Not because he was lazy—not at first.
As a child, he had actually tried.
And that was his first mistake.
Lucian was gifted.
He picked up languages quickly, understood numbers faster than his tutors expected, and had a natural grasp of tactics, negotiation, and rhetoric.
His father, Baron Alistair Veilwood, noticed immediately.
"You have a sharp mind, Lucian," he had said. "Sharp minds are meant to lead."
And just like that, his life became a series of endless expectations.
- At six, he was given books on political philosophy.
- At eight, he was made to sit through his father’s court meetings.
- At ten, he was already correcting his tutors' lessons.
It was exhausting.
But the worst part?
The more he excelled, the more they demanded.
If he solved one problem, he was given five more.
If he mastered one lesson, they raised the bar.
Effort was not rewarded.
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It was punished.
By the time he turned thirteen, Lucian was the perfect heir.
His father had great plans for him—a seat in the Emperor’s court, a prestigious governorship, a political marriage to solidify their family’s influence.
But Lucian was miserable.
He spent every waking moment proving himself, only for it to never be enough.
So, one day, he decided to stop.
Not completely.
No, that would have been too obvious.
Instead, he perfected the art of doing just enough.
- He answered questions slowly in lessons, never incorrectly, but never too quickly.
- He still attended court, but now he let others speak first, acting as if he was "thoughtful" rather than disinterested.
- He made deliberate minor mistakes in sword training, just enough to appear mediocre rather than exceptional.
And it worked.
His father, satisfied that Lucian was "steady but not brilliant," stopped pushing so hard.
His tutors, relieved that they no longer had to keep up with his pace, praised his "measured learning."
The burden eased.
For the first time, Lucian could breathe.
And he vowed never to make the mistake of standing out again.
For years, Lucian’s plan succeeded.
He drifted through his noble duties, never failing, never excelling.
His father’s ambitions shifted to his younger brother, Edwin, who was eager to please.
Lucian believed he had escaped the weight of expectation forever.
Then, at twenty-three, his father fell ill.
And suddenly, Lucian was the heir again.
A Veilwood could not simply do nothing.
And so, when the Emperor requested candidates to govern Duskwatch, his father --still unaware of Lucian’s years of strategic underperformance—recommended him.
And Lucian? He had no clue about it.
And the imperial court, surprisingly agreed.
That was how Lucian, after a lifetime of trying not to stand out, found himself responsible for an entire province.
The day he left for Duskwatch, Lucian sat in his carriage, staring at the decree in his hands.
He had spent years escaping responsibility.
Now, it had found him anyway.
If he had to rule, he would do it with as little effort as possible.
Because effort?
Effort only led to more expectations.
And he refused to make that mistake again.