Lucon sat alone in a dark empty theater with no one else in attendance. Music blared from a band that wasn’t there, beautiful and chaotic. On the brightly lit stage, everyone he knew danced.

  His parents. His brother. Friends, servants, merchants, tutors. Faces familiar and dear, all moving in perfect rhythm, expressions empty, steps precise.

  “Father!” Lucon shouted over the music, pushing forward to stand before the stage. “Mother! Claude!”

  No one responded. He tried others, even Klara and Lyris but none stopped to look at him.

  They danced on, eyes vacant, unaware of his presence.

  Then he saw the strings.

  Thin threads ran from their limbs and backs, vanishing upward into the darkness above. Lucon followed them with his gaze.

  His breath left his body.

  Above the stage stood a lone figure, glowing gold against the pitch black darkness. A puppeteer.

  It was himself. He was pulling the strings.

  But not himself. This Lucon had a confident air about him—more confident than Lucon had ever felt in years. Unlike the real Lucon, this puppeteer seemed capable, skilled, reliable. His hands moved tirelessly, fingers pulling the strings as those on stage below danced at his whim.

  “That’s me…?” Lucon murmured. He flinched. Despite the raucous music, the puppeteer looked at him when he spoke.

  Swirling starlight bloomed in the puppeteer’s eyes. Around his head, a golden halo glowed, shining down on the dancing puppets.

  Lucon steeled himself and gestured to those dancing.

  He demanded of the puppeteer, “Let them go.”

  “I am doing this for us,” the puppeteer said, his voice drowning out the music, echoing through the theater. “We want to be free. But to be free, they must play their parts.”

  “Stop it!” Lucon roared at his doppelganger. “Let them go! They’re not your puppets!”

  The puppets danced on.

  ***

  Lucon awoke shouting, “Stop!”

  He was in his own bed. Something sweet and bitter clung heavily to the air. A long pipe sat on the nightstand next to him. There could only be Tanper Leaf inside—a hallucinogenic drug that elicited ecstasy—an old favorite from his wastrel days. Empty liquor bottles were stacked neatly against the far wall, glass catching faint light shining through the cracks in the curtain.

  Lucon groaned, clutching his side.

  Pain covered him everywhere—but especially along his spine from all his back bending evasion.

  Healing, he thought. I need healing.

  He paused.

  The world was…quiet.

  Something was missing.

  The Flow. It wasn’t there.

  The vibrant, overwhelming currents of the world—gone. It all had vanished as though they never existed.

  More importantly—He was back.

  All the emotions he’d been ignoring last night rushed back in. He pinched his arm, wincing at the pain.

  But something was wrong.

  Thoughts—schemes, contingencies, manipulations—spun through his mind, layered and intricately woven, the amount of it all too vast to grasp. Plans within plans, motivations that felt like they belonged to someone who couldn’t cry or feel pain.

  Lucon clutched his head and groaned, unable to parse it all.

  The dream surfaced in his memory—the puppeteer. The stage. The strings. The other him.

  “I am doing this for us. We want to be free.”

  Lucon nearly jumped when the door opened. Hilda stepped inside, her face brightening the moment she saw him awake.

  “Master! You’re up!” she chirped. She walked over, not with a tray of water or medicine, but with a fresh bottle of liquor. She held it out to him with a hopeful smile. “I sneaked this out of the kitchen for you!”

  Lucon stared at it, confused.

  “…No,” he said slowly. “I don’t want that.”

  Hilda paused.

  “Oh,” she replied, not putting the bottle away.

  Bringing liquor the moment he awoke as if he was still a wastrel. He saw it then—a flicker of disappointment in Hilda’s eyes. She masked it quickly, but the Flow’s absence didn’t blind him to the tells of a face he’d known for years.

  A sudden thought surfaced in his mind, unbidden: Chance of betrayal. Use an excuse to distance myself from Hilda. Let Bethea take her place. That will help solidify Kaeson’s loyalty and reduce the impact of possible betrayal affecting my plans.

  Lucon became rigid.

  Those weren’t impulses. They were calculations. Clean. Efficient. Cold.

  Not mine.

  The other Lucon—the one from the dream—those were his thoughts. His schemes. His way of seeing people as pieces on a board.

  Lucon remembered it all now. The Ambrosia in his soul, when it came in contact with alcohol, it turned him into…someone different.

  Hilda was still standing there, bottle held awkwardly between them, waiting—just in case he changed his mind.

  His maid certainly had secrets…

  “Hilda,” he said carefully, keeping his voice gentle. “Can I…ask you something?”

  Hilda nodded with a smile. “Of course.”

  “Is now a good time,” Lucon continued slowly, “to talk about…why you have a Mana Pool?”

