The corridors of the palace stretched endlessly before Ryan, their opulence muted by the late hour. Moonlight filtered through tall, arched windows, casting silver streaks across the marble floors. Kaelith's bare feet padded softly beside him, her arm locked around his waist as she half-dragged, half-supported him toward the royal wing.
His blood left a faint trail behind them, a crimson thread weaving through the shadows, but neither dared pause to clean it.
This area didn't have any guards at the moment, it usually never did. After all, this was close to Ryan's mother's room and she did not need any guards.
And since he didn't want to alert anyone, he had walked around the guards near his own room.
"Almost there, Your Highness," Kaelith whispered, her voice tight with effort. Her warmth pressed against his side, steadying him as his vision swam.
The wound on his head throbbed, each step sending a fresh spike of pain through his skull, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward. He needed strength—and he needed answers.
His mother surely had the former, and might also have the latter.
They reached a set of double doors, intricately carved with golden vines and crowned with the Armedius family crest.
Kaelith swallowed hard, then pushed the doors inward. They were locked.
Ryan knocked against it, a dull sound echoing in the corridor.
"Mother?" His voice rasped.
He knocked again. Silence.
Kaelith's eyes flicked to him. He jerked his head right. They moved, her arm tight around him, down a shadowed hall, past a dragon tapestry. A small door creaked open. Candlelight danced inside, a single flame on a table.
Lysandra stood by the window, violet night dress catching the glow of the candle while her face was contrasted by moonlight, with her strait black hair spilling like ink down her back. She turned. Soft purple eyes locked on him.
"Ryan…" Her voice hummed, soft and deep.
Two steps, and her fingers brushed his cheek, cool against his skin. Blood crusted his hair. She sank to her knees, gown fanning out, palms pressing his scalp.
A faint light flared beneath her hands. Warmth seeped in, slow at first, then steady. The ache dulled, the fog lifted. She drew back, his head clean, skin whole.
His beautiful mother was a Healer.
Her lips tilted up in a smile.
"Better?"
He nodded, breathing a deep sigh of relief. "I can finally think straight!"
Ryan's gaze then moved to mother—gown hugging her hips, pooling on the floor as she leaned back against it.
This was Lysandra.
Mother to two, Saintess to a Kingdom, the blood-sister of the King. A Princess of the Armedius Royal Family.
She was one of the strongest Healers in the continent's history, titled the Genetic Saintess by the populace. And due to that, she became the Saintess of the Kingdom, a position equal to the Queen, even though she was not married to the King.
Even though she was merely a Princess by name, her authority was much higher. Her sheer individual power gave her children, Ryan and Seraphina, the right to call themselves a prince and princess, even though they were not the children of the King.
True to her grace, his mother was also the Capital's number one beauty—even though she was more than 35 years old.
Overwhelmed by tiredness and the sense of safety she gave him, Ryan's body slumped in exhaustion. His eyes closed, and before he collapsed, he deliberately fell onto Lysandra's embrace, drained of all energy to hold himself up.
A smirk flickered on her face.
She caressed his back. "Look, you are all well again, just a bit tired."
Usually, she would have immediately made the palace enter a lockdown. Inwardly, she was also panicking at the fact of her own blunder.
An assassin!
That head wound had also been fatal enough to kill. It was a miracle that he was able to walk around with that wound. Almost as if he had gotten a partial healing beforehand.
Did someone save him?
Her face paled at the thought. Didn't that mean he would have died without that savior?
What if her son had died?
Her heart clenched at the thought.
The guards she had put in place had been too incompetent!
Or was the assassin too competent?
No. That also didn't make sense.
If he was so competent, how could Ryan still be alive?
She turned to Kaelith, her eyes sharpening. "So, what happened?"
Kaelith shook her head, a worried expression on her face. "I do not know, my lady... I just woke up to see Rya—His Higness wounded!"
Though she looked calm, Kaelith saw a storm hidden in Lysandra's eyes.
"Kaelith." Lysandra didn't look away from her son. "Fetch water."
The girl ran away with a look of worry.
Lysandra closed her eyes, wrapping her hand around Ryan's head and kissing the area where he had been wounded. At the same time, her senses slowly expanded.
She could suddenly feel everything around her, including her own son's heartbeat, slightly bloody smell, and warmth. Yet, what should have usually calmed her down made a wave of bloodlust erupt in her heart.
Where is the assasin?!
Soon, she contracted her senses back. The assassin was long gone.
…
Morning.
Ryan lay against his mother's lap, his arms draped around her waist, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath. She was warm. Meanwhile, the heat of her fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns against his scalp, lulling him into a hazy reluctance to wake.
Instead of waking up, he just looked up at her face.
In the flickering glow of early morning and still-lit lanterns, Lysandra's gaze was unreadable—cool, assessing, and yet laced with something tender as she looked towards the windows.
Seemingly noticing that he had woken up, she smiled.
