Read This Princess is an Extra :: Do Not Provoke

Mavryn accepted the drink, lowering himself onto the heavy chair across from Dracye. For a moment, neither spoke. They drank like men who had repeated the act a hundred times before. Mavryn studied Dracye quietly, his gaze lingering on the young ambitious emperor.

“Your mother was here,” he said at last.

Dracye’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the campaign map before him as though the parchment itself had offended him.

“She was,” he muttered.

“And?” Mavryn pressed gently.

“She left.”

Mavryn said nothing. He simply sipped from the wine again, letting the fire crackle fill the void. Dracye broke it at last, his voice low, almost uncertain.

“Do you think I was cruel?”

“No,” Mavryn replied, tone even. “You were precise. There’s a difference. But cruelty… cruelty is sometimes inherited too.”

A brittle smile ghosted across Dracye’s lips at that, gone as quickly as it came. He leaned against the chair, the flames painting his hairs in restless gold.

“When will you return to the capital?” Mavryn asked at length.

Dracye’s voice came out cool and calm as ever,

“Not until I’ve drained the marrow from these lands. My appetite’s still sharp. You hold the reins in Vortalis, so why should I waste time behind a desk while there’s blood left to spill?”

Mavryn said nothing at first, but his eyes slid toward the dagger half-buried beneath parchment. He tapped it with two fingers, narrowing his eyes.

“And that?” he asked quietly. “Is Elarion your next feast?”

Only then did Dracye meet his godfather’s gaze. His eyes were cold, his voice smooth as a blade drawn from oil.

“All their fat lords and soft daughters are gathered in one place. One strike, and their crown crumbles. They won’t even bleed properly, but I’ll make sure they do. How did I overlook a land so ripe, so resourceful, so easy to break? That ends now.”

He turned back to the map, controlled and cold. But Mavryn’s voice sharpened, carrying a weight that had checked Dracye since childhood.

“You were raised to strike without mercy, but also to finish what you start. Now is not the time.” Mavryn pressed closer.

“Even beasts pause after a kill. Let your army sleep and rest. Let the enemies rot in their comforts. Let them grow fat again, their sentries careless. That is when you slaughter them.”

He picked up the dagger, rolling it back across the table like a warning, the gold in it catching firelight.

“Strike when it is clean,” he said. “Not when your heart is loud.”

Mavryn drained his glass and rose, drawing his cloak about him, its crimson hem trailing like spilled blood over Ilvarion’s stolen carpets. As he turned, his voice cut the silence.

“I’ll gut the last of Ilvaran myself. Save your blade for the crown you truly want.”

*********************************

It was close to midnight. The fire pits burned low, their embers crackling softly in the silence. Most of the camp had gone quiet, the drunken laughter and clatter of soldiers long since drowned by the slow pulse of sleep. Only the insects remained, their endless chorus skimming across canvas and dry grass. Horses shifted restlessly in their tethers, stamping against the earth, snorting into the heavy night air.

And beneath it all—

zzkk… zzzkk… zkkk.

That sound came again. A faint, mechanical distortion, jagged and unnatural, as though the fabric of the world were stuttering on itself.

Dracye stepped out of his tent without a word, already clad in black leathers and a dark cloak. His sword hung at his hip. His gloves were drawn tight across his hands.

From the shadows, Thar appeared. His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his short blade as he bowed his head slightly.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured, in a low voice. “Something you need?”

Dracye’s gaze remained fixed on the dark horizon, he said: “A horse. Quietly.”

Thar’s eyes narrowed faintly. He had been with Dracye long enough to sense when a request was more than it appeared. He blinked once, then inclined his head.

“As you command, Your Majesty.” He hesitated only a breath before speaking again.

“Your Majesty… forgive me, but may I ask, where are we going at this hour?”

“To place my foot on Elarion. And I am going alone.”

The words rang like iron in Thar’s mind. Alone. A warning bell, echoing against the charge entrusted to him by Prime Minister Mavryn: the Emperor’s safety was his burden to bear. A pause hung heavy between them. Thar’s jaw tightened. He knew this look in Dracye eyes. Restraint but obsession, the quiet hunger that drove him toward whatever had caught his attention. Once his curiosity was stirred, he pursued it like a hound on a scent, relentless until it was sated.

Thar stepped forward, his voice edged with the kind of boldness only a man in his position could risk.

“Elarion?” he asked. “Now?”

Dracye did not move, his silhouette was stark against the faint glow of the brazier. Thar’s tone carried the weight of both loyalty and fear, if Dracye ignored him now, there would be no turning him back. And so, as a last attempt to check him, he said again,

“Your Majesty may recall what the Prime Minister said before he departed. His words were clear ‘Do not provoke. Do not reveal.’”