  The effect was immediate.

  Hilda went rigid, as if he’d shoved her to the ground.

  The bottle lowered a fraction. Her smile vanished. Sorrow shimmered in her round eyes.

  She whispered, “…You said we didn’t have to talk about that.”

  Lucon’s chest tightened. He reached out to her, to the last person who hadn’t given up on him. Why did he make someone like her feel so sad? He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want that. Not for her.

  “I-I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to push. I just thought—Hilda, wait—”

  But she was already backing away.

  “No, I’m sorry, master….” she said, shaking her head.

  She then turned and rushed for the door.

  “Hilda!” Lucon called. “Hilda, wait—!”

  The door shut behind her.

  Lucon slumped back against the headboard.

  More troubling thoughts bubbled up—more outlined plans. They weren’t just about moving people; they were about containing them. Contingencies for if anyone resisted. Plans to neutralize influence. And, in the worst-case, chilling outlines for removal—permanent removal—if any piece on the board became immovable.

  He shook his head vigorously.

  No. These plans aren’t mine.

  Hands clenched around the blankets, he made a vow. He would never listen to that other self’s thoughts again. The Ambrosia Lucon appeared when he drank. That meant he would never drink again. His gaze drifted to the long pipe on the nightstand. He would never smoke again.

  That other cold, calculating version of him would be starved out of existence.

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  The bottle Hilda brought in stared back at him from the nightstand. She had left it, as if she was still offering it to him.

  The calculating voice whispered in his mind: She likes when I drink.

  Lucon ignored it, swinging his legs off the bed and nearly collapsing as pain flared up his spine. Gritting his teeth, he limped toward the door.

  He needed to find Hilda and apologize.

  In the corridor, he nearly collided with a young maid carrying a tall stack of folded linens. She wobbled, and Lucon instinctively reached out to steady the pile.

  “Oh! Forgive me, milord!” she blurted, bowing her head as he helped her.

  “It’s fine, it was my fault—” Lucon began, but stopped mid-sentence.

  She was beaming at him. The servants were deferential, sometimes fearful, often quietly exasperated. They never smiled so wide. Not when he was in sight.

  “Do you need any help, Young Lord?” she asked, her voice warm.

  “No,” Lucon murmured quietly. “I’m fine.”

  But her smile didn’t fade. If anything, her eyes grew misty with emotion before she gave another quick bow and scurried off, still smiling.

  Lucon moved on, confused. He passed more servants in the halls—a groundskeeper, a pair of scullery maids, an older valet. Each one bowed, and each one met his eyes with the same heartfelt smile.

  He didn’t understand. It was as if he’d walked into the wrong manor.

  Pausing at a corridor window that overlooked the stable yard, he tried to make sense of it. A memory of last night surfaced: "I'm sorry, Claude…for not being a good brother."

  He had said that. He had meant it. The jealousy that had festered for years, the resentment that painted Claude as a rival, had been…absent. The Ambrosia Lucon had said the words, but it was clear the message came from him, filled with the regretful love he’d been too proud and too hurt to voice.

  Another memory followed: handing gold to a weeping Bethea for her mother. Then, later, sitting with the families of the men who had died in the Wilderwood, handing them not just compensation, but speaking their sons’ and husbands’ names. Recalling a brave stand here, a shared joke there, ensuring they were remembered as men, not just casualties. He remembered their grateful, tear-streaked faces, the weight of their hands clutching his in thanks.

  Lucon stood at the window, the afternoon sun warming the glass, and felt the world tilt on its axis.

  The Ambrosia Lucon—the puppeteer, the schemer, the cold-hearted calculator—had done these things. He had apologized. He had provided. He had brought comfort.

  The monster in his dream had done all the things the "real" Lucon had only ever dreamed of doing. Lucon had wanted to compensate those families, he already knew Kaeson’s mother was sick, and he knew servants went unpaid.

  But he only ever dreamed of making a difference.

  The Ambrosia Lucon actually made that dream a reality.

  Lucon stood quietly as he watched horses get brushed by the stableboy outside. The schemes, the plots, the help provided—he didn’t know what to think of it all anymore.

  “Greetings, Young Lord.”

  Lucon turned and stumbled back, nearly losing his footing. Before him stood Warren, the House Treasurer—a man with the dignity of one who did his job well, and eyes accustomed to calculating far more than just numbers. He was Peytr’s father.

  “Treasurer Warren,” Lucon greeted nervously. “Good morning.”

  “It’s past noon,” Warren corrected, adjusting his spectacles.

  “Then good afternoon then,” Lucon corrected. He didn’t fear the House Treasurer, but Warren always reminded him of his father but without the pleasant personality.

