Incést Geass

"How dare he? Who the does he think he is?"

The moment she stormed back into her villa, Princess Guinevere let her rage explode—her voice echoing through the marble walls.

With a sharp cry of frustration, she smashed a priceless vase against the wall, the porcelain shattering into pieces, sharp fragments scattering across the floor like her patience.

All around her, the maids of the estate froze, heads bowed low. Not a single one dared to speak. They knew better than to look at her when she was like this—furious, humiliated, and dangerous.

Their only goal was to make themselves as invisible as possible, to survive her wrath without drawing attention.

But one maid—braver or simply more loyal than the rest—stepped forward.

Her tone was soft, respectful, but carried a firm urgency.

"Princess… we need to leave. We're still in Prince Clovis' territory. Staying here is dangerous. We can't trust his hospitality."

Guinevere's expression twisted into a dark scowl.

Her eyes narrowed as she weighed the possibility.

Would Clovis actually go so far as to have her killed? After everything?

After that spectacle he made in front of everyone at the banquet, daring to humiliate her so openly—

"I don't think he's that stupid," she snapped. "Assassinating his own sister? The man might be twisted, but even he wouldn't want the stain of kinslayer on his name."

The maid didn't flinch. "He's a madman, Princess. We can't predict what someone like him will do. He doesn't think like normal men. It's safer if we get out of here now—before he changes his mind."

Guinevere didn't answer immediately.

Her jaw clenched, eyes burning with calculation as she stood in the middle of the room, fists trembling.

Yes, Clovis was dangerous. But mad? No. He was far worse than a madman.

He was controlled. Calculated. The kind of man who felt every bit of his fury but refused to let it explode—until it served a purpose.

He didn't fake his anger. She saw it—felt it. It had been real, raw, and terrifying. But it was also measured, weaponized like a blade honed to perfection.

He didn't lash out when it was useless. He waited, striking only when it gave him power.

And the way he held his composure even when she publicly spat in his face with Odysseus at her side—that calm, that cold smile…

It wasn't weakness.

It was dominance.

That thought alone made her stomach twist in frustration.

She hated it.

And yet, even now, part of her couldn't stop thinking about it.

About him.

Her frown deepened as she stared at the floor, at the shattered vase, the jagged pieces reflecting her conflicted emotions.

Clovis wasn't insane.

He was a monster.

And monsters were the ones you should fear the most—because they didn't lose control.

They chose when to break you.

She thought he was a joke—an incompetent, weak-willed fool she could step on without consequence. A harmless little man playing prince, nothing more. But the banquet proved her dead wrong.

And now? She wasn't just scared—she was terrified.

She used to love mocking Odysseus and Clovis. They were her perfect toys—docile, too weak to fight back, too scared to retaliate.

They were her stress relief, her emotional punching bags.

The rest of her so-called siblings?

No—she wouldn't dare push their buttons.

They were dangerous in their own ways, and she wasn't stupid enough to stir up that hornet's nest.

So she played her part.

She wore the mask of the vain, brainless woman—a walking parody of Marie Antoinette, a woman people gossiped about behind closed doors but feared in person.

She turned her cruelty into a weapon, directing it only at her half-brothers, turning them into her personal punching bags.

Why?

Because humiliating them made the others think twice.

They saw her as dangerous, unhinged, a ticking time bomb.

After she broke Clovis and Odysseus down in front of everyone, they started watching their mouths. They'd flinch when she entered a room, avoid eye contact, and smile too wide, too fake.

They feared her.

But then Clovis left the Pentagon.

Now only Odysseus remained. And with just one of her playthings left, the whispers started again.

Especially from Schneizel's people, and that cold bitch Cornelia's faction.

And with her favorite target gone, the others started talking again.

They all started whispering, smirking behind their fans and papers, thinking her power had faded, that her claws had been clipped.

So, when Clovis invited them to his banquet, she immediately recognized it for what it was—a golden opportunity.

A chance to reassert her dominance, to play her games again, to manipulate, intimidate, and remind everyone of her place in the hierarchy.

After all, bullying the weak and fearing the strong was her specialty.

She couldn't touch the nobles tied to Schneizel or Cornelia. They were too powerful, too well-connected.

But Clovis?

The old Clovis?

He had been an easy target.

Soft, spoiled, and fragile.

But this wasn't that Clovis anymore.

This Clovis was different.

There was something in his eyes—cold, calculating, ruthless. This was no longer a prince to toy with.

This was a predator, and she was meat on the table.

Reluctantly, she swallowed her pride.

"Y-Yes... let's leave," she said, her voice flat, soulless.

There was no warmth, no nostalgia in her words.

No fake nobility or grace.

Only fear.

The image of Clovis's icy glare still burned in her mind—like staring into an abyss. It stripped her down to nothing.

Every lie, every smug pretense—shattered in an instant.

She shivered.