He hid his head back on her lap. Ryan did not want to wake up.
She ran her hand across his scalp, gently massaging it. "You handled yourself well, even though it was luck that saved you," she said. "Not many would have walked away from an assassination attempt unscathed—body might heal easily, but the mind rarely does."
"Maybe I wasn't lucky," he grumbled into her thighs. "Maybe I just used my wits."
"Sure, sure, my prince. You are quick witted and capable, escaping the assassins with your schemes."
She ruffled his hair.
Ryan smiled. "They should have sent a better assassin."
Lysandra chuckled, and the sound was warm, rich. "They didn't expect you to survive. And that arrogance is why they failed."
Ryan looked up, his smile widening. "Heh, my momma knows me well. So, do you have any suspects, my lady?"
She nodded softly, almost amused. "This event reminded me that many would want you dead. After all, you are a legitimate heir to the throne and many people dislike that. Especially the actual royal heirs. But of all the suspects, three stood out to me."
"Tell me."
"For one, Duke Vermillion."
Ryan's hands tightened around her waist, memories stirring.
Duke Vermillion, he was a man who had turned scheming into an art form—the guy never made a move without envisioning three steps ahead.
The Duke's daughter had been put forth as a potential royal consort to Ryan many a times, though Lysandra rejected the proposal outright. After all, that marriage would have made Ryan a puppet prince with no freedom.
After that event, it would have been a matter of practicality for the Duke to erase Ryan entirely. That would give his own daughter a higher chance in marrying the next King.
No prince, no obstacle.
Of course, that would also mean antagonizing Lysandra and Ryan's sister, Princess Seraphina. So it was a question of whether the reward was worth the price.
But indeed, Duke Vermillion had a clear motive.
"Then?"
"House Calvert."
Ryan paused.
House Calvert's matriarch, Lady Eleanor, was more than just a noblewoman—she was the king's concubine and the true power behind the throne. She didn't build empires with steel, but with whispers and well-placed hands, ruling from the shadows.
Some feared her more than the king himself—the strongest man in the capital—whose constant military campaigns kept him away from the kingdom's affairs.
If Lady Eleanor was involved, this wasn't just about eliminating Ryan. His death wouldn't be the end—it would be the first move in a much larger game.
That bitch. She also had a clear motive—help her son, that dumb shit, climb the throne.
Ryan muttered in irritation.
Indeed, in a world where superhumans existed, keeping royal power was not an easy feat.
Then, he asked: "Why would she target me specifically, though?"
"Because you are a big fish which can be caught by a small hook. You have a high status, but you are weak, my son. If she wanted to move against anyone else, she would need much more resources. Even if she tried to kill your sister, she can't do that easily."
Annoyed, Ryan bit Lysandra's thigh.
"Ouch, stop that!" She gave a smack on his head. "I am just telling the truth."
"Who is the final suspect?" he asked.
"One of the other princes. Especially people from House Dainforth."
The most personal of the three.
Lady Dainforth's eldest daughter had been persistent. Too persistent.
A political match would have been beneficial to their house; a Puppet Prince would have been a great addition to help that princess climb the throne—and Ryan's rejection was something they had not taken lightly.
He had been quite mocking when he rejected them, so that was understandable.
To them, it wasn't just a refusal—it was an insult.
The kind that required retribution to save face.
He huffed. "Even if we dragged the assassin out into the open, announcing the assassination attempt, it wouldn't matter, right?"
Lysandra nodded her head slightly, watching him. "Yes, it wouldn't matter. Royals don't dirty their own hands, Ryan. You know that. Borrowed blades, whispers in the dark—no evidence sticks.
"Even if we shouted it from the spires, they'd just smile and cut off the borrowed hand."
The attack had been orchestrated through borrowed hands, distant blades wielded by men who did not even know the true masters they served. That was the way of noble games—every move calculated, every consequence planned for.
Ryan's survival had merely been an unexpected variable.
He frowned, burying his face in her thighs, feeling gloomy. "So it's a ghost hunt. No proof, no justice. Anyone can just come and try to kill me."
"This was a blind spot, I forgot to put strong enough guards for you and that will not happen again." She was firm with that.
"There are people stronger than our strongest guards. If they want me dead, they can hire such people as well."
She became silent.
"There are people stronger than you out there, mom."
He bit her thigh again, distressed.
She caressed his hair, silent herself.
"Then I just have to grow stronger," he suddenly said.
She nodded, forcing a smile. "Indeed, what if you can't become stronger physically, political and financial power is no joke."
He bit her thighs hard this time, making her ouch in pain.
"Stop that, now!"
He nodded. "Okay."
Since she was underestimating him so damn much, he would shock her one day. Shock her to her core. With power—not soft power like political or financial—but real, physical power. Now, he had abilities that made it possible.
He bit her thigh one last time, looking up challengingly at her.
She pinched his ears hard, making him scream in pain.