  “I hear,” Warren stated, “you’ve seen fit to reintroduce my son to his old habits.”

  Warren didn’t merely stand in the corridor; he occupied it. He was a pillar of the household—unyielding, integral, and weathered by decades of steering House Edelyn’s fortunes. He was less a man and more an institution. During Lord Auric’s rise, Warren had not just kept the books—he had weaponized them. In merchant circles, some had once, only half-jokingly, dubbed him the “Accounting Hero.”

  A cold, analytical stream of thought surfaced in Lucon's mind:

  Major obstacle. Core of Father's administrative control. Emotional leverage point: his son. Create a rift between them. Exploit his advanced age, suggest declining competence to the others in the treasury. Isolate, then suggest early retirement.

  Lucon recoiled internally. Just when he was having positive feelings toward Ambrosia Lucon, these ruthless thoughts intruded…

  And Warren was right, wasn’t he? Lucon remembered Peytr had drank because of him.

  "I…I'm sorry about Peytr," Lucon began. "Believe me, I wasn’t in my right mind when I—"

  Warren cut him off with a raised hand, the gesture final. "Save your apologies, Young Lord. Your father will see to it that order is restored."

  Lucon stiffened. Order is restored. The phrase was benign, but it carried the weight of coming judgment. The sinking feeling of anxiety filled his stomach.

  "I…I feel unwell," Lucon managed, trying to escape.

  "Indeed," Warren said, his sharp eyes having already noticed Lucon’s struggling posture. "You look it. Perhaps you should seek out Monk Georgi."

  The suggestion, though delivered with frost, was a lifeline. Georgi. Healing. It was the first sensible course of action anyone had offered.

  "Thank you," Lucon said, the words automatic as he began to shuffle past.

  As he moved away, Warren's voice followed him. "I hope you are ready, Young Lord Lucon."

  Lucon paused, glancing back.

  Warren adjusted his spectacles, expression solemn. "Taking on your father is a monumental task. Many before you have tried, every single one of them failed."

  A polite, confused smile touched Lucon's lips. He didn't understand the man's meaning, not fully. He just nodded and turned, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Is father angry at me again? he wondered.

  First, Georgi. Heal the body.

  Then, find Hilda. Everything else comes after.

  He aimed his unsteady steps toward the manor's house temple, where the monk resided. It was a private sanctuary modeled after any Merciful Temple one might find across the continent.

  At the far end of the temple, between two stained-glass windows that cast colored light across the floor, stood the serene statue of the Merciful Goddess. The room held only two short rows of pews. In the front-most row, Georgi occupied the bench, his hulking silhouette somewhat humorous as he was hunched over, reading a small book held in his broad hands.

  Georgi turned to look back. His expression, serene a moment ago, shifted from surprise to a knowing smirk as he took in Lucon’s disheveled state.

  “Young Lord,” Georgi said, setting the book aside. “How many times do I have to tell you that my healing can’t fix a hangover? You should know that from your temple training—if you paid attention, that is.”

  Despite his words, the monk looked as though he wanted to ask Lucon something else. But as a childhood friend, Lucon knew the monk was merely teasing for now.

  “It’s not a hangover,” Lucon said, his voice strained. “I feel like I’ve been bent in half.”

  Georgi saw Lucon was struggling to stay upright.

  “Come here,” he urged, gesturing for Lucon to sit next to him.

  Lucon stumbled forward and eased himself onto the bench. Georgi put a hand over Lucon.

  [Pray for Mercy]

  Golden light surrounded Lucon, sinking into him like sunlight into cold skin. The healing wrapped him in waves of warmth that soothed the injuries plaguing his body.

  He sighed, “My thanks, Georgi. I wish my healing magic was anywhere near as powerful…”

  Metallic clattering made him focus on a donation plate being pushed in front of him, coins shifting around inside.

  “Your thanks is more than enough to receive the goddess’s Mercy,” Georgi responded, but his actions were contradictory.

  Lucon’s mouth became a thin line and tossed a few coins inside. The plate remained.

  “Just strip my pockets bare, why don’t you?” Lucon rolled his eyes and tossed more money in. “There. Good enough?”

  Georgi smiled with a nod and put the donation plate away.

  “You’re still the same,” Lucon grumbled, remembering the old domineering Georgi who didn’t take “no” for an answer. He even earned the name “Tyrant” for always getting what he wanted.

  “The people of the barony need Mercy,” Georgi grinned. “But well-wishes and thanks don’t pay for food.”

  Lucon exhaled. Then his gaze drifted upward.

  The Merciful Goddess watched over the temple in silent grace, hands held out to offer Mercy, expression serene.

