The emperor's bedchambers – three days later
Elliott's recovery, once he had woken, was swift and steady. The profound exhaustion that had weighed him down like lead began to lift bit by bit. Each day, something returned—first, he could sit up on his own. Then, he could stand for a little while. Eventually, within three days, he could walk short distances and remain awake for hours without drifting into that heavy haze of sleep. Still, Gabriella oversaw the work of the empire. She had insisted—firmly—that for now, his only duty was to heal.
It was morning when Gabriella entered, just as the servants cleared away the remains of the emperor's breakfast. In her hand, she held two letters. One bore the formal crest of the Altherian monarchy, heavy and official. The other was smaller, personal, sealed in the familiar wax that made Elliott's heart leap before he even touched it.
She caught his gaze flicking to them.
"Another dispatch from Altheria," she said, setting both letters onto his lap desk.
Elliott's heart gave that quick, telltale thud. For the past few days, he had read and reread every single one of Aiden's letters that Gabriella had received while he slept. He knew their contents almost by heart now, but still he waited—restless, eager—for each new one. He picked up the personal letter first.
His finger traced the seal almost reverently before he opened it. His breath hitched as he unfolded the page, reading as though he could touch Aiden through the strokes of ink.
The words were the same as always: controlled desperation disguised as formal reports, written to Gabriella, not to him. Aiden still believed Elliott was unconscious, so the words were restrained, measured. But the restraint barely hid the undercurrent of unfiltered care running through every line. It wasn't unlike the ten letters before it, yet Elliott's heart swelled all the same. He lingered on each line, reading slowly, his fingers brushing the words as if they were precious.
But then—something made his eyes widen.
"...the coronation is in a week. As per protocol, invitations are being sent to every monarch on the continent as a gesture of goodwill and the start of a new era for Altheria. It is a mere formality. Under no circumstances are you to attend. Send a polite representative instead—maybe a duke. Remain there, with Elliott."
Elliott exhaled, lips curving into a soft smile, almost wistful. He couldn't help it. Even across empires, even in the middle of preparing to take the throne, Aiden's concern circled back to him. Always him.
With a faint sigh, he set the letter aside and opened the second.
This one was heavier, grander—official. The vellum was decorated, the calligraphy scribed by a trained hand. It was impersonal, though. Addressed formally to Gabriella, Regent of Velluria, it invited her to witness the coronation of James Corvette, rightful King of Altheria.
Elliott looked down at the two letters lying side by side before him. His lips, tender moments ago, curved into something sharper—a delighted smirk more than a smile. Mischief flickered alive in his eyes, that same glint Gabriella hadn't seen in weeks. It was the exact glint that had tested Aiden's sanity again and again, the spark that spelled nothing but trouble.
"Mother," Elliott said, unable to keep the bubbling excitement from his tone. "Reply to him. But—don't mention I'm awake. Tell him you'll do as he says. Say you'll send the most esteemed dignitary of Velluria to the coronation."
Gabriella arched a brow, suspicious. She knew that look too well. "Oh?"
Elliott only shrugged, a smug, boyish smile spreading across his face. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, pacing toward the window. He rested a hand against the sill, gazing at the faint outline of the mountains in the distance. Altheria.
"I shall... surprise him."
It was audacious. Foolish, even. His body was still fragile, his strength still building. The long journey would be difficult at best, dangerous at worst. And when Aiden saw him there—pale, still not fully healed—it would no doubt send him into a storm of rage and worry.
But that reasoning, that logic, was precisely the kind of thing that might dissuade a lesser, rational man. Elliott, however, was not rational where Aiden was concerned. For him, the very outrage the boy would feel upon seeing him there wasn't a warning sign. It was an invitation.
He was going to Altheria. And he was going to surprise his lover.
And somewhere across the mountains, in the heart of Altheria, Aiden suddenly felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He couldn't explain why, but he knew with bone-deep certainty: something disastrous, something Elliott-shaped, was already on its way to crash his coronation week.
