The midday meal ended with the quiet clatter of spoons and forks being set down, the warm scent of fruit wine and flower glazes slowly fading as plates were cleared by silent, efficient attendants.
Bian reached to pour Dican another ladle of fruit broth, smiling sweetly as always, when the Emperor placed his cloth napkin aside and looked up—his golden eyes settling first on his son, then drifting meaningfully toward Bian.
"Well then," he said with a casual air, though there was a certain deliberate tone behind it, "Dican, I believe it's time we begin wedding preparations. With the scale we intend, it will take about twenty days for the guests to arrive and the palace to be set. Or… would you rather it be sooner?"
Dican visibly froze. Just for a second—but Bian noticed.
Before the silence could stretch too long, Bian leaned forward with a bright, eager grin. "It will be best if it's sooner, Your Highness," he said cheerfully.
