The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Lan was escorted to his room.

His chambers were as luxurious as one might expect for a royal guest, though Lan found himself unmoved.

Polished oak floors caught the orange light of floating mana-lamps, soft reflections were projected across a vaulted ceiling inlaid with star-metal filigree.

The walls were draped with silk banners bearing old crests embroidered in gold. A carved table of darkwood sat beneath a massive window that overlooked the Inner Palace gardens, and a bed—more of a monument than a place of rest—sat beneath a gauze canopy, its frame carved with beasts of myth.

Lan stood just inside the door, taking in the sheer wealth packed into every inch of the room.

Cassian swept in with practiced ease, his coat trailing behind him.

"You'll find the bathing chamber through that door," he said, gesturing with a casual flick of the wrist. "Wardrobe to the left. Bedding's silk from the northern highlands. Try not to bleed on it."

Lan's lips twitched. "I had a satchel," he said. "On the horse. It had my clothes for the banquet."

Cassian waved him off. "No need to worry. A retinue will be sent to prepare you. You'll look appropriately divine."

He turned, clearly about to leave.

But Lan's voice cut through the room. "Cassian."

The envoy stopped mid-step, one hand still on the handle of the door. He turned, his brow lifting slightly.

"Why?"

Cassian blinked. "You'll have to be more specific."

"You know what I mean," Lan said, stepping forward. "The Princess. All this. The sudden interest in me. The escort, the Archive, the front-row seat at a banquet that will have people more important than me. Why now?"

Cassian didn't answer.

Lan's voice lowered, sharpened. "When we first met, you told me you'd explain things in due time. Well, Cassian—this is due time."

The envoy leaned against the wall, expression unreadable. "And if I told you... it's because of a story?"

Lan blinked. "A story."

"The last book," Cassian said softly. "The one Iris spoke of. The final work of the Mad Scholar."

Lan stared at him. "You're telling me she's doing all this because of the ramblings of a six-hundred-year-old lunatic?"

Cassian smiled, slow and enigmatic. "Perhaps it's just that. Ramblings. Or perhaps it's prophecy."

"Prophecy," Lan scoffed. "You can't be serious."

"I rarely am," Cassian said, "and yet here we are." He pushed off from the wall and walked toward the window, placing a hand on the glass as he gazed out into the darkening sky. "She read that book when she was thirteen. Most of the empire thinks it's the work of a madman on the brink of death. But Iris... she saw something else."

Lan crossed his arms. "And what exactly did she see?"

Cassian didn't look at him. "A future that must manifest."

He turned then, slowly, the smile gone from his face.

"The story was stupid," he said, voice quieter now. "A sheep, raised by wolves. Beaten, mocked, forgotten. The runt of the pack. One day, when the wolves came to feed on the weak, the sheep stood up and said, 'No.'"

Lan's brow furrowed. He remained silent.

Cassian took a few slow steps toward him. "That sheep, with no fangs of its own, defied what it shouldn't have, what most believed it couldn't."

He paused, meeting Lan's gaze.

"Does that sound familiar?"

Lan's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

"When word reached Iris," Cassian continued, "that the disgraced fourth prince—long thought to be powerless—had publicly beheaded the son of Duke Vaelen, in front of an entire noble gathering, and without blinking..." He smiled faintly. "She dispatched me the same night."

Lan's voice came low. "She thought I was the sheep."

"No," Cassian corrected gently. "She thought you could be the other."

Lan blinked. "The other?"

Cassian nodded. "Yes, there are two sheeps in this long story and she is certain one is herself."

Lan laughed—a short, disbelieving sound. "Iris? A sheep? That's a good joke."

"You're not the first to say that," Cassian said. "To most, she is a wolf. Ruthless. Clever. Cold. But those who matter—the imperial court, the great houses, the ones who whisper in the ears of succession—they see her differently. They see her as a girl born from the wrong mother. The least favored. No armies. No legions. No backing."

"So?" Lan asked.

"So," Cassian said, "when the Crown eventually shatters—and it will—the true wolves will descend. And Iris, with no bloodthirsty generals, no grand alliances, no birthright stronger than theirs, will be torn apart."

He paused.

"That is... unless she builds a pack of her own."

Lan turned from him, walking toward the carved table near the window. He pressed his fingers to its smooth surface, thinking.

"She's gathering allies," he said. "That's what this banquet is."

Cassian's voice was calm. "Exactly. An invitation masked with wine and pleasantries. Behind the silks and stringed music is one question—will you kneel or stand beside me?"

Lan let out a breath and shook his head. "Then she picked the wrong man. I have no plans to submit to anyone."

Cassian chuckled. "Good. She'd be disappointed if you did."

Lan glanced over his shoulder. "Oh?"

"In the Mad Scholar's final book," Cassian said, "the sheep who rose above the wolves submitted to no one. That is how it ruled, just like the other did."

Lan turned back, arms folded, eyes narrowed. "And she thinks I'm that sheep?"

Cassian shook his head. "No. She's not certain. But the banquet will decide. If you survive the night... then perhaps you are."

The silence between them stretched.

Cassian moved toward the door, pausing at its threshold.

"Have a good night's rest, Prince Lanard," he said, one hand on the handle. "Perhaps we'll meet again tomorrow evening."

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

Lan stood alone in the big, luxurious chamber. The floating lights dimmed a little. Beyond the window, the palace grounds stretched into silence, and somewhere beyond them—beneath gold banners and coiled ambition—the banquet was inevitable.

He didn't move or speak, just stood there.

A sheep who ruled wolves.

A prophecy.

Or a trap.

Either way—

He would not be bound by any.