CHAPTER 564: SUCCESSFUL ENDEAVOR (END)

The training hall hummed with the familiar rhythm of blades slicing through the air, a dance Lyan had long mastered. His footfalls, light as whispers on the wooden floor, melded seamlessly with the sharp, clean movements of his practice. Every swing, every parry was executed with such fluidity that it was as though the sword itself had become an extension of his own body. The light from the rising sun poured through the windows, casting long, golden beams that illuminated the hall, making the metal of the practice blades gleam like polished silver. It was a simple moment—one of those mornings where everything felt effortless, yet perfect.

A handful of maids stood at the doorway, eyes wide and full of admiration. A few of them couldn’t help but be captivated by the beauty of the movements. One, a young scribe, absentmindedly set her quill down, watching Lyan’s every move, her gaze fixed on the fluidity of his strikes. Her fingers hovered over the parchment, but the words she was meant to write eluded her, lost in the mesmerizing dance of the sword. She didn’t even realize she had forgotten her task until the silence of the hall pressed against her.

Lyan didn’t notice them. He never did, not when he was in the zone. His world was a place of blades and motion, nothing more.

His breathing was steady, controlled, his muscles working with practiced ease. Every part of him was sharp—physically and mentally—but in that moment, he was more aware of the rhythm, the push and pull of his body as it moved in sync with the sword. This was his meditation. A way to still his mind before the politics, the expectations, and the responsibilities of his new life in Grafen crowded back into his thoughts.

The sound of hurried footsteps interrupted his focus. A maid, breathless and flushed with the faintest hint of panic, entered the room holding a satchel. The air in the hall shifted. The usual chatter from the onlookers stilled. Everyone knew when a messenger entered the room, things were about to change.

"Lord Evocatore," the maid stammered, her voice trembling just slightly. "There’s... an urgent letter for you."

The weight of her words settled over the room. Lyan turned, his sword lowering to a resting position, the hum of steel fading. His gaze flicked to the messenger, and without a word, he accepted the satchel. The seal was unmistakable—a royal crest embossed in dark wax, the unmistakable emblem of the Crown Prince.

A hush fell over the room, all eyes now on him, waiting for him to break the seal, to reveal what had been deemed so urgent. Lyan’s hand moved without hesitation, breaking the wax with practiced precision. He unfolded the letter, and his eyes scanned the first few lines. His brow furrowed as confusion tugged at his features.

The royal handwriting was neat, formal, professional—but what followed was beyond his comprehension. The words didn’t make sense. He blinked twice, as if trying to make the letters rearrange themselves into something more sensible, something less absurd.

The letter was from the Crown Prince

, detailing a very personal problem that was, quite frankly, impossible to believe. He was suffering from erectile dysfunction. The cause? Excessive indulgence with a maid.

Lyan paused, his mind grinding to a halt. He blinked again. No, it wasn’t a misprint. This was exactly what it seemed: an urgent plea from the Crown Prince to help him with a problem of, well, his own making.

Lyan’s expression remained neutral for a heartbeat longer, but as the absurdity of the situation took root in his mind, a low, disbelieving chuckle rose from his throat. He shook his head, fighting a smile. This was... this was new. He had dealt with politics, with wars, with strategy—but this? This was an entirely different beast.

A rumble of laughter bubbled up from the room. The courtiers, who had been watching him practice moments before, now exchanged glances, their faces shifting from respectful curiosity to barely contained mirth. The scribe blushed deeply, trying to hide the giggles that escaped her lips.

Josephine’s voice cut through the laughter like a knife, her tone laced with amusement. "Well, my lord, looks like your legend just gained another comparison."

Lyan buried his face in his hands, groaning under his breath. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to bear. He could already feel the weight of the court’s gaze on him. He had built his reputation with careful precision, and now... now he was holding a royal letter that was destined to be the subject of court gossip for weeks.

Still, the laughter didn’t last long. The reality of the situation began to settle on Lyan’s shoulders, pushing the humor aside. He knew this was more than just a private embarrassment for the Crown Prince. The implications of such a letter being delivered to him—of all people—were not just personal. They were political.

What would this mean for Grafen? What did it mean for him? His alliance with the crown, his place in this intricate game of power, could be undermined by the very absurdity that had just fallen into his hands. How could he use this information? How could he navigate this new dynamic? The Crown Prince’s personal issue could easily spiral into something far more complicated than just an embarrassing royal secret.

