Ascension Of The Villain

Vyan bowed just low enough to honor etiquette but high enough to keep his gaze level with hers.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he greeted, his voice low and rich, as if not at all surprised to bump into each other at such a suspicious corner of the imperial area. "It's a pleasure to see you. It has been some time. I hope you've been keeping well?"

Jade's expression barely shifted. She studied him like one might observe a painting—appreciating the craftsmanship, but untouched by sentiment.

"I was unwell," she replied, her voice smooth as polished stone. "But... I find myself recovering." The words landed like snow—soft, but curiously chilling. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

Vyan blinked once, the smile faltering just slightly. "Pardon, Your Imperial Majesty?"

She didn't elaborate right away. Instead, she stepped closer, the hem of her elaborate gown whispering over the marble floor like a quiet wind.

Her voice dropped, almost thoughtful. "If I had a daughter," she said slowly, "you would've made a fine candidate."

The compliment hung in the air, too vague to be sincere, too precise to be casual. Vyan gave a gentle laugh, easing the oddness with practiced grace.

"Ah… well," he said with a half-bow and a glint of charm, "I'm honored by the hypothetical. You give me far too much credit, Your Imperial Majesty."

Since when did Empress Jade talk like this? Playful? Teasing?

This was unlike any conversation he'd ever had with Jade. She was never one for idle talk, much less cryptic flirtation—or whatever this counted as.

"The library card. Who lent it to you?" she inquired out of nowhere.

"Princess Althea," Vyan replied smoothly. "Her Imperial Highness was generous enough to share her access. I owe her."

A pause. Then came Jade's next question—calm, pointed, and sharp as a glass needle. "I have noticed this before. You and the Princess must share a... special rapport. Are you interested in marrying her?"

His breath caught before he could catch himself. A silent alarm rang behind his ribs. He laughed quickly—too quickly.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, almost ridiculously, though his tone stayed courteous.

The mere thought made his stomach twist. Althea was practically a sister to him—and more importantly, the woman Clyde had loved with every part of his being. Even entertaining the idea felt wrong, like betrayal painted in gold leaf. It was practically blasphemy!

And then there was Iyana—wild, dangerous, and fiercely his. If she ever got wind of such a suggestion…

Iyana herself might have once made the same assumption as Jade, thinking Vyan was into Althea. But now?

Saints preserve me, Vyan thought. She'd unsheathe her blade in front of the empress herself. Not to hurt me, obviously. It would be her up against the empress.

But Jade only watched him, unfazed. A pause stretched long enough to pull at his nerves. Then, at last, she said with dry amusement, "That was a jest. I am aware of your attachment to Lady Iyana."

Vyan exhaled, a hand brushing his collar like it had gotten a little too tight. "Your Imperial Majesty nearly gave me a heart attack. Thank heavens. With respect, the princess is my cousin. That would've been… uncomfortable."

"Step-cousin," Jade corrected, her tone unreadable. "Technically."

He chuckled, but it was thin around the edges. "Yes… technically."

"Although…" Jade's voice echoed softly in the vaulted silence of the forbidden wing, her gloved fingers trailing idly along the spines of ancient tomes. "I never thought such things would concern you. Especially when you might have a shot at becoming the next emperor of this nation."

Vyan tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanged—smooth as still water, though something in his chest stirred.

"Have I ever given off the impression that I'm that power-hungry, Your Imperial Majesty?"

Jade didn't answer at first. Her gaze wandered over the rows of shelved secrets, her hand pausing over a title as if reading something far more interesting written between the lines.

"Mm," she mused at last. "It's hard to say. You're rather difficult to read."

Vyan gave a quiet laugh. "Now that surprises me. I'd like to think I'm quite simple, actually. Not much going on in this head of mine, I assure you. I am happy where I am."

She gave him a look—one of those unreadable ones. Eyes cold, expression neutral, but sharp like the quiet before a blade is drawn.

"That should be the case," she said. "Considering how you were raised."

A taunt. Subtle but jabbing.

Vyan's smile didn't waver. If anything, it gained a hint of amused detachment.

"Ah, yes. A common trait among those with humble upbringings—simple minds, resilience… and a rather inconvenient tendency to survive things we weren't meant to."

He tilted his head, voice smooth as velvet, but cool beneath the surface.

"But I suppose pure blue blood does have its quirks. Things always work out for us, doesn't it?"

The silence that followed was dense, except for the rain crashing against the high windows of the library. Because Vyan had just taunted the empress back.

Who was she to question his upbringing? His growing up in an orphanage didn't change the fact that he belonged to a family with one of the purest bloodlines, diluted even with an imperial bloodline. The Ashstones never married any outsiders—they had a tendency to always gravitate towards the best noble lady of the empire.

