The brazier in Lucien's tent put out enough heat to make one forget, for a moment, that the plains outside had frozen solid three weeks ago. He lay across a pile of silk pillows that cost more than a captain's annual wages. One girl knelt beside him with a golden goblet of wine. Another half-sprawled across his lap, her fingers drawing idle circles on his chest. The wind outside didn't howl so much as scream.

  The air inside hung thick. Not just the cedar smoke from the brazier, but perfume that smelled like money, and wine that had been spiced to mask its own sourness.

  Lucien yawned, showing his teeth. "This place is so fucking boring."

  The girl on his lap giggled. "You said that yesterday, Your Highness."

  "And the day before."

  He took a sip, grimaced, and shoved the goblet back at the first girl hard enough to slosh wine over her hand. "Too sour. Get something else."

  She scrambled for a different bottle while he stared at the embroidered ceiling. Dragons and imperial crests were done in gold thread. Campaigns were supposed to mean something. Glory. Conquest. The kind of stories that got carved into marble. Instead he had frozen mud, snow that never stopped falling, and soldiers who bowed like they expected him to knife them if they straightened too fast.

  The women were worse. The generals kept sending them, and they kept arriving with that look. The one that said they'd heard stories about the last girls who'd disappointed him. Fear had been entertaining for maybe two days. Now it was just work.

  "Where is my brother?" Lucien asked the ceiling.

  The tent flap opened. Adrien stepped in, snow still melting in his dark hair, and began peeling off his white gloves. A servant materialized to take them.

  "You look comfortable," Adrien said.

  "You should try it." Lucien grinned, all teeth. "Loosen the stick up your ass for an hour."

  Adrien's gaze moved over the girls. Just a glance, but they went still as rabbits. One of them started shaking.

  "Dismiss them."

  "Brother, must you ruin every pleasant moment?"

  Adrien didn't repeat himself. He didn't need to. The girls gathered their robes and slipped out, heads down, not looking at either prince. The silence that followed felt heavy, deliberate.

  Lucien swung his legs off the bed, vertebrae popping as he stretched. "You need to relax. War is stressful."

  Adrien poured water from a silver pitcher. He didn't drink it. "This isn't a vacation."

  "For you, perhaps."

  "The soldiers are restless. Discipline is weakening."

  "Let them enjoy themselves."

  "They're abusing the penal troops in the open now."

  Lucien laughed, it was a sharp laugh. "They are penal troops. That's what they're for."

  Adrien studied him. That look. Like he was trying to decide if Lucien was stupid or just cruel. "You'll create instability."

  "Oh, please." Lucien waved his hand, dismissing the thought. "They're disposable. The marks keep them obedient." He settled back against the pillows. "Besides, it gives the real soldiers something to do before the killing starts."

  Adrien set his cup down with a soft click. "You're careless."

  "And you're boring." Lucien showed his teeth again. "Which is exactly why father prefers you."

  Nothing. Adrien just stood there, and the silence between them stretched thin enough to cut.

  Lucien broke it with a clap. "Enough politics. I need actual entertainment."

  "You have an entire camp."

  "I'm bored with them."

  He grabbed his fur coat. Sable, imported, worth a house. He pushed through the canvas flap. The cold hit like a slap. Outside, the camp spread across the snowfield under a sky with no stars, just the orange glow of thousands of small fires. Soldiers moved between the tents like they were already dead, just waiting to fall over.

  Lucien's eyes moved across it all.

  "I'm going to find new toys."

  The guards fell in behind him as he stepped into the dark. Adrien watched him go. He let out a barely audible sigh and retrieved his own coat, heading toward his command tent on the camp's far side. He always put it there. As far from Lucien's noise as possible.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Lucien walked the muddy rows. Passed a group of regular soldiers kicking someone in the dark uniform of a penal asset. The man wasn't even screaming anymore. Lucien kept walking.

  Then, a girl crouched by a small fire, stirring an iron pot. Her hands caught his attention. Clean, delicate, wrong for this place.

  Lucien licked his lips. Walked right up to her fire.

  "What are you making?"

  She froze. Looked up. Saw the gold embroidery on his coat and went pale as the snow around them.

  "S-soup, Your Highness. Wild herbs. From the march."

  A young soldier hurried out of a nearby tent, inserting himself between them, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched his knees.

  "Is there anything you need, Your Highness?"

  The boy's voice shook. He'd been standing there the whole time, Lucien realized, or maybe not. Either way, he hadn't registered. He looked past the soldier, keeping his eyes on the girl's hands, the way they trembled around the wooden spoon.

