Chapter 130: Chapter-130

“Ravel,” he said quietly as she adjusted one of the brooches, “does Her Majesty do this often? The gifts, the attention to detail?”

Ravel paused, considering. “Her Majesty is… selective about where she directs her attention. But when she does choose to invest in someone, she’s remarkably thorough.”

“Invest,” Larus repeated. “That’s an interesting word choice.”

“Her Majesty thinks in terms of investments and returns,” Ravel said frankly. “She doesn’t waste resources on things—or people—that don’t provide value. The fact that she’s investing this much in you…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to.

Larus understood.

He mattered to her. Maybe not romantically, maybe not emotionally, but ’strategically’. ’Practically’. In a way that meant she’d protect him, support him, give him the tools he needed to succeed.

And honestly? That felt more valuable than empty romantic gestures.

“There,” Ravel said, stepping back. “Perfect. Take a look.”

Larus turned to the full-length mirror and paused.

He looked… powerful.

The suit fit him perfectly, emphasizing his height and build. The jewelry caught the light without being excessive. The fur collar made his shoulders look broader, more commanding. The whole ensemble screamed confidence and authority.

He looked like someone who belonged beside an empress.

“She knew exactly what she was doing,” he said softly.

“Her Majesty usually does,” Ravel agreed. “Now, shall we go? The five consorts are likely already in the ceremonial hall, and Her Majesty wanted you to make an entrance.”

Larus smiled slowly. “Did she now?”

“Her exact words were: ’Make sure he arrives after them so they have to watch him walk in,’” Ravel said with a perfectly straight face.

Larus laughed. “Petty and brilliant. I love it.”

As he walked toward the door, he caught sight of his reflection one more time.

Yes. He was ready for this.

—

## The Engagement Morning – Heena

Two hours earlier, on the other side of the palace, a battle was raging.

“You are wearing a dress,” the Duchess said for what had to be the fifth time.

“I am wearing a suit,” Heena replied, also for the fifth time, while examining the fabric laid out before her.

“Heena.” Her aunt’s voice dropped to that particular tone that had once made young Heena actually reconsider her life choices. “You are the ’Empress’. This is your ’engagement ceremony’. There are three hundred nobles, twelve foreign representatives, half the imperial court, and your five existing consorts waiting in that hall.”

“I’m aware.”

“You cannot possibly appear in a ’suit’.”

“Why not?” Heena asked reasonably. “I’ve worn suits to three state banquets, two treaty signings, and that very uncomfortable dinner with the Merchants’ Guild. No one has died yet.”

The Duchess’s fan snapped open with a sharp ’crack’. “The groom is ’also’ wearing a suit!”

“Yes, a very nice one,” Heena agreed. “I had it specially made.”

“Both of you. In suits. At an engagement ceremony.”

“Exactly! Matching. Very coordinated.”

Her aunt closed her eyes and took a long, deliberate breath. “Your Majesty. I am begging you. As someone who has known you since birth. As someone who changed your diapers—”

“Please don’t bring that up—”

“—as someone who loves you dearly and wants you to have a successful reign,” the Duchess continued relentlessly, “at least ’one’ of you should appear conventionally—”

“I did consider putting Larus in a gown,” Heena said thoughtfully, “but I think the proportions would be off. He’s quite tall, and we’d need significantly more fabric—”

The fan stopped moving.

Her aunt stared at her with an expression of such profound, accumulated exasperation that it could have powered a small city.

“Your Majesty,” she said with tremendous, dangerous calm, “I genuinely believe I made catastrophic errors while raising you.”

“Are you calling me crazy?” Heena asked cheerfully.

“I said no such thing. I said I made ’errors’. Whatever conclusions you draw from that are your own.”

The Duchess paused, then smiled thinly behind her fan.

“However, as you are the Empress and thus always correct by definition, if you believe yourself to be insane, who am I to contradict you?”

“Well,” Heena shot back, “if I ’am’ insane, it’s clearly hereditary and environmental. My mother died when I was young. My father followed shortly after. The person who primarily raised me was ’you’. So if there’s madness present, we can trace it directly to its source.”

“I also raised Aston using the ’exact same methods’,” her aunt countered immediately. “Same household, same education, same environment. And while he’s certainly chaotic, he at least knows how to dress appropriately for formal occasions!”

A pause.

The Duchess’s eyes narrowed. “Speaking of which—where ’is’ that boy? I haven’t seen him in nearly a week. He was running around causing his usual chaos, attending every social function, making dramatic pronouncements about being your fiancé, and now… nothing. Complete silence. Where has he disappeared to?”

Heena kept her expression perfectly neutral.

Aston was currently hiding in a heavily warded room in the palace’s lower east wing—very thick walls, no windows, multiple magical barriers—because his interdimensional, dragon-natured, obsessively devoted ex-lover had somehow tracked him to this world and was currently prowling the palace grounds looking for him.

The ex-lover who had spent the last fifteen worlds trying to “reclaim” Aston.

The ex-lover who Aston had literally given half his cultivation to before fleeing in terror.

The ex-lover whose porcelain head had arrived in a box as a warning.

Yeah. That situation.

“I sent him on vacation,” Heena said smoothly.

The Duchess’s fan slowed. “A vacation.”

“Yes. He needed rest. All that socializing was exhausting him.”

Her aunt looked at her with that particular expression that said ’I know you’re lying but I can’t prove it’.

“A vacation,” she repeated. “My nephew, who thrives on chaos and attention, voluntarily took a vacation. Right before your engagement ceremony. The biggest social event of the season.”

“He was very tired,” Heena insisted.

The Duchess stared at her for a long moment, then turned her gaze skyward.

“Sometimes,” she said to the ceiling, “I genuinely think I raised two completely insane people, and neither of them has ever listened to a single word I’ve said in their entire lives.”

“We listen,” Heena protested. “We just… interpret creatively.”

Her aunt’s fan snapped shut and pointed directly at her. “Get dressed. In the suit. Since apparently I no longer have any authority in this palace despite being the most powerful mage in the empire and your only living blood relative.”

“You have all the authority,” Heena said, standing. “You’re just wasting it on the wrong battles.”

She walked toward the dressing screen where her own suit was waiting—a sharp, tailored ensemble in deep crimson and gold that would coordinate perfectly with Larus’s ivory and black.

The ceremonial hall was the kind of place that made you feel small in the best possible way.

The ceiling soared so high that the painted murals at the top—dragons, armies, golden suns—looked like they belonged to another world entirely. Marble columns lined both sides of the hall, each one so large three people couldn’t link hands around it. Crystal chandeliers the size of carriages hung overhead, dripping candlelight onto floors so polished you could see your own reflection looking back at you.

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