Chapter 12: Family Dinner

The princess can be seen in the kitchen, munching on macarons with deliberate precision, each bite punctuated by a thoughtful tilt of her head. Her cheeks were puffed slightly as she glared at the single macaron on a plate in front of her, remembering the stranger woman and how her husband had practically rejected her macarons.

Roderic and Alaric remained a few feet away from where the princess sat, sharing a glance that screamed silent panic. Neither dared move too close, as if approaching might trigger some royal wrath.

“I’m not sure if the princess is sad or angry,” Roderic whispered, his eyes darting nervously toward her powdered-cheeked face.

Alaric shifted uncomfortably, clutching his own hands. “Both? Possibly both.”

Ilaria’s nose twitched.

“I need a plan,” she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing as she took another bite. The soft crunch echoed like a drumbeat of plotting. Her fingers toyed with the last macaron, spinning it on the plate as if weighing strategy.

“Ricky.”

“Yes, Your Highness?” Alaric stepped forward, trying to look serious.

“I need to avenge my macarons,” she tapped the last one on the plate for emphasis. “He crushed them earlier. Well…I crushed them, but it was because of him!”

Roderic swallowed nervously. “Princess, perhaps a polite conversation might suffice?”

Ilaria’s nose wrinkled, shaking her head. “Polite? Rocky, he doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation. This is war. And the macaron…is the weapon.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow, looking back at Roderic in confusion. “War with macarons?”

“Yes!” she snapped, pointing dramatically. “It’s simple. Step one: make him remember. Step two: ensure this never happens again.”

Roderic whispered to Alaric, “I think she’s serious.”

Alaric nodded slowly. “Yeah…”

Ilaria leaned closer, conspiratorial. “I need you two to assist me, but quietly. The enemy…well, my husband, must not suspect my genius.”

Roderic tilted his head. “Assisting you how?”

“Strategic placement,” she said, eyes gleaming as she tried to visualise her plan with the movement of her hands. “The macarons must be observed, his reactions must be monitored, and perhaps a slight sabotage.”

Alaric groaned exasperatedly. “Princess, this is entirely overthinking a dessert.”

Ilaria wagged a finger. “No, Ricky, this is justice, and you two are my loyal macaron minions. Your duty is to protect the sweets, note his responses, and report for any suspicious behaviour immediately.”

Roderic and Alaric exchanged bewildered glances.

“Princess, you want us to spy on His Highness for macarons?” Roderic asked cautiously.

“Yes!” Ilaria said, nodding solemnly. “It’s a matter of honour and taste. Do you understand the gravity of this?”

Alaric blinked. The furrow of his brows suggested that he found it absurd. “I…think I do? Maybe?”

Before Roderic could respond, the kitchen door swung open. Melyn appeared, slightly out of breath as she scanned the room like a hawk.

“Your Highness! I’ve been looking for you all day,” she exclaimed.

Ilaria jumped slightly. “Mel! I missed you too!”

She quickly straightened, trying to look composed though the last macaron still perched on her plate betrayed her. It was an odd thing to see Melyn behaving like this since she was always composed. That must mean something happened, or was about to.

Melyn’s eyes darted to the half-eaten treat. A slight confused frown etched on her face before she quickly shook her head. “You can worry about that later. Family dinner starts soon, so you must get ready immediately.”

Ilaria froze. Her eyes widened as she glanced at Roderic and Alaric. She had not receive announcement about it. Usually, she would be informed earlier since the family dinner only happened occasionally. But then again, they must have had done it because of her husband’s unannounced return.

“Abort mission,” she whispered urgently, her tone equal parts panic and command. “Abort mission!” She grabbed Melyn’s hand and allowed herself to be led away.

The two guards froze, watching as the princess and the habdmaiden practically bolted out of the kitchen. “Right…yes, mission…aborted,” Alaric said, tucking away his imaginary spy notes.

Roderic muttered under his breath, “I feel like we just lost the war against dessert.”

Meanwhile, Ilaria’s steps quickened as Melyn half-guided, half-dragged her through the corridor. Her fingers fidgeted nervously with her gown as she lifted it higher so that she could walk faster. Her heels clacking on the floor in an urgent manner.

“Melyn, why so suddenly?” she blurted out, eyes wide and nervous. “Dinner isn’t usually this urgent, but why does it feel like we’re rushing into a battlefield?”

“Because it is,” Melyn replied smoothly, not missing a beat. Her composure was unshaken, as if she has rehearsed this from time to time. “The entire royal family will be present. Cousins, uncles, visiting Lords, and your husband, naturally.”

Ilaria nearly tripped over her own feet. “Cousins? Uncles? V-visiting lords?!” Her voice cracked. “No one told me they were coming!”

“I’m telling you now,” Melyn said calmly, tightening her grip to keep Ilaria moving forward. “And as the prince’s wife, you’re expected to sit with him, which means you must be ready within the hour.”

Ilaria’s mouth opened and closed like a stunned goldfish. She blinked repeatedly, as if that action could wake her up from the reality. Sit with him? After what just happened earlier? She did not hold grudge against it since she longed for the opportunity to be close to her husband…

But wouldn’t it be awkward?

“Sit with him? In front of all of them?!” She shrieked.

“Yes.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve been ambushed?” she whispered, almost to herself. She could feel the sweat forming between their intertwined hands, causing it to feel uncomfortable and clammy.

By the time they entered the princess’ chamber, Melyn had already transformed from a handmaiden into general, pointing at basins of water and fabric laid out, instructing the other maids to prepare everything. “Sit, quickly. The sooner we start, the less disastrous this will be.”

Ilaria obediently plopped onto the chair, still dazed. “Ambushed by family dinner…what a way to die,” she muttered under her breath.