---
After a month of calm, the palace had descended into a sudden, budding frenzy. The source of this chaos? Not war, not famine, not an impending invasion—just one recently-awakened emperor with a mission.
When Elliott had been in a coma, the palace had lived in tense, watchful anxiety, waiting for him to open his eyes. Now that he was awake, he had incited a different brand of anxiety entirely. The kitchens, the tailor's guild, even the lowliest errand boys were all swept up in his storm.
The chefs, the tailors, the bakers, the servants—everyone had been herded into a grand hall, standing at attention like soldiers at inspection. At the center of it all was Elliott, parchment in hand. Yes, he had actually written a list.
Gabriella sat in her chair to the side, an untouched cup of tea cooling beside her. Her face was composed, her posture impeccable, but the faintest curve of her lips betrayed her amusement. Watching her son tear anxiously through the palace with the elegance of a hurricane was a sight to behold.
Right now, Elliott's gaze was fixed on the chefs. The head chef wrung his hands nervously as the emperor rattled off dish after dish, while two apprentices scrambled to keep up with frantic notes.
"...and of course we can't forget the honey-glazed pastries—the ones with the lemon drizzle." Elliott's face pinched in concentration as he tried to wring out every memory of dishes Aiden had enjoyed. "Oh! And that stew you served at the winter party. Aiden quite liked it—what was the name again—?"
"Your Majesty—" the head chef nearly squeaked. "Which stew? If you mean the winter ball... twenty-one types of stews were served!"
Elliott waved a hand dismissively, already moving down his list. "The one with the meat."
"Fifteen of them had meat."
He sighed, long-suffering, as if the chef was deliberately being obtuse. "Forget the stew. Moving on—the wine. We should have gotten the latest shipment from the southern vineyards. Pack that too. Not the normal reserve— the good reserve. The good ones. And the floral wine, and the stronger cranberry vintages as well—Aiden once said they tasted 'nouveau,' which must mean he liked them—"
"Elliott," Gabriella cut in at last, her voice dry as parchment though undeniably amused. "They have food in Altheria. Shocking concept, I know. Even bakeries and vineyards."
Her son turned to her with a glare—impressive, considering he was still in a nightgown with a robe thrown over it, parchment clutched like a weapon.
"You don't understand, Mother." His tone carried the gravity of a general discussing troop movements. "What if they have different wine? What if Aiden doesn't like their wine? He can't even refuse it, because he's going to be their king there now! He'll be trapped— trapped, drinking miserable wine forever! And the food—do you think banquets count as sustenance? He's been living on diplomacy meals. He needs proper food. Our food."
Gabriella merely hummed, sipping her tea. One does not argue with lovesick worry. It was pointless.
But the culinary storm was only the beginning.
Next came the tailors. The royal sewing circle—usually calm, serene artisans who never flinched under deadlines—were reduced to pale, trembling wrecks. They were shoved into the hall like sacrificial lambs.
"The blue silk," Elliott declared. "The dark blue one. I asked you to bring every available shade."
The tailors nodded hurriedly, unfurling their massive catalog of swatches: cobalt blue, prussian blue, sapphire, navy, midnight, every shade under the sun.
"This," said one tailor, lifting a bolt of fabric carefully, "is a novelty shade, Your Majesty. Indigo. Newly imported from overseas. Difficult to obtain, but fashionable among the nobility."
Elliott's eyes sharpened. He studied the bolt—rich blue with a hint of purple. For a moment he froze, torn. His finger hovered over midnight blue, stilled, then shifted toward the indigo. His mind spiraled aloud.
"How about... use both. Indigo and midnight, in a sort of gradient. Embroidery in silver thread. Subtle. No sun motifs— I've worn sun motifs all my life. Lunar, perhaps? No— that's too much. Too obvious. Hm. You know what—no celestial motifs. Let's celestial bodies out for once. How about... Flowers. Yes, flowers are safe."
The head tailor scribbled, nodding rapidly, sweat dotting his brow.
