"Let me ask you clearly."
His hand didn’t lower. His voice didn’t rise.
But the words struck like arrows.
"Do you testify, here and now, before these guests, that the Daughter of the Crown—Priscilla Lysandra—is lying? And that the heir of House Crane, Reynard Crane, did not commit the act of harassing a lower-ranked noble?"
The silence stretched, no longer empty but expectant.
A thousand eyes watched.
Some narrowed with calculation.
Some waiting—hungrier than ever—for blood.
Lucien stood, unmoving.
But something in him had shifted.
The easy elegance he wore like silk was still there, but beneath it—fracture. Not panic. Not doubt. Just the smallest crack in the glass of his conviction.
He was being cornered.
Lucien Lysandros did not take orders.
But still... he had no way to step backward.
His voice, when it came, was smoother than marble. But colder than steel.
Gasps rippled like knives.
Lucien’s crimson gaze did not leave Lucavion.
"I testify, before this hall, before its nobles, its scribes, and its echoes, that the account given by my dear sister is flawed."
"Whatever she believes she saw—whatever sentiment clouds her vision—it is incorrect."
He turned his eyes now, just briefly, toward his sister.
Just let the words fall like ash.
"And that Reynard Crane, heir to House Crane, has done no such thing."
Lucien’s gaze never shifted.
His voice dropped—not in volume, but in finality.
"I gave you the courtesy to deescalate," he said, every syllable pronounced with lethal grace. "In front of guests. In front of audience. A mercy extended beyond your station."
He stepped forward once, the movement so quiet it echoed.
"But it seems," Lucien continued, "you do not recognize grace when it is offered."
A smile, thin as a blade.
"A tale as old as time. A commoner refusing a hand meant to lift them. Choosing mud over mercy."
Then—he turned his head.
As if the matter were done.
And behind him, the nobles began to shift again—ready to applaud, ready to move on, ready to swallow the narrative.
The sound was quiet at first.
Lucavion was laughing.
And then—he spoke, voice laced in irony and something stranger still: pity.
"And a noble lying with a straight face... a tale as old as time."
The room quieted again.
Lucavion’s hands lifted, palms open, like an actor bowing to the scene.
"And apparently," he added, "a royal is no different."
Gasps. Stiff breaths. A ripple of disbelief. Some nobles looked to Lucien, expecting fury. Others froze, unsure if they were about to witness a public execution.
But Lucavion wasn’t finished.
"I must thank you, Dear Lucien," he said again, and oh, he let the name linger—tainted with mock respect, with velvet mockery. "For playing your part flawlessly. That speech just now?"
He gave a low whistle.
"9 out of 10 on IMDB. Maybe even a critic’s pick."
Someone choked on their wine.
Lucien’s hand clenched, unseen, behind the velvet folds of his coat.
’He’s mocking me again.’
"And let me add some CGI," Lucavion added.
A single, sharp sound.
And a flame rose from his hands.
It shimmered like oil, not bright but deep, and it cast no heat.
A pulse of sensation shimmered out, not aggressive—but enough to make the room blink, once. Disoriented.
And when their eyes adjusted again—
Lucavion’s voice rang out cheerfully.
In his hand hovered a sphere.
It gleamed darkly. Swirled with light and distortion. Proof. Or something like it.
The room held its breath.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed.
Lucien’s eyes didn’t just narrow.
A flicker. Barely perceptible.
Not a parlor illusion.
Still under arcane review by the Tower’s Sixth Division. Developed in silence. Tested only within the innermost chambers of the Imperial Estate.
A temporal echo stabilizer.
A device that—through distortion-anchored mana and resonance capture—recorded not sound, not image, but truth.
It didn’t create illusions.
They weren’t public. They weren’t ready. Most hadn’t survived the full replication cycle without catastrophic failure.
Only five were known to exist.
All of them accounted for.
His thoughts whirled. Names. Possibilities. Traitors. Leaks.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. His mouth opened, control snapping back into place.
"A—boy," he began, voice edged with incredulous authority, "dares to bring an unregistered artifact into a state banquet? Are you—"
But Lucavion was already raising a finger, wagging it lightly, as if scolding a child for interrupting a play.
His voice was all amusement.
"I know I’m breaking a few rules. Naughty me."
He smiled—openly now. Audaciously.
"But bear with me just a little, will ya?"
He twirled the orb once between his fingers, black light rippling across its surface like ripples on still oil.
"I mean—surely, our mighty Crown Prince Lucien-something-something-Lysandra isn’t afraid of a tiny sphere, right?"
He leaned in slightly, mock conspiratorial.
"Or are you a party pooper, by any chance?"
Gasps broke out in stages.
Lucien’s face remained still.
The shimmer above the sphere stabilized.
And then—sound returned.
Not soft. Not garbled.
Crystal-clear, as if the air itself remembered.
"Please. We’ll leave—just let my brother—"
A girl’s voice. Trembling. Desperate.
"Now you’re talking?"
A sneer. The noble’s hand brushing her sleeve—casual, entitled.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
A new voice cut in—dry, indifferent.
The scene progressed with haunting precision.
Every word Lucavion spoke echoed through the hall:
"You’re probably some count’s son. From one of those proud bloodlines that likes to talk about ’legacy’ and ’purity’ when they’ve never worked a day outside a ballroom."
"And now you’re out here, wagging your tails, trying to feel superior because you felt a bit of strength buzzing in your veins today. A little power, finally. So you chase after a smaller animal."
Because now came the collapse.
Mana flaring. A noble’s scream.
Still. Untouched. A smile in his voice.
"Exuding killing intent before me? Are you ready to get killed yourself?"
Then came the collapse—seen, heard, undeniable.
The noble’s magic failed.
The boy writhed on the ground. Eyes wide. His companions? Frozen.
And the hall listened as Lucavion’s tone grew lighter. Mocking. Unbothered.
"Explain it? Must I? Because to me, it looks like a textbook case of Arkanic Collapse. Mid-four-star rank, and no control? Must’ve skipped the part of training that wasn’t spoon-fed."
Soft. Stifled. But real.
House Crane stepped forward in the echo.
"What have you done?!"
A calm shrug of a voice.
"I didn’t do anything. As you can all see—my hands never moved."
The projection showed the proof: Lucavion, arms raised, unarmed. The crowd in the recording staring, just as they were now.
"House Crane, was it?"
He paced. Poised. In complete control.
"One of reputation. Of power. Of pride. And yet its heir lacks the most basic human respect."
"Worse," he added, the echo of judgment growing colder, "he did so during the Festival of the First Flame."
Gasps now in both timelines—the projection and the present hall.
"This plaza lies beneath the protection of the royal decree. Imperial harmony. That’s the rule, isn’t it?"
"Or... am I mistaken?"
The scene ended there.
The shimmer collapsed.
And in the hall, silence reigned again—but now it was thunderous.
Lucavion stood, gaze casual.
One hand raised in mock humility.
"Just in case," he said, ever the showman, "someone here was hard of hearing."
The nobles looked to Lucien.