Just like Vyan had. Not that he had any particular intention to fall for the daughter of a marquess, but he had. The Estelles, now fallen, still were one of the most ancient families of Haynes.

On the other hand, Jade might have been the princess of a foreign empire. But her mother was of common blood.

Vyan usually wasn't one to point at people's bloodlines. But he wasn't willing to quietly accept such a taunt from Jade, of all people.

He hadn't forgotten.

Behind his pleasant mask, a storm brewed.

She was the one who had whispered poison into the emperor's ear. The one who'd turned suspicion into fire and let it burn through his family like dry wood. A woman with a face of stone and a heart of ice.

His blood ran hot with the memory, but his face remained smooth, even faintly amused.

Just a few more days, he reminded himself. Play the part. Be the noble, the harmless kitten. The dutiful grand duke with nothing but charm and smooth words.

Soon, the mask would fall.

But for now… he smiled.

Then, her voice cut through. "In a way, I suppose you are right. Tell me something. If you were to choose—who would you hand the throne to?"

He didn't blink. "Whoever is best for the empire."

Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. "How altruistic," she said, dry as winter air. "I thought you'd have more of an opinion."

Vyan placed a hand casually behind his back, posture still regal, voice calm. "Because, truthfully, it hardly matters to me who sits on the throne. My livelihood doesn't depend on the imperial family's favor. I have no chains here."

"Yes… I've heard the whispers. Quite a bit of praise regarding your ventures in the business world," she mused. "Impressive, for someone so new to high society."

Vyan inclined his head modestly. "I'm fortunate. The people supporting me deserve the real credit. My treasurer, in particular—sharp as a blade and twice as efficient. She once worked for the imperial household, actually."

"Miss Adeline," Jade murmured, her voice suddenly distant. "Yes. She was… competent."

"She is," Vyan corrected gently. "And I'm grateful. So, thank you for allowing such a gem to find her way to me, Your Imperial Majesty. Or should I thank Prince Izac instead?"

Her jaw tensed. Barely. But it was enough.

A ghost of a smile touched Vyan's lips—innocent on the surface, but the steel was beneath.

"Speaking of which," he added casually, "how has Prince Izac been? I heard he was sent to the countryside to recover."

Jade turned from the shelf. "He's fine. He's undergoing physical therapy for his legs."

Vyan nodded. "That's good to hear. Though I do wonder… couldn't Princess Althea have healed him? She would have done it, I'm sure. Her heart is too soft to refuse."

Jade's lips twisted into a scoff—scornful. "Over my dead body would I ask the daughter of Fiona to lay a hand on my child."

And with that, she turned, her figure retreating like a shadow swallowed by the silence of stone and pages.

Vyan stood still, hands behind his back, face carefully blank.

So much vain pride, he thought.

He wasn't fond of children. Never had been. But if he ever had one of his own—fragile, broken, in pain—he'd grovel before his worst enemy if it meant they'd be healed. He'd throw away every last shred of pride to see them whole again.

But her?

She couldn't even bring herself to ask politely. Not even for her only son.

A man who might never walk again.

The door groaned softly shut behind the empress. And with her departure, the temperature in the air seemed to rise by a degree or two—though it could've just been the breath Vyan had been holding.

He exhaled and turned toward the row of forbidden grimoires stacked like silent sentinels in the far end of the forbidden wing. Dust lingered in the golden shafts of candlelight.

His fingers brushed along the blackened spines, trailing over cryptic titles written in runes that shimmered faintly under the enchantments woven into the air.

All this time... nothing.

Every spell he'd attempted. Every artifact he'd forged. Every barrier he'd imbued against dark magic—it all shattered too easily in the face of true corruption. No matter how refined the craft or potent the magic, it didn't seem to guard his sensitivity towards dark magic.

The conclusion had come to him gradually.

You cannot guard against what you do not understand.

To fight dark magic, you must first learn its nature.

And so, here he was.

Vyan didn't flinch as his hand hovered above a particularly charred-looking volume with what looked like a stitched cover.

His fingers paused when they landed on a book unlike the others. Bound in deep navy leather, it had no runes, no threads, or cursed metals—just a single, serene word engraved in silver on its spine:

Transcendence.

"Huh," Vyan murmured under his breath, tilting his head. "You don't look like you belong here."

He plucked it from the shelf and opened it carefully, the pages fluttering like breath. What lay inside wasn't a tome of curses or decay—but diagrams. Spells. Charts drawn in intricate ink.

Dimensional passage.

Chrono-magic.

Translocation between temporal threads.

His brow arched slightly.

A soft chuckle slipped past his lips as he murmured, "Time travel."