Chapter 270

Felix

"Thank you for—" I start, the words of genuine, stunned gratitude forming awkwardly on my tongue.

She cuts me off with a sharp, dismissive gesture, raising her hand without even looking back at me.

"Not for you," she says, her voice clipped and final. "Your wife’s request."

Wife. Edith.

The reminder is a cold splash of reality. Of course. The countless nights I found Edith at her escritoire, the scratching of her pen a persistent counterpoint to my own restless pacing.

She’d been sending letters. To the one person we both knew could change the game, if she could be reached.

Initially, I’d been ashamed. We shouldn’t need her, I’d argued, pride stinging.

We’d had major disagreements, voices raised behind closed doors. Eventually, a grim resignation settled over us both. She was right. There was only one force in the kingdom that could counterbalance my uncle’s decades of plotted momentum: the woman who answered to no one.

And then, months of silence. No response from beyond the seas. I thought it was too late. I thought we were alone.

"Don’t be too relaxed, little lion."

"Have you ever taken a life?"

The question is a blade, quiet and precise. It slips past all my defenses, all my royal training, and lodges in the soft, untouched core of who I am. My body betrays me—a slight, instinctive flinch I cannot suppress.

She snickers, a low, rasping sound.

"A royal with clean hands?" She shakes her head, a mockery of pity in her eyes.

"That doesn’t mean your reign will be clean. It only means you’re not the one getting them dirty."

Her golden eyes hold mine, no longer just amused, but probing. Looking for the stain, the crack, the softness.

"Despite you being physically stronger," she continues, her gaze sweeping over me as if assessing livestock, "you don’t seem to have the.... mindset."

"Get your head together, little lion. I’ve done all I can. I’ve given you a fighting chance. A clean...well, cleaner—path to your own throne." She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a claw at my throat. "If you lose even this chance... you do not deserve your position."

That’s the last thing she says before walking away.

Exhausted,I find my way to my chambers. The walk is a blur of gilded trim and watchful portraits. I barely register turning the final corner before I bump, shoulder-to-shoulder, with a figure exiting my rooms.

I bump into my father-in-law walking out of my chambers. He gives a quick, shallow bow and is past me in an instant, his footsteps a rapid, light patter receding down the hall. He always walks so fast.

I mean, it’s expected of a cheetah. Edith too, I have to move a little faster to keep up with her.

Pushing the odd, hurried encounter aside, I enter my sitting room. The Crown Princess is there, a full tea service arranged before her on the small table between the armchairs.

"Leave us," Edith commands, her voice soft but absolute. Without a word, the array of servants and guards melts from the room.

It’s a habit she created in our first year of marriage, a private space carved from the relentless publicness of our lives.

I’ve grown accustomed to it. At the end of particularly exhausting or tiresome days, she personally attends to me. When court duties prevent it, Lira takes her place.

It has, admittedly, made me a bit spoilt.

As expected, Edith stands, the heavy silk of her formal gown whispering against the carpet. She comes forward without a word, her fingers deft and practiced as they begin to unbutton my heavy, embroidered court jacket.

This silent, familiar ritual is its own language,one of care, of possession, of shifting from the Prince to simply Felix. It stuns me that they call the crown princess cold and heartless, when look at her.

She leads me to the connecting bathing chamber where a deep, copper tub steams with fragrant water. I sink into it, and as the heat soaks into my bones, the terrible tension of the day begins, finally, to ease.

I turn my head to look at her. She has settled on a nearby stool, still every inch the Crown Princess—jewels at her throat, the elaborate architecture of her hairdo untouched, her gown a pool of rich fabric around her.

I think to myself, genuinely, no one else could handle this bizarre, pressurized existence the way she does. The gratitude is a quiet, constant hum in my chest.

"I heard about today," she says, her voice cutting through the steam.

"Hmmmn," I murmur, letting my eyes close.

"It feels surreal," I admit, my body shifting in the water. "To not have this weight on my shoulders anymore. To have it settled."

"I would not say that," she replies, her tone quiet but sharp enough to make me open my eyes.

"It is not settled. It is merely... contained."

"You really think I can lose against a 50-year-old man?" I attempt a joke, a weak smile on my lips. "Have some faith, my dear princess."

"I do believe in you," she says, and she means it.

"I have seen you spar against the Royal Knights. You are strong. You are fast. But, Your Highness... Felix..."

"You have never taken a life."

"You know a couple of months ago, I ordered the execution of those rebellious northern barons," I say, a defensive edge creeping into my voice.

"We both know that is not what I mean," she says, her gaze steady, unflinching. There is no judgment in it, only a stark, loving fear. "I am afraid you will hesitate in the moment. And that hesitation will cost you your life."

"I will not," I say.

"I will not hesitate," I repeat, stronger this time, trying to convince us both.

I can tell she does not believe me. But we do not get to finish this conversation, to argue or reassure.

A soft sound at the door, and a pair of familiar fox ears appears, followed by Lira’s hesitant face. Her fluffy tail is a banner of anxiety behind her.

"Felix," she says, her voice tight.

Edith stands immediately, her regal composure snapping back into place as if it were a cloak.