Chapter 33 Crown Prince Rage Mode
Lucien read the report. Once. Twice. A third time—slower. The paper did not tremble in his hand. Not a single crease bent where it shouldn’t. The ink did not blur beneath sweat or pressure. Even the candlelight seemed to hesitate before touching him, as if aware that something beneath his calm was beginning to sharpen into something… unpleasant. His smile tightened. Not lost. But refined. Cut down to something thinner. Cleaner. Dangerous.
“…interesting,” he said softly. The word slipped into the air like a blade sliding from its sheath—quiet, deliberate, inevitable.
Across from him, three nobles stood frozen in place. They had been summoned for what they thought would be a routine evening audience—status updates, political maneuvering, perhaps a mild reprimand for inefficiency. Instead— They found themselves standing in the eye of something far worse.
One of them swallowed audibly. The sound echoed. Too loud. Too human.
“Your Highness—” Marquis Delvain began, voice carefully measured, as though speaking to a coiled predator might somehow reduce its lethality.
Lucien did not look at him. “She escaped,” Lucien murmured. His gaze remained on the report. But his eyes were no longer reading. They were remembering. Ulrika Vincent. The perfect potential pawn. The woman who had, until recently, been introduced to him as his Imperial fiancée candidate. Predictable. Useful. And now—
“And found someone… more useful.”
The words were soft. Too soft. The temperature in the room dropped. One of the nobles—young, inexperienced—felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright as if something unseen had just passed behind him.
Lucien finally looked up. His eyes were dark. Not with wild anger. That would have been easier. Safer. This was worse. This was calculation sharpening itself into cruelty.
“…how disappointing,” he said.
A pause. A breath. A decision.
“She was supposed to have been mine.”
The statement was not loud. It did not need to be. It carried the absolute certainty of a man who had never been denied anything he truly wanted.
The Silence Before Violence
No one spoke. No one dared. Even the servants stationed along the walls seemed to fade into stillness, their training screaming at them to become invisible.
Lucien folded the report once. Precisely. Twice. Then set it down on the table. Gently. Too gently.
“That man,” he continued, as if discussing something mildly inconvenient rather than politically catastrophic, “the Grand Duke.”
A flicker of something passed through his gaze. Recognition. Annoyance. Interest.
“Aric Solheim.”
He tasted the name. Not with hatred. Not yet. But with the quiet curiosity of someone deciding whether something was worth destroying personally… or delegating.
Marquis Delvain forced himself to speak again. “Your Highness, the situation may not be as severe as it appears. The rumors are… exaggerated. The engagement—”
Lucien’s eyes shifted. Just slightly. It was enough. Delvain stopped speaking. Because suddenly— He felt it. Pressure. Not physical. Not visible. But unmistakable. Like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground beneath you could vanish at any moment.
Lucien tilted his head. “Exaggerated?”
The single word landed like a question. Like a trap.
Delvain hesitated. That was his mistake.
Lucien smiled. Not warmly. Not kindly. But with the precise, surgical politeness that preceded dismantling someone completely.
“Let us review, then,” Lucien said, his tone conversational. Too conversational. “As you claim exaggeration.”
He lifted a finger. One. “She has severed all attempts at contact.”
Another finger. Two. “She has publicly aligned herself with a man outside of my influence.”
Three. “She is…now pregnant.”
The word lingered. Not because it shocked him. But because it interested him.
Lucien’s gaze sharpened further. “And not discreetly.”
A fourth finger. “She has become the center of noble society’s attention—without my permission.”
Silence.
Lucien lowered his hand. “Tell me again,” he said softly, “how this is not severe.”
Delvain’s throat tightened. He could not answer. Because there was no answer. Only consequences.
Lucien turned away from them. Slowly. Measured. He walked toward the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate as always. Outside, the capital glittered beneath the night sky. Orderly. Structured. His. Or so it had always been.
“…fascinating,” he murmured.
Behind him, the nobles exchanged glances they did not dare complete. Lucien had never been a man of visible temper. He did not shout. He did not throw things. He did not rage. He adjusted. He rearranged. And whatever no longer fit into his vision… ceased to exist.
“She has changed her behavior entirely,” he continued. “To reject me is one thing.” A faint tilt of his head. “To replace me…” His lips curved slightly. “…that is something else entirely.”
He turned back. And now— Now there was something beneath his composure. Not anger. No. Anger was impulsive. This was possession.
“She was not built for independence,” Lucien said calmly. “I made sure of that.”
The nobles felt their stomachs drop. Because the way he said it— There was no metaphor. No exaggeration. He meant it. Literally. Training. Isolation. Psychological conditioning wrapped in praise and reward. Ulrika Vincent had not simply been a noblewoman in Lucien’s orbit. She had been crafted. Refined. Shaped into something that responded to him. And only him.
“…and yet,” Lucien continued softly, “she deviates.”
His eyes gleamed. “Which means one of two things.”
He raised a hand again. “One—she has been influenced.”
A pause.
“Or two—” His smile returned. Sharper now. “—she believes she has found something better.”
