Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 347 The Shadow Beneath the Throne
"Beneath the crown lies a script that fate cannot write."

And sometimes, the princes wrote about flames.

—Excerpt from "Royal Drama Catalogue: Unpublished Edition"

Tonight, Prince Orion's residence, located on the west side of Trelian Palace, is ablaze with lights.

The intricately carved gilded chandelier cast a soft glow, reflecting the nonchalant smiles and hidden schemes of the nobles.

In the center of the three-story main hall, pairs of women in elegant silk boots twirled gracefully, while delicate feather fans swayed subtly between the fingers of noblewomen.

Ribbons and tassels fluttered dreamily amidst the music and aroma of wine, as if at that moment, the heartbeat of the entire empire was gently tapping at the instant the crystal glass and golden saucer met.

His queen, Sophie Barletta, wore a pale red silk dress, the hem of which swayed lightly as she walked, like night mist skimming the ground.

She moved gracefully along the edge of the dance floor, her usual refined smile on her face, her eyes like spiderwebs silently unraveling in the dead of night.
Every gentle encounter touches the darkest corners of the heart with unerring precision.

"I heard that the church has recently purged a lot of people again, and it seems that Pota Street can hardly accommodate any 'normal people' anymore."

"The noble guards were once again rebuffed outside the camp. Those soldiers dared to directly refuse the nobles, which was a blatant act of disobeying the king's orders."

"Moreover, it seems that His Highness Edel has even changed the regulations for life marks in the military, and the royal decree from the throne has not yet been issued... It's really strange."

The words drifted through the air like silk threads, light yet cold, like tiny needles silently piercing the order of the royal court.

Orion sat on the dimly lit second-floor balcony, the obsidian railing as cold as his face.

His fingers lightly gripped a glass of deep red wine, which reflected the dazzling lights of the hall, while his other hand tightly clutched a crumpled secret letter:
"Yesterday, the second prince, Edel, publicly refused to cooperate with the Church's Holy Fire Enforcement Team under the guise of 'military family protection order,' and the entire southwestern military camp of the capital is now under his control."

"The two main guard units that previously obeyed the orders of the noble generals have been replaced by Edel's orders, and in their place are the old troops of retired numbered soldiers."

"No one dares to obey His Highness Orion's orders now."

Every word was like a scorching blade, piercing deep into his pupils and stirring up unspeakable anger and unease.

“Edel…” he murmured, his voice hoarse and cold like a blade scraping against sand, “You actually want to take my throne?”

Orion tilted his head back and gulped down the liquor in his glass. The fiery liquid burned intensely deep in his throat, but it still couldn't extinguish the rage in his chest.

The empire's first crown prince was ignored and reduced to a mere ornament in this theater of power and destiny.

He suddenly crushed the wine glass in his hand, the glass shards piercing his palm, blood trickling through his fingers and dripping onto the secret letter, reflecting a shocking crimson.

Downstairs, Sophie seemed to sense something, her eyes darted around, and she quickly and calmly climbed the steps.

She approached Orion without a trace of panic, only slightly furrowing her brows, and calmly took out a piece of silk embroidered with the family crest, gently wrapping his wound.

“Your Highness, why must you personally get angry?” Her voice was soft and gentle, yet it held a sharp edge. “It’s just Edel putting on a show.”

Orion snorted coldly, his eyes filled with bitterness and ruthlessness: "He can command thousands of troops by putting on a show. But if I open my mouth, the world will only call me a tyrant."

Sophie gazed at his face, her voice low and firm:
"Your Highness is regarded as a tyrant only because you have not yet made a clear enemy for yourself."

Orion looked up at her, his gaze shifting from confusion to a deep, unfathomable intensity. His tone grew colder, his voice as low as a sharp blade in the cold night.
"The enemy?"

“Very well…then I will personally make that lowly writer, the Lord of Morning Stars—Siming, an enemy of the Empire.”

His gaze fell upon the map spread out on the table, where the three gilded characters depicted the thirteenth island of tranquility.

In the dim candlelight, it seemed as if thorns were driven deep into the depths of his eyes, vivid and sharp.

In the secluded depths of the east corridor on the second floor, the silver-branched crystal chandelier, like the silent swaying branches in a secluded forest, casts indifferent and cold light and shadow.

The ebony door to the private room at the far end was half-closed, and two silent royal guards stood guard outside.
The halberd stood solemnly, its cold blade reflecting a chilling light in the candlelight, as if it could tear a person apart at any moment.

Inside the door, the dim firelight illuminated the silhouettes of a pair of twins.

Arthur sat upright at one side of the long table, his black robe impeccably tailored, his slightly disheveled black hair falling across his forehead.
The quill pen in his hand trembled slightly, its tip inadvertently touching the rim of the wine glass, producing an extremely subtle sound—like a silent yet exquisite drama being casually composed by him.

