Chapter Three: The Crown’s Shadow

The summons came before dusk.

A royal command.

Not from the king—

But from the Crown Prince.

“His Highness, Prince Alaric Eryndor, requests your presence in the western hall.”

The servant delivering the message did not look at Lysander when he spoke.

Few ever did when the name Alaric was involved.

Prince Lysander did not react immediately.

He sat by the window, fingers resting lightly against the frost-laced glass, as if he had expected this all along.

“Of course he does,” he murmured.

Behind him, Caelan straightened.

“I will accompany you.”

A soft smile.

“Will you?” Lysander said, glancing over his shoulder. “The Crown Prince doesn’t usually request. He commands.”

“Then I will follow anyway.”

For a moment, Lysander simply watched him.

Measuring.

Then he sighed, rising to his feet.

“Very well, Sir Caelan,” he said lightly. “Let’s not keep my dear brother waiting.”

The western hall was nothing like Lysander’s quiet wing.

It was alive.

Warm light from towering chandeliers spilled across polished floors. Nobles gathered in clusters, their voices low but sharp, like blades hidden behind silk.

And at the center of it all—

Power.

Prince Alaric Eryndor.

He stood near the throne dais, surrounded but untouched, like a storm no one dared step into.

Tall. Broad-shouldered.

Everything an Alpha prince was meant to be.

His presence pressed against the room like iron—undeniable, suffocating.

Where Lysander unsettled—

Alaric dominated.

Conversations faltered as the younger prince entered.

Eyes shifted.

Whispers followed.

“Lysander.”

Alaric’s voice cut cleanly through the hall.

No need to raise it.

Everyone heard.

Lysander walked forward with measured grace, unhurried, unconcerned.

“Brother,” he greeted, inclining his head just enough to satisfy formality. “You sent for me.”

Alaric’s gaze lingered on him—sharp, assessing.

Then it shifted.

To Caelan.

The weight of it was immediate.

Intentional.

“And this must be the duke’s son,” Alaric said. “Sir Caelan Viremont.”

Caelan dropped to one knee.

“Your Highness.”

“Rise.”

The command carried force.

The kind Alphas used without thinking.

Caelan stood.

Unshaken.

A flicker of interest crossed Alaric’s expression.

“Good,” the Crown Prince said. “I was told you were… exceptional.”

Lysander stepped slightly to the side.

A small movement.

Subtle.

But enough to place himself just within Caelan’s reach.

“I do hope you didn’t summon me merely to inspect my knight,” Lysander said mildly.

“Of course not,” Alaric replied.

Though his eyes had not left Caelan.

Then, finally—

They returned to Lysander.

“You’ve been keeping to yourself,” Alaric continued. “Avoiding court. Avoiding me.”

“How disappointing,” Lysander said, tone light. “I thought you’d appreciate the peace.”

A few nobles nearby stiffened.

No one spoke to the Crown Prince like that.

Alaric smiled.

Slow.

Dangerous.

“I would,” he said, “if I believed it was harmless.”

The air shifted.

Tension coiled through the hall like a tightening noose.

Caelan felt it instantly.

Not just Alaric’s dominance—

But something else.

Something aimed directly at Lysander.

Pressure.

Testing.

Provoking.

“You’ve always been… unusual, brother,” Alaric went on. “Even as a child.”

Lysander’s expression did not change.

“How nostalgic of you.”

“Tell me,” Alaric said, stepping closer, “has anything… changed?”

Silence.

Heavy.

Expectant.

For a brief moment—

That strange feeling returned.

Caelan’s instincts sharpened.

That presence.

That wrongness.

It flickered again, just beneath the surface.

Lysander smiled.

Perfect.

Controlled.

“Only your imagination, I’m afraid.”

Alaric studied him.

Longer this time.

Too long.

Then—

He laughed.

“Perhaps,” he said.

But there was no belief in it.

His gaze shifted again—to Caelan.

“And you, Sir Viremont.”

Caelan met his eyes without hesitation.

“Tell me,” Alaric continued, “what do you think of my brother?”

A trap.

Clear as any battlefield snare.

Caelan did not look at Lysander.

Did not hesitate.

“My duty is to protect His Highness.”

Alaric’s smile widened slightly.

“That is not what I asked.”

The hall grew quieter.

Every ear turned toward them.

Caelan spoke evenly.

“I think he is under constant scrutiny.”

A pause.

“And I think,” he added, “that makes him a target.”

Silence fell.

Sharp.

For a brief second—

Something dark flickered in Alaric’s eyes.

Then it was gone.

Replaced by amusement.

“Careful,” the Crown Prince said softly. “It almost sounds like you’re accusing this court of something.”

Caelan did not respond.

Lysander exhaled faintly.

Almost like relief.

“How tiresome,” he said, stepping forward. “If you’re finished, brother, I would like to return to my very suspicious solitude.”

Alaric chuckled.

“Go, then.”

But as Lysander turned—

Alaric spoke again.

“Stay close to him, Sir Caelan.”

The words were directed at the knight.

Cold.

Precise.

“After all,” Alaric continued, “if anything were to happen to my dear younger brother…”

A pause.

“…it would be a tragedy.”

Caelan understood the meaning immediately.

This was no warning.

It was a test.

And as they left the hall, with whispers rising once more behind them—

Caelan realized something with absolute certainty.

The greatest threat to Prince Lysander…

Was not hidden in shadows.

It stood in the light.

Wearing a crown.

𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗨𝗘~

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