Franz had lived his entire life in a greenhouse of privilege. As the Crown Prince, he had never known a moment where his title didn't shield him from consequence. To have someone—especially a "mere" Duke—treat him with such casual, lethal disregard was a shock that broke his mind.
He gritted his teeth, fighting back the tears of humiliation, but the shame was a madness in his chest. “Don't be ridiculous,” he gasped, his voice thin and reedy. “I am the Crown Prince. I am the next Emperor!”
Eric tilted his head, his blue eyes cold and unblinking. “I’m aware of your title, Franz. I’m also aware of how fragile a title is when it’s not backed by strength.”
“When I take the throne, you’ll be the first to fall!”
Eric’s hand moved from Franz’s shoulder to his neck. He didn't squeeze, not yet, but his fingers were curled in a way that suggested a sudden, violent snap was only a heartbeat away.
Franz went deathly still. He’d seen men like Eric on the parade grounds, men who had slaughtered thousands in the Emperor’s name. But facing that bloodthirst in a locked room was a visceral, animal experience.
*He’s actually going to kill me,* Franz realized, the terror finally overriding his pride.
Eric saw the light fade from the Prince’s eyes, replaced by the dull, flat look of a beaten dog. He slowly loosened his grip, his face shifting back into the polite, handsome mask that Cornelia had once fallen for.
“I didn't think you were listening,” Eric said, his voice light and conversational. “I find that physical demonstrations are often more effective for... visual learners. I’m glad we understand each other now.”
Franz didn't say a word. He was trembling so violently that he could barely keep his seat.
Eric stepped back and offered a shallow, perfect bow. “Your Highness, you don't look well. Perhaps it would be best for you to return to the palace and rest. I’ll have a servant escort you to your carriage.”
“No,” Franz whispered. “I’ll go myself.”
He practically fell out of the chair, lunging for the door as if the floorboards were made of fire. He didn't look back.
Eric watched the door slam shut, a cold, mocking sneer touching his lips. “Safe travels, my Crown Prince.”
He turned to the window, watching the carriage with the imperial crest rattle out of the courtyard. Franz had spent years taking his frustrations out on Cornelia, secure in the knowledge that she would never fight back. It felt good to remind the boy that she was no longer alone.
*She’s late,* Eric thought, checking his watch. *She should have been back from the Alchemists’ Quarter by now.*
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Your Excellency, it’s Zenon.”
Eric sat back behind his desk. “Enter.”
Zenon stepped into the room, his expression unusually grim. “How did the Prince fare?”
“He learned a lesson in manners,” Eric said dismissively. “What is it?”
“Archduke Tarrant is here,” Zenon said. “He’s asking for the Duchess. I told him she was out, but he’s insisted on waiting in the drawing room.”
Eric’s jaw tightened. Reinhardt. The man was like a persistent stain that wouldn't wash out.
“It’s just as well she’s not here yet,” Eric muttered. “I’ll deal with him.”
***
In the inner chamber of the workshop, the cheerful facade of the cosmetics shop was gone. I sat across from a young man who looked like he’d been pulled from the heart of a thunderstorm.
He had wild, emerald-green hair and eyes the color of fresh blood. He adjusted a gold monocle and looked at me with a look of pure, concentrated annoyance.
“An uninvited guest,” he drawled, his voice a rasping baritone. “And a royal one, at that. To what do I owe the honor, Princess? Are you here for a new face, or just a new way to ruin your husband’s life?”
I didn't blink. I sat down on the rickety wooden chair, my movements as graceful as if I were in the Imperial Ballroom.
“I’m here for a Red Bottle,” I said.
Barakiel let out a dry, hacking laugh. “We don't sell Red Bottles here. We sell creams for vain women and potions for the aging.”
“Don't lie to me, Barakiel. You sell death in the dark, and you do it because the Emperor was too short-sighted to fund your genius.”
Barakiel’s eyes narrowed behind his monocle. “Assassination guilds are two streets over, Your Highness. If you’re so desperate for attention that you’ve turned to murder, you’re in the wrong shop.”
I snapped my fan open, the hidden steel spikes at the tips glinting in the dim light. I held it against his throat before he could even register the motion.
“Careful,” I whispered. “You may have developed 'things' that can kill at a distance, but you haven't yet mastered the speed to use them when someone is this close.”
Barakiel froze, his red eyes fixed on the spikes.
“You know my name,” he said, his voice dropping into a tone of genuine curiosity. “That means you’ve been doing more than just shopping for jewelry.”
I pulled the fan back and snapped it shut. “I know everything, Barakiel. I know you’re a master of firearms. I know you’ve spent a hundred years’ worth of research perfecting an arsenal that can pierce a knight’s plate from a hundred yards. And I know the Emperor banned your work because he’s afraid of a world where a commoner can kill a Transcendent.”
The Emperor’s fear was well-founded. A world with firearms was a world where the old nobility—the men who relied on their physical superiority and expensive armor—were obsolete. It was the spark of revolution, a threat to the very foundation of the Schwanherd Empire.
“And why would you, a princess of the blood, want to hasten the end of your own world?” Barakiel asked.
“Because I know what’s coming,” I said. “And I’d rather be the one holding the trigger than the one in the crosshairs.”
I leaned forward, my voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Fund your research. Finish your prototypes. I want weapons that are light, fast, and easy to use. Weapons that a woman can hide under her skirts.”
“Firearms are prohibited, Cornelia. The penalty is death.”
“One million gold,” I said.
Barakiel stopped breathing. He stared at me, his red eyes trembling. “A million? For a few prototypes?”
“Consider it a down payment on the future. I want the world to change, Barakiel. And I want to be the one who owns the change.”
Barakiel’s monocle slipped from his eye. He looked at me as if I were a ghost. “Even for a princess... having that many weapons will raise questions. The Emperor will see it as an act of treason.”
I let out a soft, cold laugh. “Let him look. By the time he realizes what I’m doing, I’ll be long gone. Now, do we have a deal?”