“Not if I can help it,” Melyn said briskly, already loosening the princess’ hair with deft fingers.

Melyn worked with the precision of an artist, her hands steady, her voice calm yet commanding as she directed the princess through every motion. Ilaria sat in the chair like a chastised kitten, quietly watching her reflection shift and sharpen under Melyn’s relentless care.

Her hair was brushed until it shone like threads of spun silver, each strand catching the faint glow of the chamber’s candles. Melyn gathered it into a graceful braid crown, weaving delicate silver pins through it, the kind reserved for state occasions.

Rouge was touched faintly upon her cheeks, just enough to bring warmth to her already soft features. Her lips, naturally full, were brushed with a shade that made them look as though she had just bitten into the ripest cherry. Her eyes needed no embellishment, though Melyn lined them lightly with kohl to accentuate their depth.

With a clap of Melyn’s hands, the maids brought forth the gown — a flowing masterpiece of black silk, heavy yet supple, embroidered with threads of silver that spiraled into motifs of dragons curling along the hem and sleeves. Along the neckline, amethyst beads glimmered faintly, as though scattered starlight had been caught and sewn there.

The gown fit the princess’ slender form with ease, the darkness of the fabric making her hair shine all the brighter and her eyes like violets set against midnight. Ilaria blinked at her reflection, mouth parting. She has always been satisfied of Melyn’s work but she had clearly outdone her talents now.

Melyn gave a satisfied nod, stepping back with arms crossed. “There, fit for a royal banquet.”

Ilaria turned her head slightly, still stunned. “But it’s just a family dinner,” she whispered.

Melyn arched a brow. “Your family dinners are battles, Your Highness, so better to go armoured in silk than to arrive unguarded.”

Right.

Ilaria clamped her lips and raised her fists with a look of sudden determination on her face. “You’re right, I’m meeting my husband’s family tree for the first time, so I must…” She paused, her eyes narrowing at her own reflection in the polished mirror.

“…I must look them in the eye and prove I am no scared rabbit. I am a descendant of the White Dragon even if I look like a lost lamb in their kingdom of darkness.”

Melyn arched a brow, clearly used to these pep talks that sounded equal parts war cry and childlike ramble.

“Yes…I must show them I’m not just the Crown Prince’s bride, I must…I must…” She looked down at her dress, gripping the folds of black silk in her hands. “…convince them I belong here, eat with grace, speak with dignity, charm them with…with…”

“With what, Your Highness?” Melyn prompted gently.

“…With my macaron-level sweetness,” Ilaria finished with utter seriousness, her chin lifting proudly.

For a heartbeat, Melyn’s composed face cracked, and she pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “…Yes, that should do.”

~×~

The corridors of the Black Dragon’s palace seemed longer tonight, each step echoing like there would be a jumpscare soon in Ilaria’s chest. Melyn walked a half-step ahead, calm and collected, but Ilaria clung to her arm like she might float away if left alone.

“Breathe, Your Highness,” Melyn murmured softly, her tone patient.

“I am breathing,” Ilaria whispered back, though it came out more like a squeak. “Too much, maybe. What if I hiccup in front of them? What if I trip? What if…what if one of them asks me about politics? I can’t even win an argument with my own horse.”

“You will be fine.”

“You say that, but what if someone throws a question about taxes and war at me? Do I just…smile?”

“Yes,” Melyn assured.

By the time they reached the great doors to the dining hall, Ilaria’s palms were clammy again as she clutched the skirt of her gown to keep herself from trembling. The guards at the door bowed deeply upon her arrival, then swung it open.

Immediately, warm light spilled from within, the long banquet table glittering with crystal goblets and gold-plated dishes. Chatters and laughter filled the air, and at the far end sat Levan’s kin, gathered like a living portrait of Black Dragon royalty. Some faces she recognised, and some are new.

“Her Highness, Princess Ilaria of Caelwyn, Consort to His Highness, Crown Prince Levan of Noctharis!” the Herald announced.

At once, chairs scraped against the polished floor. Everyone of the Black Dragon’s lineage rose to their feet. Silken skirts swished, boots clicked, and the weight many eyes turned upon her. One by one, they bowed and curtsied low, a solemn ripple of deference moving through the hall.

Ilaria stepped forward, her silver-white hair catching the glow of the chandeliers. The hush of reverence pressed in around her, so heavy she nearly stumbled. For a heartbeat, she swore the entire kingdom could hear the fast beating of her heart, but she pressed her lips into a polite smile anyway, chin lifted elegantly.

The moment she settled in, the first thing she noticed were whispers and side-glances from the members of the family. Are they curious? She wondered. She was a new addition into the family after all, so she understand the gaze, but it does not mean it was comfortable.

A moment later, the doors opened again.

“His Highness, Crown Prince Levan of Noctharis!”

He strode in, tall and composed, expression carved from stone as usual — sharp jaw and piercing gaze, making him look devastatingly handsome in a way that silenced the hall. The family rose in greeting, and he silently crossed the hall to his seat beside her. Ilaria swore her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, but she remained quite.

But then, from the corner of her eyes, she noticed how he was leaning a little toward her, saying. “I was waiting for you at the chamber.”

She blinked, then looked at him in bewilderment as if he had offended her soul. “Huh?”

“You arrived before me.”

“…Was I not supposed to?”

His eyes flickered toward the family, whose gazes were now politely averted but had very much witnessed everything. “A husband and wife arrive together. Always.”

“Oh,” she froze, realization dawning with the weight of a thousand bricks as humiliation dawned on her. “Oh no.”

“Now you understand why they stared.”

Ilaria slowly lowered her gaze, her cheeks warming in embarrassment. This is what happenes when there is miscommunication between a married couple!

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep