Chapter 39: Chapter-39

His golden eyes flicked to the ledger in his lap, then up to Heena’s profile—tilted toward Ashton, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her goblet as she listened to some story from seven years ago. For all her political games, she had never once called ’him’ “honey” in public. Never leaned that close during a feast. His calculations suddenly seemed small, his numbers irrelevant next to a pendant and a well-timed kill. He adjusted his glasses, hiding the way his free hand clenched beneath the table.

Lucian sat heavy and silent beside Adrian, scarred knuckles drumming once, twice, then stilling as Heena’s laughter floated back to them again. The general stared at his plate, at the direbear haunch no longer appetizing. He had conquered armies, claimed borders with blood and steel, but never earned a casual touch or a shared platter. This Ashton had slain one beast and suddenly shared her table like a favored brother. Lucian’s fork stabbed into the meat harder than necessary, the scrape audible only to those beside him.

Raphael folded his hands in his lap, violet eyes lowered in pious meditation. The holy man’s lips moved without sound—a prayer for patience, for humility—but the beads of his rosary dug into his palm. Heena’s warmth toward Ashton felt like a divine rebuke after the chamber’s humiliations. Why elevate a stranger now, when the gods had already tested them so thoroughly? He forced a serene smile as a priest from the lower tables sought his blessing, but inside the grievance coiled: ’We endured your chains; he gets your laughter.’

Damien, at the end of the line, swirled his wine with lazy elegance, green eyes half-lidded in amusement. Outwardly, he looked relaxed, even lifting his goblet in a distant toast to Ashton’s health. But his mind raced—’who’ was this man really? What secrets hid behind those grey eyes and that perfectly timed backstory? Heena’s “honey” to Kieran had been a blade, but her casual intimacy with Ashton was the real poison. Damien sipped slowly, already plotting three ways to unravel the newcomer before dawn.

And beneath the table, five fists clenched tighter.

But suddenly, a female voice cut through the hum of celebration like a shard of glass.

“Your Majesty, this is wrong.”

Seraphina.

The white lotus herself rose from her place among the noble ladies, golden hair catching the chandelier light like a halo. Her voice trembled with that perfect mix of righteous indignation and fragile resolve, blue eyes wide and glistening as if on the verge of tears. The hall fell into a hush.

Heena paused mid-bite, fork hovering elegantly. She lowered it slowly, setting both fork and knife aside with deliberate calm. Her gaze lifted to Seraphina—cool, unreadable, the smile still in place but sharpened at the edges.

“Oh?” she said mildly. “And what, exactly, is wrong?”

Seraphina straightened, chin lifting with practiced innocence. She glanced at the consorts, then back to the Empress, as if drawing strength from their silent support. “Your Majesty, making Consort Kieran vacate his rightful place… and seating an ’unmarried’ man—a commoner from the western marches—in his stead? It is completely against protocol. Against ’decency’.”

Murmurs swelled. Nobles nodded along, heads bobbing like a field of wheat—’yes, yes, she’s right.’ Even some servants paused, platters forgotten. The consorts themselves shifted: Kieran’s eyes narrowed fractionally, Adrian’s pen stilled, a quiet validation rippling through their ranks.

Heena let the agreement hang for a beat. Then she leaned back in her throne, smile unwavering, and swept her gaze across the hall—nobles, consorts, Seraphina.

“Oh, is that so?” she said, voice light as silk. “You all think it’s ’wrong’?”

Her words turned sharp, cold steel beneath the honey. “Then tell me.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

“Which of these consorts”—her gaze slid deliberately to Kieran, Adrian, Lucian, Raphael, Damien—”is the ’Emperor Consort’? The one I chose as my true husband? The ’father of the kingdom’ who claims that seat by right?”

Dead silence.

The hall stilled as if frozen. Seraphina’s mouth parted, but no sound came. Kieran’s goblet hand froze mid-air. Adrian’s ledger slipped an inch in his lap. Even Ashton, beside her, blinked in faint surprise, though his expression remained the picture of polite neutrality.

Heena’s eyes raked over them all, one by one, her smile never wavering.

“None,” she said at last, voice ringing clear. “There is no Emperor Consort. No husband I elevated to that place. These men are ’consorts’—advisors, commanders, priests, spies. Valued, yes. But that seat?” She tapped the arm of Ashton’s chair lightly. “Belongs to ’me’. And I decide who sits in it tonight.”

Seraphina flushed, hands twisting in her skirts. “B-but Your Majesty, tradition—”

“Tradition,” Heena interrupted smoothly, “is what I say it is. Or do you presume to lecture your Empress on her own court?”

The white lotus wilted, sinking back into her seat under the weight of fifty thousand eyes. The nodding nobles suddenly found their plates fascinating.

Heena turned back to Ashton as if nothing had happened, picking up her fork with casual grace. “Now, where were we? The garden assassins…”

The feast resumed. Music swelled. But the consorts exchanged glances—relief warring with something darker. Seraphina had spoken for them… and been silenced.

Heena’s smile gleamed brighter than ever.

But Seraphina was like gum stuck to the sole of your shoe—impossible to shake off. Even after the public dressing-down, she straightened again, chin trembling with that infuriating mix of faux fragility and defiance.

“Your Majesty,” she pressed, voice quivering just enough to draw sympathetic glances, “you haven’t even ’introduced’ us to this young man. What ’right’ does he have to enter the royal dais?”

The hall tensed anew. Whispers reignited.

Heena’s fork paused. For a split second, genuine irritation flashed in her eyes—the cosmic backlash without System 427’s buffer would be brutal, but to hell with it. This white lotus needed crushing.

She set her utensils down with a soft ’clink’, gaze lifting to Seraphina like winter settling in.

“You ’dare’ interrupt me again?” Her tone was arctic, smile gone. “How ’dare’ you?”

Before Seraphina could sputter a response, Heena turned sharply to Duke Robbinston, seated among the high advisors.

“Duke,” she said coolly, “why don’t ’you’ tell them who this man is?”

Robbinston frowned—not at Heena, but at Seraphina. Even he was fed up with this relentless posturing. How ’dare’ she challenge the Empress twice in one night? He rose smoothly, spectacles glinting under the chandeliers, voice booming with rare fury.

“Lady Seraphina.” He fixed her with a glare that silenced the hall. “First: you were ’forbidden’ from this palace. Second: you sit here only by the Empress’s grace on this Spring Hunt Festival night. Third—” His tone hardened to iron. “’How dare you’ speak to the Mother of the Nation like that? She is a war hero. She ’commands’ this empire.”

Seraphina shrank, but Robbinston wasn’t done. He swept his gaze across the stunned nobles, consorts included—even ’they’ stared, never having seen the old duke so incensed.

“And the man you dare question?” Robbinston’s voice rose. “This so-called ’commoner’? Do you even ’know’ who he is?”

Dead silence.

“He is the Empress’s ’fiancé’.” Robbinston’s words landed like thunder. “Her ’true’ betrothed, chosen to marry her.”

Shock rippled outward—gasps, wide eyes, frozen goblets. Kieran’s face drained of color. Adrian’s pen snapped in his hand. The other consorts exchanged glances, masks cracking.

(Adrian has a habit of keeping a pen in his hand, and when he is angry or thinking about something, he clenches it tightly.)

Heena just smiled, leaning back as the truth settled.

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