  "I'd like you to serve me tonight," Lucien said. "In my tent."

  "W-what?"

  The girl's face crumpled. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  "We're engaged," the young soldier said, stepping forward, hands raised like he could placate a prince with posture. "Your Highness, I beg you..."

  Lucien snapped his fingers.

  The soldier’s head exploded. It was sudden, with no sign, no trace of mana in the air. Just the spray. Bone chips, red mist, something heavier hitting the snow with a wet sound. The body stood for half a second, then folded.

  "It seems you people still don't understand your place," Lucien said. He wiped a drop of blood from his cheek with a silk handkerchief, checking it for stains.

  The girl had her fiancé's blood across her face. Her mouth was open, screaming, but no sound came out. Just the shape of horror, silent and complete.

  Lucien sighed. The mood was ruined.

  He turned to his guards. "You can take her."

  They bowed, smiles spreading that didn't reach their eyes. "Thank you, Your Highness."

  He ignored the shrieks that started as they dragged her toward the treeline. His eyes moved across the field.

  Then he saw her.

  Silver hair, firelight catching it. She sat in the penal section, leaning against some massive brute of a man, talking to the people around her like they were all sitting in a tavern somewhere warm. Not cowering. Not even pretending to.

  Lucien felt his lips curve.

  "Well."

  He walked toward their fire. The penal assets scattered, pressing into the mud, heads down. All of them except the silver-haired girl.

  Sera looked up slowly.

  Lucien circled her, smiling bright. "Your name?"

  "Sera."

  Calm. Flat, even.

  "How refreshing." He leaned down, close enough to smell whatever cheap soap she used. "Serve me tonight."

  Silence spread through the penal section like a physical thing.

  Garrick's hands closed into fists. Elira went still, her eyes on Lucien's throat. Nyx shifted, and Lucien caught the glint of steel in her palm.

  Sera just looked at him.

  Then smiled.

  "Well?" Lucien asked.

  She stood, brushing snow from her skirt with deliberate care. "As you wish, Your Highness."

  They walked back in silence. The guards stayed outside as Lucien gestured. The canvas flap dropped.

  Inside, the heat wrapped around them. Lucien's smile returned, the arrogant one. He watched her approach, taking in the beauty of her. It was undeniable. But more than that, there was something in her eyes. Something he couldn't name.

  "Please relax, Your Highness," she whispered.

  He chuckled, reaching for her waist. "I'm already relaxed."

  They sat on the edge of the bed, silk whispering beneath them. Her hand rested light against his bare chest.

  Nothing. For a moment, just the warmth of her palm.

  Then Lucien felt his own face change. Felt the heat rising up his neck, the blood pounding in his ears. He looked down. Looked back up at her.

  "What," he whispered, "did you do?"

  Sera's smile widened, just slightly. "Nothing, Your Highness."

  His jaw tightened until his teeth ground, audible. He tried to summon it. The familiar heat, the want that was always there, ready. His body ignored him. Nothing. Not even a flicker.

  Outside, one of the guards coughed, shifting in the cold.

  Lucien stood so fast he nearly tripped on the rugs. Stared at her, at the amusement in her eyes that burned worse than any fire. Humiliation flooded him, hot and thick, making it hard to breathe.

  He forced a laugh. It sounded hollow, even to him.

  "Well."

  The coat went on quick, hiding everything. "How incredibly disappointing." He turned away, jabbing a finger toward the flap. "Get. Out."

  He watched her leave, chest heaving, rage locked behind his teeth.

  The guard came a few minutes later. "Prince Adrien requests your presence. Matters regarding the Princess."

  Lucien nodded. Followed him out into the freezing night, walking fast through the mud. His face stayed calm, the mask perfect. His hands shook in his pockets where no one could see.

  He passed the penal section again.

  Sera was already back at her fire. Garrick sat beside her, shoulders stiff. Nyx had arranged herself on a frozen log.

  Lucien stopped in the shadow of a supply wagon.

  Nyx raised an eyebrow. "Back early. Was the prince that weak?"

  Sera warmed her hands at the flames. "I used a spell," she said, casual, like discussing the weather. "He won't be getting his cock up for a while."

  Nyx stared. Then burst out laughing, kicking her boots against the log. Oren's laugh cut sharp across the cold air. Even Elira, quiet in the dark, made a sound that might have been a chuckle.

  They were laughing. The scum of the Empire, the disposable, the marked. Laughing at him.

  Lucien stood in the shadows and listened to it echo inside his skull. His jaw tightened until he tasted copper.

  Never. Not once, not ever, in his entire life.

  He had never been this humiliated.