Chapter 40: Chapter-40

Few knew the full story. Years ago, the previous Emperor and his brother—joking over wine—had laughed about betrothing their children when grown. Duke Robbinston, ever loyal, took it as gospel. The Emperor, amused and unwilling to disappoint his old friend (and eager to tweak Commissioner Moore’s nose), let the “engagement” stand as a jest.

But Ashton—Prince Ashton Ravencourt, adopted son of the Emperor’s brother—wasn’t exiled. He ’ran’. He and young Celeste had sworn a childish pact: whichever became Emperor first, the other would flee the kingdom upon adulthood. Celeste won the crown; Ashton “exiled” himself.

In truth? He’d been living free, adventuring across the realms while she ruled.

Now, returned as the Crimson Hunt’s champion, the “fiancé” sat beside her—right where tradition demanded.

SerapHeena collapsed into her seat, pale as death. The hall erupted in stunned whispers. The consorts stared at Ashton—’fiancé?’

But how could the consorts stay silent? Kieran couldn’t—not with that “fiancé” label still ringing in his ears like a death knell.

He shoved back from the table and rose, ice-blue eyes locked on Heena with barely restrained shock. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, voice tight as a drawn bowstring, “but you’ve never mentioned this… ’fiancé’ to us. Not once. May I ask—how does he ’suddenly materialize’ after all these years?”

The hall hushed again, nobles leaning forward. SerapHeena’s eyes gleamed with vindication.

Heena met Kieran’s gaze evenly, a slight smile curving her lips—patient, almost indulgent. “Consort,” she said softly, “do you really think I have the power to conjure a fiancé out of thin air?”

Kieran’s jaw tightened, but before he could retort, she turned to the assembled nobles, her voice carrying effortlessly.

“There are many here who knew Ashton

when he was young,” she continued, gesturing broadly. “My playmate. Surely most of you remember him. It’s just that he was away for a few years.”

She let that sink in, smile unwavering. “It can’t be that your memories are ’so’ poor you’ve all forgotten?”

Murmurs erupted—older nobles nodding slowly, piecing together faded recollections of a silver-haired princeling scampering through palace gardens with the young crown princess. Younger ones exchanged confused glances, whispering ’Ashton? The lost Ravencourt heir?’

Kieran’s face darkened further, fists clenching at his sides. Adrian’s pen hovered frozen over his ledger. The other consorts stared daggers at Ashton, who ducked his head modestly, playing the reluctant royal to perfection.

Heena’s smile sharpened just for Kieran. “Satisfied, Consort? Or shall I fetch the old betrothal scrolls for you to ’personally verify’?”

Silence fell. Kieran sank back into his seat, defeated—for now. The feast churned on, but the air crackled with fresh resentment.

The whole dinner passed in an almost unnervingly proper way. Heena and Ashton didn’t flirt, didn’t touch, didn’t even exchange any lingering glances; they simply talked the way two well‑bred nobles should, voices calm, topics harmless and ordinary. Serafina, meanwhile, had already been scolded by two big shots earlier, so now she could only lower her head and quietly eat her food, shoulders trembling. There were tears clinging to her lashes, making her look as pitiful as a pear blossom in the rain, on the verge of withering at any moment.

But today, no matter how pitiful she looked, the men’s eyes were not on her. Their gazes kept circling back to Heena. They had never heard of such a “betrothal” or any so‑called “fiancé” before, yet it was also true that they had all, at some point, heard the name Ashton Ravencourt—Ashtov, the exiled prince, or whatever people chose to call him. They knew he had been sent away; they just didn’t know why he had returned now, or why he was suddenly sitting at the Empress’s side as if he belonged there. The more they thought about it, the stranger it all felt.

At last, the dinner ended. The servants began clearing dishes, and when Heena rose gracefully from her seat, Ashtov also stood up without hesitation, matching her movements like a shadow. Seeing this, all five consorts immediately pushed back their chairs as well, clearly intending to follow. Before they could take more than a step, Heena’s voice floated back, light and unhurried.

“Come on, guys, finish your dinner in peace,” she said, turning with a small smile. “I’m done, so I was thinking of going for a walk.”

Kieran seized the opening at once. “We can go together,” he offered, the words a little too quick, a little too eager.

Heena’s eyes flicked to him, the smile on her lips deepening just a fraction. “No, sweetheart,” she replied, tone gentle but firm, “you need to go to work too. You’ve been buried in prayers these past few days, so much that you’ve completely neglected your duties. I hope you’ll handle them properly now.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat, amusement hidden in the depths. After all, the consorts still had no idea that the authority of the mighty Northern Army had already been quietly cut in half. Heena could hardly wait to see their faces tomorrow, when that little piece of news finally reached them.

The moon‑washed garden was quiet, lantern light turning the white gravel paths into pale rivers. Night‑blooming flowers perfumed the air; the perfect backdrop for a romantic imperial stroll.

Hina and Astov walked side by side beneath an arbor of climbing roses, the Empress’s hand resting lightly on his arm. From the palace windows, it would look flawless—fiancée and Empress sharing a gentle, intimate moment after a triumphant feast.

Up close?

It cracked in one sentence.

Astov’s loving smile didn’t even twitch as he murmured, lips barely moving, “You bitch. Why the hell did you even call me?”

Hina’s answering expression stayed soft and serene for any distant onlookers. Only the tilt of her mouth sharpened as she replied just as sweetly, “You gay bastard, why did you even reply to my messages then?”

They kept walking, synchronized, every step court‑perfect while the words between them were anything but.

A golden shimmer popped into existence near her shoulder. System 427 materialized mid‑air, wings beating frantically, eyes bulging in outrage and sheer relief.

“Heena!” he wheezed. “Do you have any idea how worried I—”

He cut off when he got a proper look at Astov’s face. The system’s jaw dropped.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, ’damn’. If this man were a male lead, the Bureau would explode. Look at that bone structure—”

“Focus,” Hina snapped under her breath, smile never leaving her lips as she guided Astov around a hedge. “And didn’t I tell you to disappear for a while? You finally listen, and now you pick ’this’ moment to come back?”

System 427 clutched his tiny chest dramatically. “I lost 0.05 grams worrying about you, ungrateful child! No system has ever been this stressed!”

Astov’s lips curved, the loving mask sliding back on for a moment as he leaned down as if to murmur something romantic into her ear.

“I,” he said, voice soft and perfectly pitched, “am a ’support unit’, not a male lead. The Bureau shoved me into ’exile’ in this world years ago as—what did they call it?—a long‑term planted chess piece.” His eyes hardened. “Then ’you’ got assigned as the host and blew up the script before I could even finish my side quest.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep