Evan Edriger

Clang!

The harsh ring of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠steel shattered the stillness of the training grounds.

“Ghhk...!”

It was none other than Evan, the First Prince of Phanelia, who tumbled across the dirt with a pained groan.

Day after day of training that drove him to the brink of collapse had already begun reshaping his body at a startling pace. The moment he regained a measure of strength, he discarded the wooden practice blade for a real sword.

Yet the difference between wood and steel proved far greater than he had expected. The unfamiliar weight made him wonder, at times, whether he was swinging the sword or the sword was swinging him.

“Your Highness! Get up at once. The enemy will not spare you simply because you are tired.”

“I know! Ugh...”

At Gareth’s barked urging, Evan forced himself back onto his feet.

Without talent, all I can do is roll through the mud until I drop.

Steadying his ragged breathing, he tightened his grip on the hilt and charged Gareth once more.

For a long while afterward the training yard rang with rough shouts and the clash of steel.

“Your Highness, please lower your blade for a moment.”

Walter, who had been waiting patiently at the edge of the yard for the session to end, stepped forward without warning.

Evan turned, still panting hard. A single sealed letter rested in the butler’s hand.

“What is that?”

Wiping sweat from his brow, Evan asked. Walter lifted the missive.

“A dispatch that has arrived in the name of Her Majesty the Queen.”

“The Queen?”

Evan’s brow furrowed. Margaret was the sort of woman with whom one might exchange a poisoned chalice—not letters.

He handed his sword to Gareth and took the letter sealed in crimson wax. With a rough tear he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. As he read, his eyes grew cold and still.

“...A bishop?”

Evan’s grip tightened until the paper crumpled. Warning bells clanged through his mind.

An imperial bishop... A far greater player has moved than I anticipated.

He had known Margaret would never sit quietly after losing control of the king’s person. But to drag in a bishop of the Holy Empire—that he had not foreseen.

The political weight a bishop carried was formidable. Such a man could toy with the succession of a small peripheral kingdom as easily as breathing.

Evan’s thoughts raced.

This is a wretched turn of events...

If the bishop demanded custody of the king, every piece Evan had painstakingly rearranged would be swept back to the starting board. Even Marquis Gregory, leader of the neutral faction, could not stand in the way of an imperial bishop. To oppose one was not merely to defy the Empire—it was blasphemy against the divine itself.

An imperial bishop... They’re blowing this board far too wide open.

The sudden wall across his path left Evan’s mind in turmoil. This was no opponent he could outmaneuver with petty tricks. Yet he refused to sit idle and watch the momentum he had just reclaimed be stolen again.

If I do nothing, everything ends before it even begins...

No matter how he turned the problem, no clever solution presented itself at once.

I’ll just have to crash straight into it.

He tossed the crumpled letter to Walter and issued a curt order to Gareth.

“Gareth. Training ends here for today. Let the knights rest.”

“As you command.”

When Gareth withdrew, Evan turned to Walter and Emilia, who still watched him.

“Walter.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Please speak.”

“Prepare my formal attire.”

They already believe the game is finished. But I will never withdraw like this.

Evan’s eyes gleamed with the cold, predatory light of a hunter that has just locked onto its prey.

Before the outer walls of the Phanelia Kingdom, Queen Margaret stood at the head of a reception party that included the Second and Third Princes and every noble of the realm, all gathered to welcome the bishop.

Yet ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the atmosphere among those who had come to greet their guest was anything but welcoming; it crackled with barely restrained hostility.

“Hah! Honestly, this is beyond absurd.”

Third Prince Edwin, resplendent in silk, snorted and cast a scornful look around him.

“On a day this important—receiving His Excellency the Bishop of the Empire—and that First Prince still hasn’t shown his face? Has the idiot completely lost his mind? If that fool causes our kingdom to fall out of the Empire’s favor, what then?!”

Edwin shouted the words for all to hear, turning his head this way and that.

A chiding voice rose from behind him.

