The Prince Who Couldn't Survive
The morning at the Roadmia Duke's mansion was always precise. Candles were extinguished before sunrise, servants opened doors at their appointed times, and bowed their heads at exact angles. Emotion was a luxury, and disarray a weakness. Evelyn Roadmia loved every one of those rules. Precision. Predictability. Calculability. They had kept her alive.
"Say it again," she said. The teacup was still in her hand. Her pale fingers were slender and beautiful. Not a single tremor. At least, not visibly.
The attendant bowed his head, face ashen. "His Highness, the Third Prince Lucion Vergrad… no, His Majesty has ascended the throne."
Your Majesty. The words drifted through the room. Lucion. That Lucion. Your Majesty?
"And Prince Arkel?"
"He is dead, my lady."
That much had been expected. Arkel had been the legitimate heir, and legitimate heirs were always the first to feel the blade.
"And Prince Belion?"
"He fled. Reports indicate he is heading toward the Eastern Military Camp."
"Fled." Belion had run. Arkel was dead. Kalen Drak had been executed. The palace was sealed. And the only remaining blood heir was Lucion.
The prince she had discarded. The man she had judged unfit to survive.
Evelyn set the teacup down. It clicked against the saucer—a tiny sound. Every attendant in the room held their breath. Evelyn Roadmia did not make mistakes like that.
"Has Lucion truly taken the throne?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Who recognized him?"
"The palace ministers, part of the Royal Guard, and the remaining noble representatives have approved the coronation."
"Approved." Evelyn smiled faintly. How convenient that word was. Until yesterday, the nobles had treated Lucion like an ornament. They had mocked his weak magic, dismissed his lack of political backing, and left him alive only because he carried royal blood. And now they approved. Because he was the only one left standing. They moved quickly. They were calculating. And their calculations now included her.
"What of Kalen Drak?"
The attendant's face grew paler still. "He was executed."
"On whose order?"
"His Majesty Lucion gave the command himself."
Silence fell. Lucion had ordered Kalen Drak's death? "Are you certain?"
"The information came directly from the palace. We confirmed it four times."
Evelyn closed her mouth. Information confirmed four times was rarely wrong. Only the person hoping it was wrong could be mistaken.
She pictured Lucion's face. The rain-soaked corridor. Wet hair. Wounded crimson eyes. Why? he had asked. Evelyn. What did I do wrong?
She hadn't been able to answer then. He had done nothing wrong. That had been the problem. Lucion Vergrad had committed no sin. He was gentle, cautious, hated blood, and didn't know how to step on others. In the demon palace, a man like that didn't die for his crimes. He died because he was useless.
It is not because I dislike you, Your Highness, she had told him. And she had meant it. She couldn't say she had never loved him. More precisely, she had once wondered if she might come to love him. Lucion was beautiful—not merely in appearance, but in a way rarely seen within the Demon King's Castle. Like someone whose hands had never been stained with blood. That made him more dangerous. Standing beside such a person meant dying with them. Evelyn was not foolish enough to board someone else's death flag under the name of love.
It is because Your Highness cannot survive, she had said. The words had been cruel, but they had been correct. They had to be correct. She had believed in that correctness and let go of Lucion's hand.
Yet now—
"He survived," she murmured. "He… survived."
He had survived. And he sat upon the throne. The report that he had personally beheaded Kalen Drak changed everything. If Lucion had merely stumbled onto the throne by chance, the calculation would have been simple. A puppet king. A figurehead Demon King. A noble banner to wave. In that case, the Roadmia family could have profited quietly from behind the scenes.
But he had executed Kalen Drak immediately after ascending. That was different. That was the act of a king. Something a trembling man could not do. Or perhaps, something a trembling man had no choice but to do.
The Lucion she knew was not that kind of man. He reached for letters before swords. He offered requests before threats. He would rather be hurt himself than risk hurting someone else. And that man had severed the head of a grand duke. Because he had become king. Because he wanted to survive.
"My lady," the attendant said carefully. "His Grace the Duke has summoned you to the council chamber."
Evelyn slowly raised her head. Lucion had become the Demon King. That fact was not merely a matter of her emotions collapsing. It was a matter of survival for the entire Roadmia family.
"My father did?"
"Yes."
"For what reason?"
The attendant did not answer. He didn't need to. A family council. A pledge of loyalty. Avoiding responsibility. Nobles sought justification before drawing their swords, and someone to blame after sheathing them. The Roadmia family now needed one or the other: to bow their heads to the new Demon King faster than anyone else, or to claim they had joined Belion last. Both choices were repulsive. And in noble society, repulsive usually meant useful.