Meanwhile, Victorian, dressed in a twilight blue gown, reclined languidly on the sofa.

Her fingertips gently twirled a string of pearls from Harlan, the light dancing between her fingers like ripples on a shallow pond under the moonlight, caused by a stone quietly thrown in.

Victoria raised her eyes slightly and asked casually:

Do you think he'll come tonight?

Arthur didn't look at her, but only sighed softly, his tone as calm as falling dust:
“If he doesn’t come, he’s destined to be a failed supporting character in the Imperial Theater. But if he does come, we can make him the ‘necessary villain’ in our story.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the door was slowly pushed open.

Prince Orion stepped inside, the guards behind him bowed slightly and stepped back, the door closing softly behind him.

It cut off all sounds from outside the corridor, leaving only an indescribable feeling of suffocation flowing through the room.

“Brother.” Arthur stood up and smiled, his posture gentle and respectful, yet containing an unfathomable distance and indifference.

Victoria didn't move, only tilted her head and raised the corner of her lips, her smile as cold as ice water covered with frost:
"You're still up so late, do you perhaps wish to invite us to dance with you atop the crown?"

Orion did not answer immediately. His gaze slowly swept over the brother and sister, who had never been close to each other, his expression as cold as ice.

He always remembered his father's words, which sounded like a curse: "Only half of their blood belongs to you."

But tonight, he temporarily cast those words into the deeper darkness.

Orion finally spoke, his voice low and strained, barely concealing an emotion he was unwilling to reveal:
“I need your help. Help me to truly ascend the throne of this crumbling empire.”

Arthur nodded calmly and responded softly:
"But what we're more concerned about is, what are you willing to give up?"

Orion frowned slightly and asked in a low voice:

What do you want?

Victoria's smile suddenly took on a sharp, striking quality.
She spoke softly, her voice carrying a hidden, irresistible allure:

"The autonomy of the Haran Islands."

Orion's eyebrows twitched slightly, and he gave a cold snort:

"Harlan? That island where the palace was burned down and only ruins remain, you still can't let it go?"

Victorian's gaze sharpened, and she slowly straightened up, her tone as gentle yet cold as a sea breeze:
"The island did not sink; the fire burned away only a false crown. And the people of Harlan still remember their king, who was never called Trean, but only Arthur and Victorian."

Silence spread through the room, like the invisible frost under the firelight, solidifying between the three.

After a moment, Orion finally responded coldly:
"Harlan is yours. But don't expect your islanders to interfere in the affairs of the capital."

Arthur leaned forward slightly, his eyes bright, his voice low and slow:
"Rest assured, brother, what we want is never the capital, but the 'future'. You only need to become our 'king'."

Victoria added with a smile, her tone playful yet subtly sharp:

“You don’t need to be nervous. After all, in the script, the one who truly controls destiny is the king, and we are just—the narrators behind the scenes.”

Orion's clenched fist trembled slightly for a moment before finally relaxing. He turned and walked towards the door, but before stepping out, he turned back and asked in a deep voice:
"You really won't betray me?"

Arthur had his back to him, not turning around, but his voice was as precise and cold as a lifeline:
"Your Majesty, you should not fear your shadow."

"But the shadow will always ascend the throne before the main body."

The door closed softly behind him, leaving only the two people sitting quietly inside. Arthur lowered his head, his grip on the quill pen tightening slowly, the nib cracking silently from the excessive pressure.
"In the end, he still stepped into the scene we had written about."

Victoria gazed quietly at the sea pearl in her hand, a faint light gleaming in her eyes:

Do you remember what your father once said?

"The throne belongs only to those who know how to wait."

The two smiled at each other.

The reflection in the mirror already sits regally beneath the crown that no one has yet truly placed on it, in the deserted darkness.

In the north wing of the palace, before the morning light had dispelled the thin mist that lingered above the dome, pale gray light streamed down from the rose window, quietly falling upon a piece of glass with a life pattern.

This piece of glass is engraved with the ever-present symbol of the Treon royal family—the blue lion crest.

The patterns that were once as glorious as the burning sun now tremble weakly like embers in the cold light of early morning.

Liseria, draped in an ivory-colored gauze nightgown, sat quietly by the fireplace in the study, her hair shimmering with a golden glow in the flickering firelight, like sunlight from bygone days.

What lay before her was not the usual fairy tale poem scroll, but densely packed medical records filled with annotations, a spectrum diagram of fluctuating life lines, and pages of prophetic symbols.

There are also handwritten astrological data and destiny intervention charts that she personally wrote down.

