Chapter 75: Chapter-75

He grabbed the ledger so fast he nearly hit himself in the face with it. “Yes, Your Majesty!”

As she walked away, System 427 muttered, “That was almost kind.”

“I haven’t had breakfast yet,” Heena replied. “Give it an hour.”

The closer she came to the main dining hall, the thicker the caution became.

The palace usually woke in layers: kitchen noises first—clatter of pots, hiss of steam—then maid chatter as lines of servants carried breakfast to various wings. Nobles liked their morning bustle; it made them feel important.

Today, the volume was turned down to cautious.

In an intersecting corridor, she caught the tail end of a whispered conversation.

“…they said she demoted him in ’one’ decree—”

“Shh! Do you want your family name next on a scroll?”

Heena’s footsteps reached them a beat later.

The two stewards who had been hissing at each other spun around so fast their robes tangled, then dropped into synchronised bows.

“Your Majesty,” they chorused.

She lifted a brow. “You sound guilty.”

They went even paler. “We—we—”

“I don’t have time to chase shadows this early,” Heena said, stepping between them. “If you’re smart, you’ll work hard enough today that I forget your faces by sunset.”

They stayed bowed until she turned the corner.

Only then did one of them allow himself the smallest, shaking breath. “We are all going to die,” he whispered.

“Not if you learn to read the wind,” the other muttered back. “And right now the wind is screaming ’do your job properly.’”

***

The doors to the main dining hall stood open.

Inside, the long table stretched beneath latticed windows, bathed in soft morning light. The place settings were immaculate: porcelain gleaming, Fork perfectly aligned, napkins folded with geometric precision. Steam curled gently from bowls and plates—delicate congee, lightly sautéed greens, pickled vegetables, baskets of fresh buns, sliced fruit arranged like a painting.

The head steward stood to one side, supervising with the intensity of a general before battle.

The moment Heena stepped into view, the entire room stiffened.

The herald at the door sucked in breath to shout her title.

“Don’t,” Heena said, not even slowing.

He snapped his mouth shut, bowed almost in half, and stepped aside.

Heena walked the length of the hall.

The line of servants along the wall bowed in a perfect ripple, heads lowered, eyes on the floor. No one moved, not even to shift weight from one foot to the other. The only sounds were the soft whisper of her cape across stone and the faint burble of soup in a covered tureen.

She reached the head of the table, pulled out the high-backed chair herself, and sat.

In Celeste’s memories, this chair had always felt a little too big. Today, it fit.

Heena lifted her hand.

A servant darted forward, hands steady despite their pale knuckles, and filled her bowl with congee. Another knelt to place a small dish of side vegetables within easy reach. They withdrew with the cautious precision of people backing away from a sleeping dragon.

Heena picked up her spoon.

The first bite melted warm on her tongue—rice smooth and comforting, balanced with a hint of ginger and scallion.

She nodded once.

“At least someone in this building still remembers how to function without me standing over their shoulder,” she said. “Tell the kitchens breakfast is acceptable.”

The head steward bowed so deeply his nose nearly scraped the floor. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Along the wall, several kitchen runners exhaled quietly, tension easing by a fraction.

System 427 hopped onto the back of her chair, invisible to everyone else, and peered into her bowl. “Smells good.”

“You can’t eat,” Heena reminded him.

“I can ’appreciate’,” he said loftily.

She took another bite, then another, letting her jaw work slowly, her stomach sending cautious signals of relief to the rest of her exhausted body.

Around her, servants moved in carefully choreographed paths.

One stepped forward to refill her tea and almost knocked his hand on the edge of the teapot. The liquid trembled near the spout.

Heena’s gaze flicked to his wrist.

He steadied immediately, color draining from his face.

“Slowly,” she said. “The tea is not on fire.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he whispered.

She took the cup when he finished. The porcelain was pleasantly warm in her fingers. The aroma of good leaves—expensive, fragrant—rose in gentle curls.

She sipped.

Silence held.

The more minutes passed without incident, the more visible the tiny shifts became: shoulders loosening by millimeters, jaws unclenching, someone almost, almost daring to believe breakfast might pass without bloodshed.

Heena set the cup down and reached for a small bun.

System 427 swished his tail. “Host, you know what they’re thinking, right?”

“That they’re going to die if the bun is slightly stale?” she said.

“That they survived the Empress’s morning mood,” he corrected. “Yesterday, three different people watched you demote a house and thought the sky fell. Today they’ve realized the sky is still there—but also that it belongs to you.”

Heena bit into the bun.

It was soft and warm, filled with just enough seasoned vegetables to be interesting without being heavy.

“Good,” she said after she swallowed. “Maybe they’ll finally stop acting like I’m decorative.”

***

Halfway through the meal, a steward misread the room.

He crept a little closer than the others, holding a small stack of folded reports in both hands. Sweat had already soaked the back of his collar.

“Y-Your Majesty,” he began, voice wobbling. “Forgive this lowly one’s impertinence, but there is a matter from the Ministry of Rites that requires—”

Heena did not look up from her plate.

“This is the dining hall,” she said. “Not the throne room.”

The steward froze.

“I am holding Fork,” she continued, calmly picking up a piece of pickled radish. “Do you see a seal in my hand? A scroll? A throne under me?”

“N-No, Your Majesty,” he whispered.

“Then you have three options,” she said, finally lifting her eyes to him. “One, you wait until I walk into court. Two, you submit it properly through the day’s memorials. Three, you decide your issue is more important than the Empress’s first peaceful breakfast in two days and find out how creative I can get with punishments.”

His legs shook.

“Which do you choose?” she asked.

“O-Option one, Your Majesty!” he blurted.

“Wise,” she said. “Get out of my sight.”

He scuttled backward so fast he nearly collided with another servant, who flattened herself against a pillar to avoid both him and her.

System 427 choked back a laugh. “You’re ’enjoying’ this.”

“I’m hungry,” Heena said. “It makes me honest.”

***

By the time her bowl was empty and the last sip of tea gone, the tightness in her temples had finally eased a little. The ache of days without proper rest was still there, but blunted now by food and the simple, stubborn pleasure of ’not’ being interrupted.

She set her Fork down with a soft click.

Three servants flinched anyway.

Heena dabbed her lips with the napkin, placed it neatly beside the bowl, and rose from her chair.

The entire row of staff bowed as one, like a field of wheat flattened by a strong wind.

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