The study of Lucien's castle was warm despite the chill creeping in from the northern cliffs. Firelight danced across shelves heavy with ledgers, maps, and sealed correspondence, casting long shadows over the velvet sofa where Caelum sat stiffly beside his aide. His cloak was plain, travel-stained, the hood lowered only minutes ago—hardly the attire of a prince arriving openly at a duke's seat.
Lucien stood near the tall window, arms folded, an amused curve playing on his lips. The Northern Duke looked every bit the fox nobles whispered about—relaxed, sharp-eyed, and clearly entertained.
"So," Lucien drawled, turning at last, "perhaps you would care to explain why my dear cousin has wandered into my territory without his knight, dressed like a fugitive—" his gaze flicked briefly to where the small, sleeping child cradled by a servant near the door was before, "—and carrying the prince's son, who was reported very much not free."
Caelum met his stare evenly. "Before I answer that," he said, voice controlled though thin, "I would like to ask something myself. Why does it look as though your household is preparing to march?" His eyes moved to the window again, where armored men could be seen assembling in the courtyard. "Are you planning a war in the capital?"
A familiar voice answered before Lucien could.
"Not a war exactly."
The door opened, and Alaric stepped inside. His presence shifted the air immediately—commanding, unyielding. He crossed the room without ceremony, stopping near Caelum.
"We only intend to capture the Queen Consort," Alaric continued calmly, "and present evidence of her crimes before the public and the court. Bloodshed will be avoided as much as possible."
Lucien's grin widened. "See? Civilized rebellion."
I see," Caelum said softly.
Lucien leaned forward, interest piqued. "Well then, Your Highness, you may answer my earlier question.
Caelum exhaled, something tight easing in his chest. "I am here to negotiate",he said, turning fully to them.
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Negotiate?" one of Lucien's men scoffed. "You?"
"To spare your mother?" Alaric asked, his tone sharp but curious.
"No." Caelum shook his head. "To work with you—to bring her down."
Silence fell.
"The moment my mother involved a child," Caelum continued, fingers curling into his sleeve, "and dragged him into her schemes… the moment she decided ambition mattered more than blood—" His breath hitched.
Suddenly, the air shifted.
A sweet lavender scent bloomed, soft yet unmistakable.
Lucien's expression changed instantly. "Cover your noses," he snapped.
Alaric reacted just as fast, pulling his sleeve over his face. Several others followed suit, startled.
"What—?" one man began. "That scent—why does he—?"
Caelum swayed, hand bracing against the arm of the sofa. His breathing grew shallow, uneven.
"Oh no! He's manifesting," the aide cried out, panic breaking through his composure. "The suppressant—where is it—?"
He rummaged frantically through his satchel, then froze.
"…It's empty."
Lucien cursed under his breath. "Damn her." He turned sharply. "Prepare another room. Now. And Get a physician."
Servants rushed to obey.
As Caelum was carefully guided from the study, lavender lingering faintly in his wake, Lucien's playful mask shattered. When the door closed behind them, he rounded on the aide.
"Explain," he said coldly.
The aide swallowed and did exactly that—about the special tea, the forced suppressant, the Queen Consort's plan to change her own son for political gain.
By the time he finished, Alaric's knuckles were white.
"She truly didn't spare even her own child," he muttered. "How very… consistent."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "That alone seals her fate."
---
Far from strategy rooms and treachery, the northern gardens lay quiet under the pale glow of lanterns.
Rin stood beside the bed, watching the twins sleep.
Rhen lay close to Riven, one small hand wrapped protectively around his brother's fingers. Riven's brow was still warm, cheeks flushed faintly with fever, but his breathing was steady now—safe.
Rin's shoulders finally relaxed.
Earlier, in the garden, the duchess had been speaking when footsteps approached. Rin had turned—expecting a servant.
Instead, it was Alaric who is supposed to be preparing , Rin had nearly dropped the cup of tea in his hands. Relief had crashed over him so hard his vision blurred. Seeing Alaric carrying Riven— burning with fever but alive—had undone him completely.
He hadn't cared who saw the tears.
Rhen, already recovered and playing nearby with the duke's son, had rushed forward the moment he saw them. He'd hugged Riven tightly, clinging as if afraid his brother might vanish again. Even half-asleep, Riven had reached out, fingers finding Rhen's instinctively.
When they moved to a room to lay Riven down, Rhen insisted later, his chin lifted stubbornly,
"Papa, I want to sleep with him."
"But…" Rin hesitated.
"Don't worry, I won't catch his cold," Rhen insisted.
So Rin let them sleep together
Now, in the quiet, he brushed a hand over their hair, chest aching with a mixture of gratitude and lingering fear.
So much had nearly been taken from them.
Outside, the northern wind whispered against the windows—carrying with it the promise of coming storms.
But for this moment, at least, the twins were together.
"Sweet dreams," Rin murmured softly, voice steady at last.
And for the first time since everything began to unravel, he allowed himself to believe they might survive what was coming next.