldn’t know what’s killing him. And when the final month comes, the poison will erupt inside his body. His organs will rot, his blood will burn. And he’ll die. Quietly. Elegantly. Just as we planned." She turned toward the window, letting the fading light glint off her jeweled cuffs. "So don’t waste your time thinking about Fenric. He’s a dead man walking. And the dead don’t need revenge." Of course, neither of them knew that Fenric’s curse had already been broken. If she had known—if she realized her masterwork poison had been purged from his blood by a power no alchemist could understand—she would’ve been gobsmacked. Horrified, even. After all, the poison wasn’t some ordinary toxin—it was a generational secret of the Duchy of Ragos, her family. A concoction perfected over centuries. Used only to kill kings. And now? The one person they used it on was alive and thriving. Still ignorant of that truth, the Empress placed a hand under Drake’s chin, raising his face with an imperial gentleness that masked iron resolve. "Focus on fixing yourself. You have ten years now. And yes, that bastard Emperor may release you early—but that doesn’t matter. This is your chance. Learn the court. Master tactics. Raise your strength." Her eyes narrowed. "You are the second-weakest among all the princes and princesses. That’s not acceptable. Not if you want to inherit the throne." She let go of his face slowly, like a mother letting go of a flawed gem that still had potential. "We want a descendant of our blood sitting on that throne," she said, voice fierce with ambition. "And you are that person. So you’d better work hard." Drake nodded stiffly. But her gaze darkened. "The elders in my family... they’re watching you now. They are not pleased. I’m holding them back, keeping them in check—for your sake. But you know what will happen if I can’t anymore." Drake’s face paled. He swallowed hard, nodding faster. "Y-yes, Mother..." "Good." She turned away, walking gracefully toward the door. "So work hard. Make me proud."