The rot of the Schwanherd Empire started at the top. It was Prince Franz’s staggering incompetence and the Empress’s insatiable greed that had fueled the fires of the rebellion in my past life.
I had briefly considered trying to correct Franz’s behavior—he was my brother, after all. But one visit to the palace had been enough to kill that sentiment. He was a spoiled, petty tyrant who viewed the world as his personal playground. He wouldn't listen to a "crow" like me.
*“That idiot is beyond repair,”* I thought, watching the fire die down in the hearth.
My father, the Emperor, was a perfectionist. He couldn't bear to see the legacy he’d built be squandered by a fool. He’d tried to mentor Franz, but the boy was a lost cause. The solution wasn't reform; it was replacement. To save the Empire, I had to prune the corrupt branch and find a successor who was actually capable of leading.
And the first step in that pruning was the North.
The "rumors" of barbarians I’d asked the Emperor to spread weren't entirely fictional. In the shadow of the Northern mountains, Franz had established a series of unauthorized mines, extracting wealth to fund his private luxuries. Those mines had become porous tunnels, allowing barbarian scouts to bypass the border forts and infiltrate the interior.
In my first life, Franz had blamed a subordinate when the incursions became public. The man had committed suicide, and Franz had walked away unscathed. This time, I’d brought the timeline forward. Eric would arrive at the border and find the mines while Franz’s signature was still fresh on the ledger. There would be no scapegoat this time.
*The Emperor’s trust in his 'perfect' heir is about to shatter,* I mused.
I stood by the window and pulled back the curtain a fraction. Below, in the courtyard, I saw Eric conferring with Zenon. The Adjutant was a shadow at his side, his face unreadable. I watched them for a moment, my heart feeling like a cold, heavy stone.
*Goodbye, Eric,* I thought. *I spent a lifetime chasing your shadow, begging for a love you couldn't give. I tortured myself and everyone around me just to get you to look at me. But the woman who loved you is dead. She died in a snowy forest with a bullet in her head.*
I let the curtain fall, plunging the room back into shadow. I was done with unrequited love. I was done with House Brant. I was just waiting for the final act to begin.
***
Eric stared up at the second-floor window. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the faint morning light.
“Your Highness? The vanguard is ready. We depart at six.”
“Understood,” Eric said, but his gaze didn't waver from the window.
He felt an intense, irrational desire to see her face one last time. He wanted to go to her room, to wake her, to hear her voice—even if it was only to hear her tell him to leave again. Over the last few days, the dreams had become more vivid. The golden-haired boy was always there, tugging at his hand.
*“Dad, don't leave us. Please, don't regret it.”*
Eric let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. *It’s just a fantasy,* he reminded himself. *The child in her womb belongs to a man she loved enough to risk everything for. I’m just the husband she tolerates to save her reputation. There is nothing to regret.*
But as he turned toward his horse, he felt a sudden, sharp pang of anxiety. It was as if a string were being pulled taut in his chest, connecting him to the woman behind those closed curtains.
“Let’s move,” he commanded, his voice hardening into a blade.
***
The departure was a grand, somber affair. The Dowager Duchess stood on the steps of the manor, a handkerchief pressed to her eyes as she bid her "son" a tearful farewell.
“Come back to me safely, my Eric,” she sobbed, her voice carrying across the courtyard.
The visiting nobles and knights were moved by the display. *“She truly cherishes him,”* they whispered. *“A mother’s love is a powerful shield.”*
Eric looked at her from atop his black warhorse, his eyes as cold as the Northern tundra. He didn't answer her. He knew the woman beneath the handkerchief was a viper, and her tears were nothing more than poison disguised as water.
“Don't worry, my son,” Bianca said, her voice dropping into a low, private hiss as he leaned down. “I will take excellent care of your wife in your absence. I’ll ensure she wants for nothing.”
Eric’s grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles went white. He’d left a double guard around Cornelia’s wing, and he’d given Janet explicit orders to kill anyone who threatened her. But the Dowager’s smile made his blood run cold.
“You’d better not entertain any 'foolish' thoughts, Mother,” Eric whispered back. “If a single hair on her head is harmed—if the child is touched—I won't wait for a trial. I’ll burn this annex with you inside it.”
Bianca flinched at the raw, murderous intent in his voice. But as Eric turned his horse and led the column toward the gate, the fear on her face melted into a slow, crooked smile.
*You told me not to touch the woman, Eric,* she thought, watching his broad back disappear into the morning mist. *But you didn't say anything about the child. And by the time you realize the difference, it will be too late for both of them.*
She looked up at Cornelia’s window, her eyes shining with a dark, unhinged anticipation. The "gift" was ready. She just had to wait for the first moon to rise.