“Edwin. There are many eyes upon us. Mind that loose tongue of yours.”

It was Second Prince Leopold. He regarded his younger brother with a leisurely, pitying smile.

“No matter how power struggles may blind a man, he is still your elder brother. To spout such undignified language before the entire nobility... tsk tsk.”

“W-What?! Leopold, are you actually lecturing me right now?!”

Publicly rebuked, Edwin’s face flushed crimson. He looked ready to seize Leopold by the collar. Queen Margaret’s hand settled firmly on her son’s shoulder.

“Compose yourself, Edwin.”

Having quieted her son, the Queen turned her gaze upon the Second Prince.

“Your Highness the Second Prince should also choose his words with care. Edwin merely feared that imperial wrath might bring disaster upon the kingdom; he meant nothing more. And as for remarks that lower the dignity of the royal house, Your Highness is hardly blameless. Let us both be more cautious.”

Though her mouth addressed Leopold, her sharp eyes fixed on the elderly man standing solidly behind him.

Duke Barsha—maternal grandfather of the Second Prince and the great noble who ruled the eastern reaches of the kingdom.

The Duke did not avert his gaze. Instead he frowned and took a deliberate step forward, as though shielding Leopold.

“Her Majesty’s words are correct. Knowing how to cover a brother’s shortcomings is also a virtue of a sovereign. Let us leave the matter here.”

His tone was courteous, yet the statement dripped with open contempt. The look he leveled at the Queen was pure provocation—a clear breach of etiquette.

No one present called him out for it. Everyone gathered here understood the relationship between them perfectly well.

Queen Margaret, seeking to swallow the kingdom through her son, and Duke Barsha, aiming for the pinnacle of power through his grandson. The bloody struggle between their two factions was known to every soul in the realm.

His Majesty lies stricken with an unknown illness, neighboring nations circle us like vultures, and still these people waste themselves on petty struggles for position... The future of this kingdom is truly dark.

Duke Waldstein, Supreme Commander and co-leader of the neutral faction alongside Marquis Gregory, watched their behavior and despaired for the kingdom’s tomorrow.

While they stood bristling at one another like porcupines, footsteps approached from behind.

Step. Step. Step.

A moment later a voice cut cleanly through the charged air.

“My, it seems I am later than I thought.”

Edwin, still seething from Leopold’s earlier jab, whirled toward the newcomer as though fate had delivered the perfect target for his rage.

“Finally crawling out, are you? And you call yourself the First Prin—”

The sharp words died unfinished in midair.

“Wh... wha... wh...”

Edwin’s mouth worked soundlessly, like a mute who had forgotten how to speak. His pupils trembled as though he had witnessed something that should never be seen.

Yet no one mocked his ridiculous expression. Every person present wore the exact same frozen look of shock.

All eyes converged on a single point—the place where First Prince Evan Edriger had at last appeared.

Unlike the Second and Third Princes, who arrived flanked by retinues of nobles, Evan was accompanied only by Gareth and Walter. Still, not a soul present could dismiss him.

The First Prince they remembered was nowhere to be found.

Evan wore formal attire of deep navy, the evening primrose that symbolized the royal house of Phanelia embroidered upon it with exquisite precision. His complexion remained pale, yet the solid muscle visible beneath the fabric radiated a strength none of them had ever associated with him.

What truly froze the nobles, however, was not the physical change.

In the lofty gaze Evan cast over them, they saw the unmistakable dignity of a ruler looking down upon all creation.

A chill raced down the spines of the weak-willed.

Th-That man... is he truly the same incompetent we all knew?!

The Queen’s hand trembled almost imperceptibly. Even Duke Barsha, who never lost his easy smile, found his expression hardening to stone.

Into the profound silence Evan spoke, a faintly arrogant smile curving his lips.

“What? Have you seen something you shouldn’t have? You can all relax now.”

Though his tone was light, his sky-blue eyes burned with fierce, brilliant light.