  She’s actually more beautiful than that statue, Lucon thought, remembering her presence that he met in his soul. His eyes fell to the statue’s chest. That part was a lot bigger too…

  Lucon shifted in his seat uncomfortably, knowing such thoughts in the temple was blasphemous. The hard edge of Georgi’s book poke him as he moved. Looking down, he read the title, “Gareth True-Heart: The Hero with the Truest Heart.”

  “I wanted to ask you Lucon,” Georgi began carefully. “About how you used holy power last night—”

  Lucon snorted as he picked up the book. “What are you, Georgi? A child? You’re still reading fairy tales.”

  Georgi flushed. “Th-That’s actually more historically accurate than the others.” He grabbed the book and flipped an illustration inside depicting Gareth’s entire Hero’s Party. “It tells you the backstory of each party member accurately and where they originated.”

  Lucon wanted to tease him more about reading fairy tales at their age when he stopped at the sight of the picture. As the Merchant Hero’s son—the Merchant Hero who funded this very party—most of the faces for the party members were drawn exactly how they looked in real life.

  He paused at one of the unfamiliar faces. He couldn’t think of their name.

  Unaware, Georgi continued making his case. “And all the monsters in the book are actual ones Gareth’s party defeated!”

  The word “monster” brought Lucon back.

  “Georgi, a question,” Lucon began carefully, closing the book. “If a monster saves people…does that still make it a monster?”

  Georgi paused, his brow furrowing slightly.

  “A monster is defined by its nature, not by a single act,” he said slowly. “Yet, if it chooses to save another, that choice plants a seed of something new within it. What grows from that seed may no longer be a monster at all.”

  Lucon stared at the colored light on the floor. “What if the saving…isn’t really saving? What if the monster is only doing it to further its own ambitions?”

  The monk’s expression grew more serious. “Then it is not true saving. It is a farmer sparing the pig to fatten it for later slaughter. The act is the same, but the heart behind it defines the truth.”

  Lucon hadn’t asked about monsters out of idle curiosity. He had asked because the Ambrosia Lucon—cold, brilliant, terrifying—had saved people. Had done good. Real good.

  But hearing Georgi say it like that only grew his anxiety.

  Georgi studied him closely. “Does this…have something to do with whatever you and Peytr were plotting in the dining hall last night?”

  Lucon nearly waved it off, an instinct to protect the secret of his other self. But the moment he thought of last night, the dam broke.

  Important details of Ambrosia Lucon’s intricate plans burst into his conscious mind.

  He hadn’t merely jeopardized Petyr’s sobriety the night before—he had dragged him fully back into his old role. “Clean” Petyr, the clerk who could manipulate ledgers and erase a wastrel’s excesses as if they had never existed. Petyr had been ordered to cook the books, hiding the profits from the sale of the Mana Crystal—money used to pay the servants and compensate the families of fallen soldiers.

  The profits had to remain hidden—not only to protect the secrecy of the crystal trade but to prevent Auric from squandering the wealth on charities and causes outside the barony’s interests.

  Lucon then thought about House Treasurer Warren confronting him. It hadn’t been idle talk. Ambrosia Lucon had already made his move, openly challenging his father’s authority over the barony.

  He’s already started the coup, Lucon realized, his palms slick with sweat.

  But there was something worse. Something immediate.

  A tattooed face appeared in his mind.

  Skhav.

  Mana crystals. Not just trading them—growing them. The operation would be done in the Wilderwood, away from prying eyes.

  Cultivating raw magical power was a process that would act like a beacon, drawing in Mana Beasts.

  It could turn into a catastrophe that destroys the barony.

  “I have to go,” Lucon said abruptly, already moving toward the temple door.

  “Wait!” Georgi called after him, scrambling up. “I wanted to ask you—last night, during the duel, those holy spells…they were entirely new applications! How did you do that? There is no such thing as new holy spells.”

  Lucon paused to assess the greedy light in the monk’s eyes. When there was something Georgi wanted, the “Tyrant” would rear his head.

  Lucon thought for a moment.

  “You have to come with me to the Wilderwood, then I’ll tell you,” Lucon offered. Unlike himself, Georgi was a full-fledged monk with a great amount of merciful blessing. He would be helpful.

  “What is with you and going to the Wilderwood?” Georgi exhaled in exasperation.

  “You don’t have to come along.” Lucon shrugged, knowing the Tyrant couldn’t say no.

  “Fine. But I’m not getting involved in any fighting,” Georgi said, crossing his arms. “I’ll meet you at the stables.”

  Lucon nodded as he left the temple, thinking what he would tell Georgi when the monk found out he couldn’t use the same holy spells that he could before.