Chapter 103: The Art of Controlled Chaos
"Then I don’t need politics. I need fire."
A new voice cut in—smooth, dry, and entirely unimpressed.
"So, I’m your excuse for unleashing your true nature?"
They both turned.
Lucas stood in the doorway, now dressed in a crisp cream shirt tucked into tailored black slacks, the fabric soft but structured, formal without being overdone. His ash-blonde hair had been swept back with deliberate care, though a few rebellious strands still brushed against his forehead. He looked calm. Collected. Dangerous in the way fire looks just before it spreads.
Dax’s gaze swept over him—once, then again.
"No," he said finally, rising from his chair with a lazy stretch, "you are an excuse for me to get rid of a thorn in my side. One I’ve tolerated for too long because tradition said I had to."
He walked toward the bar, refilling his glass with less flair this time, the weight of the conversation grounding even his usual theatrics.
"It would be easy to bait them," Dax continued, swirling the amber liquid slowly in his hand. "We use a decoy—someone who can take pieces of what Lucas remembers and place them exactly where they’d expect. Create a pattern they’ll recognize. Just enough to draw them out."
Lucas stood still near the center of the room, his fingers loosely clasped in front of him, expression unreadable. "And what if nothing happens the way I remember?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "Misty was caught this time. Christian is already under imperial scrutiny, fighting her in court. That alone changes everything."
Dax turned, leaning against the edge of the cabinet. His gaze found Lucas’s and didn’t waver.
"Then we fake it," he said simply.