Gareth’s POV

I basked in the joy of our successful scheme, savoring the triumph like fine wine I could no longer afford.

The ceiling above me had developed a new stain recently. Shaped like a crown. I chose to take it as an omen.

I swung my legs off the cot and crossed to the window. A few short steps. That’s all it took to traverse the width of my kingdom. Outside, the street below was gray and filthy—a gutter running with last night’s rain, a stray dog nosing through garbage, a drunk slumped against the opposite wall.

This was where the Empire’s second prince lived. This narrow, stinking box above a tanner’s shop.

But not for much longer.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and let myself dream.

The Privy Council would move first. They always did when scandal touched the crown. Whispers would become meetings. Meetings would become votes. And when the evidence was undeniable—an Emperor who’d bedded a woman not his mate, who’d fathered a bastard, who’d tried to pay millions to murder the child in her womb—even the most loyal councillors would have no choice.

Abdication. Or removal.

Either way, the throne would need a new occupant.

And who was left? Who shared the Nightfire blood? Who was the only living male relative with a legitimate claim?

Me.

I turned from the window and caught my reflection in the cracked mirror above the washbasin. Gaunt. Hollow-cheeked. My clothes were patched at the elbows. My boots had holes that let in water when it rained.

But my eyes—my eyes were alive. Burning with something I hadn’t felt in years.

Purpose.

"Emperor Gareth Nightfire," I whispered to my reflection. Then louder. "Emperor Gareth Nightfire."

The words tasted like honey. Like justice. Like everything I’d been denied since the day I was born into the wrong woman’s bed.

---

I paced the small room. A few steps one way. A few steps back. My mind raced ahead, painting pictures of the future with savage detail.

The palace. Those soaring halls of black stone and gold leaf. The throne room with its vaulted ceiling and obsidian columns. I’d sat in that room exactly once—during my father’s funeral—pressed into a back corner like a servant while Kaelen occupied the central dais, accepting condolences he didn’t deserve.

Soon I’d sit where he sat.

And the first thing I’d do—the very first decree I’d sign—would be the summons.

Elara.

My blood heated at the thought. She’d be alone by then. Abandoned. No Emperor husband to hide behind. No crown to protect her. Just a woman with no status and no allies, dragging a child she couldn’t afford to feed.

I’d bring her back to the palace. Not as a queen. Not even as a guest.

As a servant.

I could picture it so clearly it made my pulse hammer. Elara in a plain gray dress, scrubbing the floors of the very halls she’d once walked as Empress. Those ice-blue eyes downcast. That silver hair tied back beneath a cloth. On her knees.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she’d say.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Whatever you command, Your Majesty."

And Isolde—I’d drag her back from whatever border camp she’d crawled to. My former wife, who’d called me dull. Who’d compared me to Kaelen every single day of our marriage until I wanted to claw my own ears off.

She’d serve alongside Elara. The two of them, side by side, polishing my boots. Cooking my meals. Begging for scraps from my table.

I laughed. The sound was sharp and ugly in the small room, but I didn’t care.

"Dull," I muttered. "We’ll see who’s dull when you’re emptying my chamber pot."

---

The fantasy sustained me through the morning. I dressed in my least-stained shirt and ate stale bread with a thin smear of lard, barely tasting it. My mind was elsewhere. It was in throne rooms and council chambers. It was watching Kaelen’s face when the guards came for his crown.

The bastard had everything. And he’d squandered it.

A mate bond. A beautiful wife. Children. The love of an entire Empire. And what had he done? He’d let Seraphine close enough to pour something into his drink. He’d let his guard down at the wrong moment. He’d been weak.

Weakness deserved to be punished.

I thought about that night. The night Seraphine had executed the plan. She’d told me every detail afterward, her voice breathless with triumph.

The false intelligence report she’d whispered to a border commander—fabricated threats of Rogue movement near the eastern pass. The commander had requested an emergency council. Kaelen had convened it in the war room. Hours of debate. Tensions running high.

And afterward, when the Emperor was exhausted and wound tight, Seraphine had been waiting with a bottle of aged whiskey. "For your nerves, Your Majesty. A gift from the Eastern delegation."

Doctored. Every drop laced with enough sedative to fell a horse, mixed with something else—something darker that clouded memory and loosened inhibition. Not enough to knock him unconscious. Just enough to make him pliable. Confused. Unable to form clear memories.

She’d guided him to the inn herself. The recording crystal had been placed in advance—capturing the two of them entering together, his arm slung over her shoulder, her body pressed against his side.

The image alone was damning.

But Seraphine hadn’t stopped there.

In the room, once Kaelen had collapsed onto the bed in a drugged stupor, she’d taken a silver dagger from her boot. Not for him. For herself. She’d drawn the blade across her own shoulder, carving marks into her skin that mimicked a wolf’s bite. Deep enough to scar. Deep enough to bleed convincingly.

I’d asked her later if it hurt.

"Agony," she’d said calmly. "But less than watching him love her."

Then she’d arranged herself beside his unconscious body, smeared his mouth with her blood, and waited for morning.

When he woke, confused and horrified, she was already crying.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

And the final piece—the master stroke. The pregnancy she’d been carrying for months. Mine. Conceived deliberately, timed precisely, hidden beneath loose gowns until the moment was right.

All she had to do was claim it was his.

---

My communication crystal pulsed. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

I snatched it from beneath the mattress. The surface flickered with silver text—a message from Seraphine.

My excitement curdled as I read.

He offered millions. Actual millions. Told me to terminate or face consequences. He’s trying to make it disappear. Said he’ll pay whatever it takes to save his marriage. I’m frightened, Gareth. What if he forces it? What if he sends physicians? He was violent. His eyes were not sane.

My hand closed around the crystal so hard the edges bit into my palm. The surface cracked—a thin fracture spreading across its face like a web.

Millions. That coward. That spineless, pathetic coward.

He’d rather murder a child than face what he’d done. Rather throw gold at the problem than stand before his wife and confess. And people called me the lesser brother?

My teeth ground together until my jaw ached.

"You won’t touch that child," I hissed at the crystal. "You won’t buy your way out of this."

The child was everything. Without it, the scandal was just a rumor. Deniable. Dismissable. But with a living, breathing heir growing in Seraphine’s belly—proof that could be tested, verified, paraded before the Privy Council—Kaelen’s fall was inevitable.

That child was my throne.

I forced my breathing steady. Forced my fist to unclench before the crystal shattered completely. I needed her to stay as far away from Kaelen as possible, protecting the very leverage that would secure my path to the top. I quickly instructed her to immediately send the undeniable evidence—the recording and the physician’s diagnosis—to Elara, ensuring Kaelen’s total ruin.

Then, I smiled and quickly composed my reply, pressing each word into the fractured surface.

Don’t be afraid. We’re almost there. Hold on a little longer. Protect our child, and make sure Elara knows. That’s all we need to do. Everything else will fall into place.

I sent it.