"Let's go," Evelyn said, rising from her seat. Her skirts swept silently across the floor. No tremor. Not yet.
***
The council chamber of the Roadmia mansion was cold. Portraits of past family heads lined the walls. They all wore similar faces—cold, aged, surviving faces. The eyes in those portraits seemed to repeat the same words: The family outlives emotion. Evelyn had never disliked that saying. Until today.
"You've come," said the man seated at the head of the table. The Duke of Roadmia. Evelyn's father. A man renowned even among demon nobles for his cold rationality. He cherished his daughter, but that affection was permitted only within the bounds of the family's interests. Even when young Evelyn had fallen and bloodied her knee, he hadn't wiped the blood away first. Don't cry, he had said. There are those who would enjoy seeing your blood. So Evelyn had learned not to cry. Today was no different.
"I have heard the news from the palace."
"Then we can speak quickly," the duke replied.
The chamber was filled with the Roadmia family's key figures—uncles, retainers, elders, and the knight commander in charge of military affairs. They all kept their mouths shut, but their eyes moved busily. Who was the surviving king? How far would the fleeing prince gather his forces? Which side should the Roadmia family stand on? Abacuses turned behind their eyes. Click, click. She could almost hear them.
"We must send a pledge of loyalty to His Majesty Lucion," the duke said.
"That is too hasty," one of the uncles objected. "If Prince Belion has gone to the Eastern Military Camp, the game is not yet over."
The duke's gaze turned toward him. "Prince?"
The uncle fell silent.
"The palace has already forbidden that title. Belion is a traitor."
"But the military—"
"Does the military decide who sits on the throne?"
The duke's single question froze the chamber.
"Demons follow the strong," the uncle said. "That is our law."
"No," the duke replied, tapping the table with his finger. "Demons follow the strong who survive."
No one could immediately refute that. The duke continued.
"Arkel is dead. Belion has fled. Kalen has lost his head. The palace is sealed. And Lucion sits upon the throne." He slowly swept his gaze across the room. "Who wears the crown this morning?"
No one answered. Evelyn knew the answer. Lucion. The name she had thrown away.
"However, His Majesty Lucion has no foundation," another retainer said. "He was long called the shame of the royal family. His magic is weak, and he has no following. If we pledge loyalty now and Belion returns leading the army—"
"That is precisely why we must do it now," the duke said. "Because he has no foundation."
The retainer hesitated. A faint, cold smile appeared on the duke's lips.
"Loyalty offered late to a strong king is worth little. Loyalty offered first to a weak king is expensive."
Evelyn lowered her eyes. It was a precise calculation. Disgustingly so. Lucion was weak right now. Therefore, they could sell their loyalty at a high price. The duke did not believe Lucion would remain king. He was investing in an unstable throne. Evelyn understood that calculation better than anyone. She had sold Lucion in exactly the same way. In the name of the family's survival.
"There is one problem," the knight commander said. His gaze turned to Evelyn. One by one, the eyes in the chamber followed. In that moment, Evelyn realized why she had been summoned today.
"It concerns the engagement between Lady Evelyn and His Majesty Lucion."
Engagement. The word dropped into the room like a contract that had never truly ended. In truth, the engagement had been as good as broken. It had never been formally dissolved, but the moment she had grown close to Belion's faction and turned her back on Lucion, the relationship was already over. In noble society, the breaking of an engagement was declared by attitude long before any document. Lucion had known that too. That was why he had asked that day. Why?
"The engagement remains on paper," the duke said. "It could become either poison or medicine for us."
"And if it is poison?" Evelyn spoke for the first time.
"If His Majesty takes issue with your betrayal, the Roadmia family could be branded as part of the rebel faction."
"And if it is medicine?"
"If His Majesty wishes to use past affection, we become the closest noble house to him."
Affection. Evelyn laughed inwardly. How very noble. Using affection. Treating emotions like assets. Love, engagement, wounds—if they could be used, they were used. That was what a family was. And Evelyn was a woman raised in such a family. That was exactly why she had been able to discard Lucion.
"Do you believe His Majesty will forgive me?" she asked.
The chamber grew quiet. The duke was silent for a moment.
"Does he need to forgive you?"
Evelyn's eyes did not waver. The duke spoke coldly.
"What a king needs is not forgiveness. It is usefulness. If you still have value, His Majesty will not discard you."