Elliott pressed on. "Make it elegant. Flowing, but fitted. With gemstones. Not gaudy—but shimmering. I'll also need a new traveling cloak. It's cold there. Something regal, but warm. White fur. Yes, white fur. And five new formal ensembles. Two in traditional vellurian style, the other three in altherian. By the time we leave."
The head tailor blinked, looked at his apprentices, then back at Elliott with something close to despair. "Your Majesty... the coronation is in a week! The travel alone takes four days. You would have to leave the day after yesterday! We would need to complete the wardrobe by the day after tomorrow!"
Elliott smiled sweetly, voice honey-smooth. "Then you'd better start now, shouldn't you?"
The tailor looked like he might actually cry. They scurried out as if fleeing a battlefield, arms loaded with bolts of silk and trembling promises. The hall slowly quieted, leaving only the occasional servant darting about with nervous glances and Gabriella still seated, calmly sipping her now lukewarm tea.
Elliott drifted toward the tall mirror in the corner of the room, his list forgotten on the nearest table. He stood before his reflection, shoulders drawing tight, his eyes narrowing as though he was assessing a rival across a council chamber.
The man staring back was not the polished emperor who once glided through sunlit courtyards with the golden warmth of health and vitality. This man had paler-than-usual skin, bruised shadows under his eyes, and a thinner frame. His collarbones stood out too sharply, his night-robe hanging looser than he remembered. He tilted his head, then leaned closer, squinting at the hollows beneath his eyes with growing horror.
"I look terrible," he muttered, voice breaking into genuine distress. His shoulders slumped as though all the weight of his anxiety had suddenly landed there. "Like a ghost. A very poorly dressed ghost."
Behind him, Gabriella rose and approached, her steady figure materializing in the mirror's reflection until she stood at his back. Her gaze met his in the glass, calm, sharp, unshaken.
"You look," she said, tone laced with faint amusement but steady as stone, "like a man who fought a grave illness for a month and won. And now, rather than resting, is intent on giving his beloved a heart attack by showing up in Altheria unannounced." She arched a brow, her mouth curving faintly. "And do not kid yourself—we both know you could arrive in rags, with soot on your face and hair sticking up like a crow's nest, and that boy would still think you were perfect."
The words struck right through his spiraling haze. His lips twitched, the corners curling into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. His reflection softened, though his eyes were still glassy with a mix of insecurity and longing.
"...Aiden is going to be furious with me for traveling, isn't he?" he asked quietly, almost like a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner.
"Of course," Gabriella replied without hesitation. "He will be furious. Absolutely livid. You will probably get an entire lecture about recklessness. But..." her gaze warmed, just a fraction, "he will have to be furious while looking at your smiling face. And I think he will find that a significant consolation."
Elliott huffed out a laugh, half exasperation, half relief. He turned back toward his reflection with renewed determination. The shadows under his eyes didn't vanish, his collarbones didn't soften, but something in his expression shifted. The insecurity was still there, yes—but it was being shoved aside, buried under a mountain of elaborate plans.
He would eat his way back into strength with pastries and broths, bathe in every herbal concoction the healers could scrounge up, and allow the servants to drown him in scented oils until he smelled like a bouquet. He would wear silk so fine the Altherians' eyes would water. He would arrive not just as a recovered emperor but as a radiant vision of health and stubborn devotion.
He was going to Aiden's coronation. And by all the gods, he was going to look absolutely perfect—no, breathtaking—while doing so.
AN: the gremlin Elliott energy is STRONG in this one. Anyways, okay. I have a novel idea. It's going to be a light enemies to lovers. Dw, the thriller one is still in the works, but I'm thinking to write a modern romcom as a sort of palate cleanser. And also, to will the stress away. What I'm planning to base this off is med school heirarchy and ragging culture (which is especially prevalent in where I live). The ship is going to be 2nd year, pretty catty judgmental bitchy senior bottom X 1st year golden retriever himbo top. (Idc if it's cliche the catty x golden retriever himbo ship dynamic has my soul). I am thinking of basing off the med school and like the batch dynamics and some of the characters based on my irl college (I hope no one finds it lol but u don't know who I am anyways). Does that idea sound interesting? Comment down to lmk