Her gaze swept over the jumbled scrolls and landed on the distant palace.

That was the bedchamber of her father, Henrian VII—the Lion of the Empire.

At this moment, the life runes that once burned on his supreme throne are quietly collapsing.

She knew deep down that the tower now resembled a crumbling tomb.

The door opened slightly, and the maid Marlene cautiously entered the room, bowing her head and whispering:

"Your Highness, the imperial physician has brought the latest news... Even if His Majesty's life lines are maintained with the secrets of fate, it will be difficult to stop the collapse."

Liseria paused for a moment, then slowly put down her pen, wearily rubbed her temples, and sighed softly:

“I know… that the fate mark is ultimately not a miracle. It is the afterglow of history, not a door to escape the judgment of fate.”

Her voice was soft, but her words felt as if reality had pressed down hard on her chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.

She slightly raised her eyes and looked again at the star chart hanging beside the desk, her gaze drifting among the stars:

“I’ve tried everything, Marlene. I’ve used my astrological chart to predict three possible futures.”
He even risked initiating a mysterious self-ignition ritual, but the trajectory of his father's fate lines remained irreversible, like the receding tide…

She paused, then asked softly:

Have you ever heard of the 'last glimmer of light' before the life runes burn out?

Marlene paused for a moment, then nodded gently, her voice trembling slightly:

“I’ve heard that it’s the most irreversible omen in horoscope reading. Legend has it that people who enter this stage will be completely erased by fate within seven days.”

Liseria closed her eyes, as if sinking into deeper darkness:
"If my prediction is correct... the throne will be completely vacant within twenty-six days."

As soon as he finished speaking, silence flooded the room like a tide.

Marlene gazed silently at the princess before her, but the whispers in the palace corridors from the previous night involuntarily surfaced in her mind.

His Highness Edel has already issued a military order to resolutely resist the church's infiltration, thus stabilizing the morale of the military families in Pota Street;
Orion, however, remained immersed in his lavish yet empty dance floor of power;
Medici, under the guise of the "Sacred Fire Act," transformed the entire capital city into the domain of her divine authority.

The name of the monarchy still exists, but the lifeline has long since shattered into countless pieces beneath the crown.

Marlene mustered her courage and whispered:

"Your Highness...would you still like to see Si Ming again? Perhaps he can point you to one last path."

Liseria slowly shook her head, her gaze fixed on the tattered page of the Morning Star newspaper on the table, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible:

“I’m scared, Marlene. I’m scared to see his eyes again, to see the ‘ending’ he already knew all along…”

She leaned back in her chair, gazing at the obscure words in the shadows, and murmured:

"We are ultimately just characters in a theater, and I once thought I was just an audience member."

In the dead of night, the crystal clock in the north wing of the palace ticked away.

Moonlight streamed through the windowpanes, like the invisible hand of fate drawing eerie outlines on the carpet.

Lyseria lay on the soft bed, clutching a corner of the Morning Star shard in her hand.

She dared not fall asleep, because in her dreams, there was always an inescapable fear waiting for her.

Just now, she dreamed of her father.

Not the one on his sickbed, but the Henrian VII from her childhood memories, clad in silver armor, standing amidst a blizzard.

As she tried to call out, the figure slowly turned around, and the life-marks on its back turned to ashes.

It was scattered by the wind. Even more terrifying, a fire broke out beneath the throne, engulfing everything.

She wanted to shout, but no sound came out; she wanted to escape, but she couldn't move.

When she woke up, her clothes were soaked with cold sweat.

Marlene noticed the commotion, tiptoed closer, and whispered worriedly:

"Your Highness...you dreamed of fire again?"

Liseria nodded blankly, her voice trembling and weary:
"I dreamt that the crown fell from a great height, like stars shattering the throne."

Marlene remained silent for a while, then cautiously probed:

"Would you still like to see him?"

Liseria remained silent. She slowly rose, put on her robe, walked to the window, and pushed aside the velvet curtains.
Looking into the distance, those hazy and faint lights deep in the foggy city seem like countless dream lamps that have not yet been extinguished, still burning quietly in the depths of the night.

Finally, she spoke softly, her tone more resolute than ever before:
"Marlene, go prepare the horses."

"I want to see with my own eyes the person who writes destiny."

Marlene responded softly, "Yes, Your Highness."

But deep down, a silent prayer was offered:
"May you still find your lines in this theater."

Deep inside the staircase, lights illuminated one after another, like stage steps.

In the distance, the Thirteenth Quiet Island remained as silent as death, but the threads of fate had already been quietly stirred.

Fate won't knock on your door.

It will just sit there—waiting for you to open it.

—From *The Book of Dreams: Chapter on Fate: Jingdao's Commentary*

(End of this chapter)