The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

Campfire smoke curled against the cold dawn air, carrying with it the bitter tang of charred wood, the fatty sweetness of spitted meat, and the earth-heavy smell of boiled roots.

Beyond the canvas walls of the tent, the murmur of soldiers filled the chill morning—sharpening blades, tightening armor straps, the rough cadence of men readying for another day of bloodshed.

Lan sat cross-legged at a low table, Devil's Lie resting sheathed beside him, its rust-pitted blade wrapped in black leather that drank in the firelight.

His pale grey eyes reflected the wavering glow of a single lantern.

The flap stirred, and Miller entered. The Fourth Guard bowed his head slightly and held out a sealed letter.

"From Verdelane," he said. "The wax bears Duke Helard's crest."

Lan took it, his fingers lingering over the heavy seal impressed with a lion's maw. He studied it as though the weight of the invitation could be read in the wax itself, then broke it with a flick of his thumb. The parchment unfurled—its script was refined, elegant to the point of arrogance.

Prince Lanard Solaris,

Verdelane welcomes you. I wish to discuss terms of great importance to the both of us. I extend my invitation to you, to come as my guest. Together we might shape the South.

— Duke Helard of Verdelane

Lan's eyes traced the flourish at the bottom. The duke's hand was theatrical, almost conniving.

Outside, the restless weight of his men pressed against the camp. Every day caravans rattled past on the southern roads, wagons heavy with Verdelane's wine, silk, and spices—wealth flowing like blood, untouchable.

The men muttered of raids, of seizing what was denied them. They smelled the feast and starved at its gates.

Now came an invitation into the lion's den itself.

Lan folded the letter once, twice, then set it down. Silence stretched until the crackle of the fire was the only voice.

By morning, he gave his decision. Standing before his gathered lieutenants, his tone was quiet, yet every word carried the finality of iron.

"The army remains here. Keep drills sharp, keep the men ready. If the duke thinks this is a trap, he will learn how poorly bait works on me."

Only Miller would go with him.

---

The carriage ride into Verdelane was like stepping from shadow into sunlight.

Here, the land bloomed in gold and emerald. Vineyards stretched in precise rows across rolling hills, their grapes swelling fat and purple under the sun.

Villas of pale marble and red-tiled roofs glistened like scattered jewels across the countryside. Silk banners rippled from balconies, perfumed courtyards spilled laughter and lute-song into the streets, and the air was heavy with ripe sweetness of grapes.

Lan, staring through the carriage window, remained unreadable. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, an unspoken rhythm of thought. Miller sat opposite, spine stiff, gaze watchful. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his blade.

"It seems richer than Solaris itself," Lan murmured, his voice barely carrying over the clatter of wheels.

"It reeks of rot beneath the perfume," Miller replied.

The carriage passed beneath gates and onto the duke's estate. The grounds were vast—gardens carved into labyrinths, fountains sculpted from single slabs of white marble, statues of forgotten heroes posed in eternal triumph.

Guards in embroidered livery lined the paths, their spears polished more for ceremony than battle.

At the center rose the mansion itself: three stories of marble, its windows gleaming like polished gems, its steps broad enough for a procession of kings.

Inside, servants bowed so deeply it were as though they would die if they did otherwise. They were ushered through grand corridors lit with chandeliers dripping crystal, walls layered with velvet banners stitched in gold.

At last, the dining hall opened before them, a cathedral of indulgence.

The vaulted ceiling bore frescoes of gods in conquest, their painted eyes glaring down in immortal judgment. A long oak table stretched almost the length of the hall, groaning under the weight of a feast.

Whole pheasants roasted with herbs, venison glistening with honey glaze, baskets of steaming bread, bowls of figs and pomegranates, fish glazed with saffron butter, and wines spilling ruby and amber into jeweled goblets.

At the head of it all sat Duke Helard.

He rose when they entered. His body was broad, softened by indulgence, draped in clothes threaded with faint enchantments that shimmered like liquid.

Rings studded every finger, each jewel catching the light with almost deliberate ostentation. His hair, black streaked with silver, was slicked back with oils, polished until it gleamed like lacquer.

Yet his eyes—pale green, sharp as a hawk's—spoiled the softness. They were the eyes of a man who had learned long ago that survival required teeth.

"Prince Lanard," Helard said warmly, his voice rich with practiced charm. He spread his arms as though welcoming a prodigal son. "Verdelane welcomes you at last. Sit, sit. Eat. You've come far, and you must be starved."

Lan's expression did not shift. His voice was steady, cold as stone. "We are not hungry."

The refusal hung in the hall like frost. Miller moved to stand just behind Lan's shoulder, posture like a drawn blade.

Helard's smile twitched, but did not falter. He poured himself a cup of wine, swirling it lazily. "A pity. Our vintages are spoken of across the Empire. You bring protection with you, I see. Do you not trust me?"

Miller's eyes swept the hall in a single practiced motion—guards, exits, shadows, weapons. His reply was iron drawn across whetstone:

"If you believe his highness needs my protection, then you still do not understand who sits before you."

The duke chuckled, sipping from his cup.

"Oh, I understand. The god of the north. The weak prince who became a warlord, raised from betrayal and suffering. Do you think Verdelane deaf to whispers? No, no. I know you especially well, Prince Lanard—since you were the one who ended Duke Veyl, the last master of these lands."

The name struck the hall like a tolling bell.

Lan's eyes narrowed, cold steel honing to a point. "What do you want?"

Helard let silence stretch, savoring the weight of it. He set his goblet down, leaned forward, and spread his jeweled hands across the feast as though offering the wealth of kingdoms. His smile was slow, deliberate, predatory.

"What do I want?" he said softly. "I want to offer you everything I have."

The words fell into the chamber like stones into a still lake. The chandeliers seemed to flicker, the painted gods reaching higher.

The feast itself twisted under the weight of the moment—no longer abundance, but grotesque excess, a mask over sharpened intentions.

Lan did not answer at once. His gaze locked on Helard, pale and cutting, not measuring the words but the shadow of truth buried beneath them.