Evelyn looked at her father. She had believed those words her entire life. Usefulness. The most accurate measure of a person's worth. If you were useful, you lived. If you were useless, you were discarded. Lucion had been a useless prince. So she had discarded him. And now he sat in the position to judge everyone else's usefulness. Upon the throne.
Evelyn suddenly found it hard to breathe.
"Must I go in person?"
"You must," the duke answered. Of course. "I will write the pledge of loyalty. But the face presented to His Majesty must be yours."
"Why?"
"Because you were once his fiancée."
Once. How convenient that word was. Once loved. Once engaged. Once discarded. And now she had to bow her head under the name of once.
Every gaze in the chamber was fixed on her. The family was asking: Could she go to the man she had abandoned? With the family's life in her hands.
"What if His Majesty refuses to see me?"
"Then we bow even lower."
"What if he humiliates me?"
"We endure it."
"What if he tries to kill me?"
For the first time, the duke's expression faltered. Just for an instant. Not a father's face, but a family head's face began calculating. Evelyn didn't wait for the answer. She already knew it. If Lucion tried to kill her, the family would discard her. Not as a daughter, but as a tail to cut off to remove suspicion of treason. Love in a noble house was always that practical. As a child, she had thought it natural. Today, it felt strangely cold.
"I understand," Evelyn said. "I will go."
The tension in the chamber eased slightly. The duke nodded with satisfaction.
"Good. The pledge will be prepared before noon. We will send an envoy to the Black King's Castle, and your entry into the palace will proceed as soon as His Majesty grants permission."
"Yes."
Evelyn bowed her head. At the precise angle. The flawless courtesy of a noble daughter. But inside, it was not flawless. Inside, something felt strangely hollow.
Lucion's face rose in her mind. The rain-soaked corridor. Wounded crimson eyes. A voice that couldn't understand. Why? Back then, she had answered: because he could not survive. And now, she had to go to him in order to survive.
***
After the meeting ended, Evelyn walked alone through the corridor. The Roadmia mansion's corridor was long and quiet. Outside the windows, the black rose garden was visible. The dawn mist was lifting. She stopped. Her reflection appeared in the glass. Unruly hair? No—perfectly arranged. A neat dress. Cold eyes. The eldest daughter of Roadmia. The former fiancée of Lucion Vergrad. A potential hostage of the rebel faction to the current Demon King. So many titles. None of them amusing.
"My lady," a maid approached from behind. "Shall I prepare your palace attire?"
Evelyn didn't answer. Palace attire. Clothes to wear when meeting Lucion. Once, choosing such clothes had been simple. He had always told her she was beautiful. Carefully, as if even compliments might burden her, swallowing them once before speaking.
Black suits you well today.
You said that before, too.
Then it must be true again today.
Such foolish conversations. Meaningless, politically worthless, impossible to record on any calculation sheet. That was why they remained in her memory.
Evelyn raised her hand to her neck. There was nothing there. The black gem necklace Lucion had given her. She hadn't worn it since the day she abandoned him. She had buried it deep in a drawer, thinking it useless sentiment.
"Prepare the black dress," Evelyn said.
"And the accessories?"
Evelyn was silent for a moment. "Bring the black gem necklace from the very back of the drawer."
The maid's eyes widened slightly. She knew what that necklace was. The one Lucion had given her. It wasn't a symbol of engagement. It was something far more personal. And therefore far more dangerous. Wearing it didn't mean she was begging for forgiveness. At least, that was what she wanted to believe.
"My lady, that is…"
"Bring it."
Evelyn's voice turned cold. The maid asked no further questions.
Left alone, Evelyn looked out the window. The spires of the Black King's Castle were visible in the distance. Lucion was there. No—His Majesty was there. The man she no longer had the right to call by name. She had said he could not survive, so she had discarded him. Yet he had survived. And he had done so from the highest place possible.
Evelyn drew a slow breath. Then she whispered, very softly:
"Because Your Highness cannot survive."
Her own voice returned from memory, along with Lucion's face as he heard those words. Wounded eyes. A mouth forcing a smile. A lie that he understood. Only now did she realize it. That day, she hadn't merely abandoned him. She had judged him. Judged him useless. Judged that he would not survive. Judged that he could never become king. And now, carrying that judgment, she had to stand before the king who had proven her wrong.
A laugh escaped her. Small. Dry.
"The man who was not supposed to survive," she said, gazing at the Black King's Castle beyond the window, "has survived and become my king."
It was not regret. Not yet. What came first was fear. And somewhere deeper than fear, Evelyn Roadmia admitted for the first time that her calculation had been wrong.