Chapter 62: Invitation
Sevian stood with his head bowed, trembling slightly under the intense gaze of the Crown Prince. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating, as the prince’s golden eyes bore into him, cold and unfeeling. Sevian had always dreaded these encounters, the sheer weight of the prince’s presence pressing down on him like a heavy stone. His voice came out meek and hesitant.
"All the servants... they’re tight-lipped, Your Highness," Sevian finally said, swallowing hard.
The Crown Prince leaned back in his ornate chair, his expression unchanging, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. He let out a low chuckle, devoid of warmth. "No surprise there," he said, his voice dripping with cynicism. "There isn’t a commoner alive with the courage to betray him. Of course not. They worship him like he’s some kind of god."
Sevian shifted uneasily, sensing the underlying bitterness in the prince’s tone. The tension in the room was palpable, but nothing could ever rattle the prince. He was as calculating as ever, always looking for a crack in the armor of his enemies. And now, his sights were set on him—the infamous general who had once stood untouchable.
The Crown Prince’s gaze darkened, his lips curling into a sharp smile as he turned his attention back to Sevian. "So," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "have you seen this so-called Omega of his? The one he’s been hiding so diligently?"
Sevian shook his head, feeling his palms grow clammy under the prince’s scrutiny. "No, Your Highness. He’s hidden him too well"
The prince’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He stood, walking over to the large window that overlooked the sprawling gardens outside the palace, his movements slow and deliberate. "Interesting," he mused, his voice filled with quiet malice. "I was concerned when I heard he’d returned. But now..." His eyes gleamed with something dark, something cunning. "He’s back with a weakness. A blatant, glaring weakness."
*
I rub my temples as the dull throb of a headache starts to build. My gaze falls to the ornate invitation resting on my desk—the king’s 70th birthday celebration. I’d give anything to avoid this tedious affair, but the seal of the royal family on the envelope makes that impossible. It’s not just an invitation; it’s a command. And I’m certain the Crown Prince is the one pulling the strings behind this. The king himself barely governs anymore; that viper of a prince has already sunk his claws into everything.