It was soon dinner time. All three of them—Aiden, Gabriella, and Elliott—were seated in the formal dining room. The long, gilded table stretched along the length of the hall, laden with delicacies from different parts of the empire. A dozen crystal chandeliers glittered above, casting warm light across the polished floors. Freshly cut flowers had been arranged in vases and wreaths along the walls, spreading a natural, floral scent through the air, which mixed with the rich aroma of roasted meats, spiced stews, and warm bread.
Ministers and visiting dignitaries were already seated along the length of the table, murmuring among themselves in low tones. Conversation paused altogether when Elliott entered—flanked by Aiden, and most shockingly of all, Gabriella.
There were sharp inhales, wide eyes, and barely-concealed whispers. Of course. Elliott had anticipated this. One glance at his mother's expression told him she had too.
He had offered for them to eat privately, just the three of them, but Gabriella had refused. She had insisted on the formal dining room instead. "The news of my return is bound to spread anyway," she had said, adjusting her sleeves with calm detachment. "Might as well get it over with."
Elliott took his seat at the head of the table. Gabriella sat to his left. Aiden, as always, claimed the seat on his right.
He could feel the startled gazes from across the table darting between himself and Gabriella—as if silently asking, Is that really the exiled queen mother?
Gabriella didn't respond to the attention. Her back was straight, her gaze steady, fixed politely ahead. Not a hint of unease in her posture, not a single twitch of discomfort. She was a master of appearing completely unmoved.
One of the ministers—Lord Ezra—finally managed to speak, his voice slightly hoarse. "Your Majesty... is that...?"
Elliott turned his head, gaze flickering briefly to Gabriella. She gave him a small, composed smile. The kind of smile that was both supportive and subtly urging him to handle this properly.
"Yes," Elliott said simply. "My mother will be staying in the palace until further notice."
A wave of murmurs rippled down the table like wind through tall grass.
Though no one voiced it outright, the next question was clear in their eyes: Is her exile lifted, then?
Elliott sighed quietly, almost inaudibly. "Her exile is temporarily revoked by imperial orders."
Before anyone could raise another word, he joined his hands in prayer—a customary gesture to honor the goddess of nourishment and sustenance before meals. A clear signal that the conversation was over.
The others followed suit, bowing their heads and joining their hands. After a moment of silence, the meal began.
The majority of it passed in awkward peace. Mundane conversations drifted down the table—council updates, upcoming war preparations, strategy debates. Everything except Gabriella.
Her reputation, after all, hadn't faded in the years she was gone. She had once been called the viper , and it seemed the title still clung to her like silk perfume. No one dared to challenge her openly—not even now.
Meanwhile, Elliott sat stiffly in his chair. He nodded on cue when ministers addressed him, made the occasional noncommittal hum, but his mind was clearly somewhere else. Somewhere far more dangerous.
He was trapped.
Not politically. Not by a treaty or impending war.
No. He was trapped between two people. Two forces. On either side of him, seated like bookends of danger and devotion, were Gabriella and Aiden.
A war of dominance was unfolding—unspoken, deadly silent, and waged directly on his dinner plate.
It had all started with... peas.
As most terrible things in this world tend to.
Gabriella had reached for the serving plate of greens—mostly peas, a vegetable Elliott had historically loathed—and with casual, motherly grace, scooped a generous portion onto his plate. As if she hadn't noticed the pure horror on Elliott's face as it happened.
"You need vegetables," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "You're recovering from an illness."
The look Elliott gave her was full of betrayal. And she did see it. She just didn't care. She'd survived many such looks back when he was younger. When peas had been an even greater enemy than they were now. She had grown immune.
"Don't give me the look," she murmured.
"You're sick right now."
"I'm always sick," Elliott muttered back, under his breath.
She ignored him.
Aiden, seated on the other side, watched the exchange with a tense jaw. Clearly, he found it unacceptable that someone else had put food on Elliott's plate before he could. He'd been the one managing Elliott's meals for over a decade. It was his thing. His role. His right.
Without a word, Aiden picked up the ladle and added a heavy scoop of mashed potatoes.
"For energy," he said flatly. His words were for Elliott, but his eyes were on Gabriella.
There was a victorious gleam in them.
Gabriella's eyes narrowed in response.
She reached for the carrots.
On Elliott's plate went a generous pile of stir-fried carrots.
Aiden countered immediately with a slice of roasted lamb.
Back and forth they went. A silent, vicious war for nutritional superiority. The victim? One unsuspecting emperor. Elliott's plate soon resembled a small mountain range—layers upon layers of food he had no intention of touching.
He stared at it in despair.
This was abclassic case of someone else suffering from the pride of two opposing parties. The difference? He ruled an empire. And still had less say at the table than the two people seated beside him.
"This is excessive," Elliott muttered finally, picking at his food.
Neither Gabriella nor Aiden responded.
"I can't possibly eat all that," he added, a little louder this time.
Gabriella stabbed her fork into her own serving of vegetables—half the size she'd dumped onto his plate—and chewed daintily. She swallowed, then said, "You can try."
"Trying doesn't equate to success, Mother."
"You don't know that, dear."
Elliott bit back a sigh. "This is not a normal amount for one person. Your own plate doesn't even have half of this."
She took a small sip of her wine, not even looking at him. "You've lost weight. You need it."
Before Elliott could reply, Aiden cut in.
"You think he's thin now? You should've seen him two weeks ago."
The tone wasn't aggressive. But the meaning beneath it? Loud and clear.
He was saying: He was thinner when I was taking care of him. I've been here. I've done the work. So back off, lady.
Gabriella didn't miss it. Her gaze sharpened. She lifted her hand to retaliate—probably with another serving—but Elliott's plate was already so loaded that it defied the laws of decency.
So instead, she turned her eyes to his drink.
A servant had just poured the emperor a glass of rose wine—light, floral, dry with hints of strawberry. Elliott's favorite. He hadn't even touched it yet.
"You should refrain from that," Gabriella said coolly, motioning at the glass with a casual sweep of her hand. "Bring him sparkling water instead."
The servant hesitated. Then obeyed.
Elliott gave her a deeply betrayed look.
"You need to drink more water," she said lightly. As if that explained everything. As if that somehow justified the last tiny joy on his plate being taken from him.
Elliott swallowed thickly.
He now had a mountain of food he didn't like—including peas, of all things—and not even a proper drink to wash it all down. Not even wine. Not even that.
He looked at the two people flanking him. Both calm. Both dignified. Both completely unwilling to back down.
He let out a slow, long sigh.
Dinner was going to kill him faster than any illness ever could.