He sighed, the humor fading from his face as he regained his composure. The courtiers had fallen silent, waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat, and his voice, though calm, carried the weight of his thoughts. "Send word to Dunbridge," he muttered. The words felt heavy in his mouth, laden with the quiet burden of responsibility. "Tell them we will discuss this at once."

It was an urgent matter now, one that couldn’t wait. But before he could focus on the gravity of the situation, he realized just how strange and warped the world of politics had become for him. He had started as a mercenary, a wandering soul with little regard for titles or nobles. Now, the absurdities of court life were creeping in, threatening to swallow him whole. And for the first time, he wondered if the very thing that had been his greatest strength—his ability to remain detached, to keep his eyes on the bigger picture—would be his greatest weakness in this new game.

The laughter faded, but the air remained thick with unspoken thoughts, the room heavy with the tension of the next steps. What would he do with this information? What would it mean for him, for Grafen? And, perhaps most importantly, who else would get caught in this tangled mess of royal politics?

There was only one way to find out.

"Send word to Dunbridge," Lyan muttered, the humor fading from his face as he regained his composure. "Tell them we will discuss this at once."

_____

The atmosphere in the training hall felt different after the messenger delivered the letter from the Crown Prince, its weight still hanging in the air. The laughter that had filled the room earlier was now replaced with the sound of quiet anticipation. The energy was charged, not just with the absurdity of the letter, but with the realization that things were shifting around him. Lyan had hardly expected to be summoned so soon, but as the minutes passed, the call came. Princess Anastasia wanted to meet him.

Lyan’s mind spun with the thoughts of his meeting with the princess, a woman wrapped in legend. He had heard whispers in the halls of the royal court—of her genius, her intellect, her seemingly passive role behind the scenes. But what truly struck him was how little he had ever seen of her. Rarely did she emerge from the shadows, preferring to let others draw the attention, to let others compete for the spotlight. Yet here he was, summoned to face her directly.

As he made his way to the designated meeting room, Lyan tried to steady his thoughts. The political games of the court were never simple, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting, unlike the others, would set the tone for his future here in Grafen.

The moment the doors to the chamber opened, Lyan’s first impression was that of sheer beauty—a presence so striking that it almost took him aback. The woman standing before him was exactly as the rumors had painted her: porcelain-like, delicate, with platinum blonde hair cascading like a waterfall down her back. She was, in every sense, the epitome of royal elegance, a feminine figure wrapped in a gown that shimmered like moonlight. But as he observed her, Lyan noticed the subtleties that set her apart from the typical image of nobility—there was a sharpness to her gaze, an intensity in her posture that betrayed the beauty of a mere façade.

She was more than a princess. Lyan could see it now—he could feel the weight of her mind, her intellect, beneath the soft exterior. But even more than that, there was something else, something familiar in the way she held herself. She was no passive observer, no fragile royal. There was a strength there, hidden beneath her calm exterior. And it was this strength, this hidden fire, that piqued Lyan’s interest.

"You wanted to see me, Princess?" Lyan’s voice was steady, but beneath it, a note of curiosity lingered, as he studied her with a mixture of respect and wariness. The room, filled with the usual courtly courtesies, held its breath, but Anastasia did not respond immediately. Instead, her gaze seemed to pierce right through him, like she was assessing him before speaking. There was something unsettling about her silence—it was as though she were measuring him for something more than what he had anticipated.

Then, without warning, her lips parted, and the tension in the air seemed to thicken.

"I challenge you to a sparring match, Lord Evocatore," she said, her voice sharp, yet not unkind. The words felt like a jolt, a sudden disruption in the air.

Lyan blinked, momentarily taken aback. This was not the diplomacy he had expected, nor was it the type of royal meeting he had prepared for. The idea of a duel was... unexpected, to say the least. He had assumed this encounter would be more subtle, a game of words and wits. But this—this was different.

It was as if she was testing him, not just with a challenge of physical strength, but with a test of his willingness to be more than just a passive participant in the game.

He smiled, a mix of surprise and respect forming on his face. "Very well, Princess," Lyan said, his voice now tinged with the excitement of the unexpected. "If that’s what you wish."