Panic clutched at her chest as she scrambled out of the villa, rushing through the corridors like a rat fleeing a sinking ship.

She didn't care about dignity anymore—she just wanted out.

This place felt cursed.

Wrong.

Claustrophobic.

And then—as if the universe wanted to prove her paranoia right—

Gunfire.

Loud. Violent. Deafening.

The sounds tore through the air as bullets ripped into the villa like a swarm of metal locusts.

The walls splintered.

Glass exploded.

Screams filled the air.

"AHHH!!!"

"HELP US!!!"

"PRINCESS—SAVE US!!!"

Her entourage, her followers, were mowed down one by one.

And what did she do?

She ran.

Without a second of hesitation, without a backward glance.

She abandoned them—left them behind to die like the disposable tools they were.

Her survival was the only thing that mattered.

But the nightmare didn't stop there.

As she neared the exit—BOOM.

Flames erupted.

The villa exploded in a wave of blistering fire, the shockwave sending her flying like a rag doll. The explosion tore into flesh, consumed bone, and swallowed screams whole.

She didn't even get the chance to cry out, to scream why, to question what Clovis had become, or who had pulled the trigger or planted the bomb.

None of that mattered.

All she felt was darkness.

Just like that, it was over.

She died in that inferno, along with her entire entourage.

Not a single survivor.

Not a single clue left behind.

Just ashes, silence, and a brutal reminder:

This Clovis doesn't forgive.

This Clovis doesn't forget.

And he sure as hell doesn't let his enemies walk away.

...

"The fireworks… beautiful, aren't they? My beautiful witch," Clovis murmured with a low chuckle, his voice rich with amusement as he watched the colorful explosions light up the night sky above.

But C.C. wasn't smiling. She saw past the surface. Past the empty spectacle.

She saw the message hidden in the bursts of color.

"The fireworks... are you trying to celebrate something?" she asked softly, eyes narrowing. "Did you kill her, Clovis?"

Her voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it.

"Why?" she continued, eyes piercing through the mask he always wore. "Was that really necessary?"

Clovis didn't respond immediately.

He took a slow sip from the glass of red wine in his hand, savoring it. He was unbothered, content, watching the fireworks explode like blooming flowers of fire above them.

C.C. pressed him harder. "Charles will know if you did. He can speak to the dead, you know that. Even if he doesn't hear it directly, the others will talk. Everyone who attended the banquet saw what happened. They'll tell him."

"They won't," Clovis said, finally answering.

He let the wine swirl in his glass, his eyes on the stars above, voice calm as if they were just talking about the weather.

"Do you really think they'll dare to tell the Emperor what happened at the banquet? Doubtful. Will they admit that they stood by—or even played a role—in the death of one of Princess Guinevere's closest companions, which led to her own demise in the process? You think they'll admit they were complicit?" He let out a dry chuckle. "No. I highly doubt any of them are that stupid."

C.C. exhaled and rolled her eyes, already growing tired of his rhetorical games. "Then enlighten me, Prince Clovis. Spare me the dramatic monologue and just tell me what your full plan is."

"Well," he said after another sip, the smile still playing on his lips, "Guinevere isn't actually dead—at least, not yet. It would be… inconvenient if Charles knew the truth this early."

The night breeze gently brushed against them as he tilted his head back to admire the moonlight.

He looked like a man who had just painted a masterpiece and now stood back to admire his work.

"Still, the performance of her death was necessary," Clovis went on, voice smooth and deliberate. "Now, no one will speak of the banquet. Not my brothers. Not my sisters. No one. They'll help me bury it, help me redirect all the blame toward someone who doesn't matter—someone disposable, someone who poses no threat to their interests. It's cleaner that way."

Every noble who watched Guinevere humiliate him now has blood on their hands by association—and none of them will dare tell Charles what really happened.

Because Clovis didn't just remove a threat.

He turned everyone else into accomplices.

He glanced at her, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Tell me, C.C.—do you know who that poor soul is?"

C.C. fell silent. Her expression told him everything. She already knew.

He smiled wider.

"Congratulations, Prince Clovis," she said finally, voice dripping with sarcasm and reluctant admiration. "Area Eleven is yours. All from a petty squabble turning into a grand scheme. You're a brilliant bastard."

Clovis gave a mock bow, grinning. "Well, I'm your magnificent bastard, aren't I?"

That made her smirk.

She stepped closer, their lips brushing.

The teasing tension between them snapped as they kissed—deep, possessive, unrestrained.

Her hand tangled in his blonde hair as he pulled her tight against him, his other hand already slipping down to grab her ass without shame.

The fireworks above weren't the only things ready to explode tonight.

And under the soft silver glow of the moonlight, the two of them made out with hungry mouths and roving hands—dangerous conspirators basking in each other's twisted passion.

The moonlight was beautiful. The night, even more so.

But the most dangerous thing under that sky wasn't the blade of politics or the scent of blood.

It was them.