Aleho raised his hand firmly.
"Remain where you're standing, Najeel."
Matteo, acting oblivious to the tension, bent his shoulders, dabbing a fake tear with his handkerchief.
"Poor Emperor… yet somehow still manages to ruin everyone's plans."
Aleho smirked, leaning in with intrigue.
"And what plans are 'everyone' plotting?"
If not the one you're plotting yourself, he mulled.
Matteo chuckled manically, covering his lips with the handkerchief. He lowered his voice.
"Don't act so oblivious, Lord Geerich. It's no secret to the elite—the high nobles are tearing themselves apart for the Emperor's throne."
Aleho folded his arms, closing his eyes.
"Good luck to those people. The Emperor is only forty-one. He has enough time to bear children."
"Aethrion Syndrome cannot be cured, Lord Geerich. Your father should know, since he's the Emperor's advisor," Matteo pressed.
Carissa, having lost interest in their back-and-forth, ordered Najeel to bring her a cup of coffee.
Aleho's eyes twitched in annoyance.
"You sound like a drunk historian. Try harder if you want me to take you seriously."
"We both know I'm telling the truth," Matteo replied. "Even after bedding five wives, the Emperor couldn't produce an heir."
"You think you're immune to punishment, parading around and broadcasting the Emperor's personal affairs?" Aleho snapped.
"It's a national issue, Lord Geerich. The empire's stability is already at stake. Even Veylara, goddess of fertility, could do nothing for the Emperor."
Aleho hurled a table fork across the space, aiming for Matteo's face.
Matteo snatched it midair with a casual flick, lips curling in amusement.
"Aleho!" Carissa slammed her cup down, coffee sloshing over the rim.
The outburst drew a few gasps from nearby tables, though most only murmured behind their hands.
Matteo, completely unfazed, bent forward until his lips nearly grazed Aleho's ear.
"And do you know someone who happens to be the goddess of fertility's doppelgänger?"
Aleho's brow furrowed.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
Matteo leaned closer still, whispering:
"Archduchess Kayona Obregón."
Aleho's eyes widened, confusion flashing across his face.
"I don't know her personally," Matteo added with unnerving calm, straightening his suit collars, "but she might want to watch her back."
He turned with a flourish, casually flipping the fork back onto Aleho's table before strolling off.
"Pleasant chat. Next time, Lord Geerich—aim better with your cutlery."
Carissa's gaze darted to Aleho, her voice sharp with concern.
"Aleho, you're pale. What did that psycho just tell you?"
Aleho's eyes lingered on the café's entrance, Matteo already gone.
"Something I have yet to discover myself," he muttered.
***
The Kartegen dining hall was grand, though not ostentatious. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off polished silverware and the intricate carvings on the high-backed chairs.
Sylrick's parents were already seated, their posture perfect, expressions carefully neutral, as if every muscle had been trained into composure.
Isolde sat with flawless poise, daintily lifting her fork to her lips, ignoring everyone at the table except her neatly arranged salad.
Behind Kayona's seat stood Maxwell, silent and watchful. Kayona, meanwhile, carried herself with the calm dignity of a queen, sipping her wine and cutting her steak with unhurried grace.
At the far end of the table, Edric Kartegen's golden eyes lingered on her as he took his meal, his attention a weight that pressed more heavily with each passing moment.
Sylrick's jaw tightened, his gaze cutting toward his father with barely veiled hostility.
He's barely even glanced at me since I returned—and already he's drooling over my wife.
The thought made his fists curl beneath the tablecloth.
He forced his expression smooth before turning to Kayona beside him.
"Is the food to your liking, Kayona?"
He knows I wouldn't ignore him in front of his parents, Kayona pondered.
She giggled softly, her tone as light as spun silk.
"Of course, Sylrick. The meal is excellent."
Sylrick leaned in, mischief flickering in his golden eyes.
"Should I feed you some?"
He lifted his fork deliberately, teasing her.
There's no way he's serious right now, Kayona thought.
Before she could answer, Edric's deep voice cut across the table. He reached for a bottle of wine, tilting it toward her glass.
"More wine, Archduchess Kayona?"
His smile was smooth, far too smooth.
Sylrick's hand slammed against the table, rattling the silverware.
"Are you purposely trying to get my fiancée drunk, Father?"
His voice was stern, sharp as a drawn blade.
The room stilled.
Isolde lowered her fork, finally looking up from her salad. Her green eyes narrowed, a faint curl at the corner of her lips suggesting amusement—or perhaps contempt.
Kayona simply sipped her wine, unfazed.
Oh, you both do speak to each other?, she mulled.
Edric didn't flinch at his son's outburst. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in its bottle as though Sylrick's anger were nothing more than a child's tantrum.
"You mistake courtesy for intent, son," he said smoothly. "A host must never let his guest's glass run dry."
Sylrick's hand stayed clenched on the table.
Kayona slid her fingers lightly across his knuckles beneath the cloth, just enough to ground him.
She smiled at Edric, her voice sweet but edged like a razor.
"Your courtesy is noted, Archduke Kartegen. But I prefer to drink in moderation."
Isolde gave a soft laugh at that, finally breaking her silence. Her green eyes studied Kayona with sharp, feline amusement.
"How refreshing. Most young women I've seen in Valchevia are eager to drown themselves in wine and flattery."
Should I be flattered? Kayona wondered, sipping her wine.
"But your parents must be really proud, Archduchess. You've handled the fortune and responsibilities they left behind so well… so well that you now need a man of equal status to keep your title."
Sylrick's fork froze halfway to his lips. His eyes snapped to his mother, hard and warning.
She dares—
"And who came up with the system?" Kayona's voice was casual, unbothered, as she dabbed her lips with a napkin.
"You mean the imperial court?" Isolde asked, her tone straining against her thin composure.
Kayona's face stilled as she picked a cookie from a jar, her movements graceful, deliberate.
"You wouldn't understand, my dear future mother-in-law. Topics like this are for those born into high nobility. Those who grew up with the burden that comes with it. Nobility isn't all gold or glitzy glamour—there's always an image to maintain for the rest of your life."
Isolde's expression twitched, her knuckles whitening around her fork.
"Are you trying to mock me, Archduchess?"
"Those were mere facts, Isolde," Kayona replied, calm as still water.
For a moment, the table was silent.