Silence fell heavier. Because everyone in the room understood what that meant. The second possibility was worse. Far worse.
The First Crack
Lucien picked up the report again. This time— He crushed it. Just slightly. The first visible imperfection.
The room collectively stopped breathing.
“…twins,” he murmured. The word was quieter than anything he had said so far. More dangerous than anything before it.
“How efficient.”
His gaze darkened. “How unexpected.”
He exhaled slowly. And for the briefest moment— The mask slipped. Not completely. But enough. Enough for those watching to understand something they had never truly seen before. Lucien was not calm. He was furious. But not in the way most men were. This fury did not burn outward. It condensed. Compressed. Refined into something precise and lethal.
“…she moved quickly,” he said. “Too quickly.”
His eyes flicked to one of the nobles—a man responsible for information networks. “You failed to report the initial shift.”
The man froze. “I—Your Highness, there were no indications—”
Lucien’s gaze sharpened. The man stopped. Because suddenly— He realized. There had been signs. Small ones. Subtle. Dismissed as irrelevant. A change in routine. A deviation in tone. A lack of compliance where there should have been immediate obedience. They had overlooked it. Because no one expected Ulrika Vincent to break pattern.
“…incompetence,” Lucien said softly. Not loud. Not dramatic. But final.
The man’s knees nearly buckled. “I will correct that.”
The implication was clear. Correction, in Lucien’s world— Was not merciful.
Reframing the Board
Lucien set the ruined report aside. Then, calmly, he began rearranging the pieces on the chessboard placed beside the table. White pieces. Black pieces. His fingers moved with quiet precision. Click. Click. Click. Each piece placed exactly where he wanted it.
“This is not a loss,” he said. Not to them. To himself. A correction of perspective. “A deviation.”
He moved a knight. “Which means the board has shifted.”
A bishop. “Which means—” A queen. “—we adapt.”
His gaze lifted. And now— The nobles understood. This was not the end of something. This was the beginning.
Lucien’s eyes gleamed faintly. “Tell me,” he said, voice smooth again, almost pleasant. “What does the Grand Duke value?”
No one answered immediately. Because the question was not simple. Aric Solheim was not a man easily defined. War hero. Reclusive. Cold. Honorable. Dangerous. Detached from politics. And yet— Now at the center of it.
Marquis Delvain forced himself to respond. “…his territory. His reputation. Stability.”
Lucien considered that. Then shook his head. “No.”
The single word cut cleanly. “Those are external.”
He placed a hand on the king piece. “What does he value… that can be taken?”
Silence stretched. Then— A realization. Slow. Unwanted. Inevitable.
“…her,” one of them whispered.
Lucien smiled. There it was. “Correct.”
Possession vs. Attachment
Lucien leaned back slightly. “Men like him,” he said, almost thoughtfully, “do not engage in unnecessary attachments.” His fingers tapped lightly against the table. “Which means—if he has accepted her…” A pause. “It is not casual.”
His eyes darkened. “Which means he has made her important.”
The room felt colder. “Which means—” Lucien’s smile sharpened again. “She can be used.”
Delvain’s breath caught. “Your Highness, the Grand Duke is not easily provoked. Direct action may—”
“I am not interested in provoking him.” Lucien’s voice cut through his words effortlessly. “I am interested in understanding him.” A beat. “And then dismantling him accordingly.”
Silence. Because that— That was worse.
The Decision
Lucien turned fully toward them again. The mask was back in place. Perfect. Untouched. Controlled.
“As of now,” he said, “we do nothing.”
Shock flickered across their faces. Lucien noticed. Of course he did. And dismissed it instantly.
“Reaction is for those who have lost control.” His gaze hardened slightly. “I have not.”
A pause. “We observe.”
Another. “We gather information.”
And then— The final piece. “We isolate variables.”
His eyes gleamed faintly. “Ulrika Vincent is not the same person she was.” His voice softened. Almost fond. “Which means we must determine…” His smile returned. Slow. Precise. “…who she has become.”
The Line That Should Not Be Crossed
Lucien stepped closer to the table. Rested his fingers lightly against it. And then— Quietly— He spoke.
“If she believes she can choose another path…” A pause. Long enough for dread to settle. “…then we will remind her.”
The nobles did not move. Did not breathe. Because the tone— Was not anger. Not even threat. It was inevitability.
Aftermath
The meeting ended shortly after. No one remembered being dismissed. Only that they were suddenly outside. Alive. Breathing. Shaking.
Inside the room— Lucien remained alone. The candlelight flickered again. This time— It did not hesitate. Because whatever had sharpened in that room— Had settled. For now.
Lucien picked up the crushed report one last time. Smoothed it out carefully. Precisely. Restoring order. As if nothing had ever been wrong.
“…more useful,” he murmured.
His gaze drifted toward the distant horizon. Toward the direction of the Grand Duke’s territory. A faint smile touched his lips. Not warm. Not kind. But certain.
“We will see.”
His fingers tightened slightly on the paper. Not enough to tear it. Just enough to remind himself— Control was not lost. It was simply… being tested.
Lucien does not rage blindly—he begins planning something far worse.