The morning mist clung to the Obsidian Harbor like a wet shroud. This was the edge of the Empire, where the salt of the sea met the stench of desperation.
Justine stood on the pier, her obsidian silk dress replaced by a practical, deep-crimson riding habit. She looked out at the Iron Leviathan, the jagged, black-hulled warship that would carry the Crown Prince to the Northern wastes.
In her previous life, she had stayed in bed this morning, nursing the "love bites" Red had left on her neck, blissfully unaware that the man who could have saved the Empire was being sent to a slow death.
"He’s coming," her personal guard, a man she had bought back from Red's influence only hours ago, whispered.
The sound of heavy iron chains rattling against stone announced his arrival. A contingent of Royal Guards marched toward the ship, their faces grim. In their center walked a man who looked less like a Prince and more like a captured god of war.
Prince Eric.
He was taller than the men surrounding him, his frame corded with the kind of muscle earned in dirt and blood, not the padded gyms of the palace. His hair was a dark, unruly mess, and a fresh scar ran jaggedly across his cheekbone—a parting gift from the "Saint" Lana’s secret assassins, Justine realized now.
He was bound in heavy mana-suppressing shackles, a testament to the "savageness" the King so feared.
As he reached the gangplank, Justine stepped forward, breaking the line of onlookers.
"Your Highness," she called out, her voice steady and ringing through the fog.
The guards leveled their pikes at her, but Eric stopped. He turned his head slowly, his amber eyes—bright, piercing, and terrifyingly intelligent—locking onto hers. This was the man the court called a "barbarian" because he refused to lie, and a "savage" because he fought with a ferocity that made cowards like Red tremble.
"Lady Justine," Eric’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in her chest. He looked at her with a flicker of recognition, then a dark, cynical smirk. "Come to see the beast off to his cage? Or did Red send you to make sure the chains are tight enough?"
Justine didn't flinch. She stepped closer, ignoring the pikes, until she was mere inches from the man who was supposed to die in the North.
"I came to give you something you’ll need if you intend to return and burn this city to the ground," she whispered, her voice too low for the guards to catch.
She reached out and pressed a small, cold object into his calloused palm. It was the Grand Duke’s Seal of Passage—a token that commanded the loyalty of the Northern supply routes, routes that Red intended to cut to starve Eric’s army.
Eric looked down at the seal, then back at her, his expression shifting from mockery to a dangerous, burning curiosity. He leaned down, his face so close she could smell the iron of his shackles and the faint scent of pine.
"This is treason, Lady Justine," he murmured, his eyes searching hers for the "vicious" woman he remembered. "Why help the 'Savage'?"
"Because the 'Savage' is the only one who can kill a 'Saint,'" Justine replied, her eyes flashing with a cold, shared understanding. "They expect you to die in three years, Eric. I’m giving you the means to conquer in two."
The guards shoved him forward, but Eric kept his eyes on her until he reached the deck of the ship. As the Iron Leviathan began to pull away, he didn't look at the palace or his father’s kingdom. He looked at the woman in crimson standing on the pier.
Justine watched him go, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. The pieces were moving. Red had his flowers; Lana had her mask.
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The Grand Duke’s study was a fortress of mahogany and the scent of ancient parchment. Her father, Duke Oakhaven, sat behind a desk carved from dark oak, his face a map of exhaustion and pride. In her past life, Justine had been his greatest weakness; he had adored her so blindly that he signed away the family’s soul just to see her smile.
"Justine, my jewel," the Duke said, looking up from a stack of requisitions. "Lord Red’s messengers have been hovering like vultures since dawn. They claim you’ve... restricted the flow of the Southern Treasury? Surely there is a mistake."
Justine walked to the center of the room, her movements fluid and commanding. She didn't sit. She placed a heavy, leather-bound ledger on his desk with a definitive thud.
"It is no mistake, Father," she said, her voice devoid of the youthful flightiness she had used to mask her intentions for years. "I have audited the accounts. For three years, we have been funding 'border skirmishes' and 'charity hospitals' managed by the Grand Vizier and Prince Red. Do you know where that gold actually went?"
The Duke blinked, startled by her tone. "To the stability of the throne, of course."
"It went to the private pockets of the 'Saint' Lana to buy the silence of the priesthood," Justine hissed, leaning over the desk. "And it went to mercenaries tasked with ensuring Prince Eric never sees a single shipment of grain or steel in the North. We are not supporting the Empire, Father. We are funding a slow-motion execution of the true heir."
The Duke’s face paled. "Justine, these are dangerous accusations. If the King—"
"The King is a man lost in the Queen’s bed, and the Queen is building a throne out of our bones," she interrupted. She took her father’s hand, her grip surprisingly firm. "Red is a parasite.
He doesn't love me; he loves the Oakhaven crest. If you continue to sign these papers, you are signing my death warrant. In three years, they will frame us for the very coup we are currently paying for."
The Duke looked into his daughter’s eyes and saw a woman he didn't recognize—a woman who had walked through fire and come out cold. "What would you have me do?"
"Redirect it all," Justine commanded. "Every copper destined for Red’s 'charities' is to be sent North under the guise of 'independent trade.' Secure our private knights. By the time the Royal Gala begins tonight, I want Red to realize that the hand that fed him has turned into a fist."
