Theron held his father’s gaze, unmoving. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if that question—Do you like her?—had come from somewhere genuine. If, perhaps, the King had cared enough to ask.

Well... he would know now.

But the King did not answer him. Instead, his attention shifted to Ingrid.

"And they call you jealous and vindictive," he said, his tone almost amused, "when you concern yourself so deeply with the stability of the throne."

Ingrid lowered her gaze, her voice soft, measured. "I have bound my loyalty to you, my King. You know I would never guide you toward harm."

Theron almost laughed. The sound rose in his chest, but died there. He didn’t have the energy for it.

"She met with Lady Rosalyn just now," he said instead, his voice cutting through the room. "Aren’t you going to ask what she’s plotting with a Caelvaris?"

The King turned back to him.

Whatever softness had lingered vanished the instant their eyes met.

"The irony is almost insulting," the King said coldly. "If Ingrid were as scheming as you claim, she would have every reason to let you continue down this reckless path. Your mistakes would only strengthen her son’s position."

His jaw tightened.

"Instead, she spends her time containing the damage you cause—quieting whispers in court, preserving what remains of your dignity."

A sharp silence followed.

"And still," he added, voice edged with quiet contempt, "you are foolish enough to cast blame upon her."

Theron’s fingers curled at his side. He understood what made his mother the way she was. His one interaction was enough to drive him crazy. His mother had lived with it for years.

Before he could respond, Ingrid reached out, her hand settling lightly against the King’s chest. Her touch was slow, soothing, almost intimate, as though calming him from some strain only she could perceive.

"My King... you must not agitate yourself," she murmured. "Of course, Vaelor is sensible. He understands the weight of duty..."

Then her gaze lifted... straight to Theron.

"Do you not... Vaelor?"

That faint smile on her lips was delicate enough to pass for warmth and sharp enough to cut.

Theron held her gaze for a long moment.

Whatever anger stirred within him did not rise. It sank, deeper and colder, until it settled into something far more dangerous than rage.

"Figures," he muttered under his breath.

Then, with a crooked smile that held no humor at all, he stepped back and dipped into a slow, exaggerated bow. Not as a son before his father... But as a subject before his king.

"As you command."

He straightened and turned on his heel, striding toward the door. Each step was deliberate. Controlled. Almost theatrical in its defiance.

But just as he reached it... Something brushed against his senses.

He slowed.

There, faintly woven into the wall... was an Aurelion veil. Theron’s gaze sharpened. He stepped closer, studying the distortion in the air.

What was his father hiding... inside his own chambers?

He was about to reach out... when he felt a shift or air behind him.

Instinct moved him before thought could. He stepped aside...

A teacup shattered against the wall where he had stood, porcelain splintering across the floor at his feet.

"Scram, ingrate!" the King’s voice thundered from behind him.

Theron glanced once at the shattered pieces, then exhaled faintly. "That’s a first," he murmured under his breath.

And without looking back, he walked out.

Once beyond the chamber, he paused, just for a moment, and glanced at the closed door.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

That was... odd.

-----

Theron decided to go to the Arcanum and see Aveline.

He was too angry to sit still, too restless to think clearly, and he needed her the way a man needed air after drowning. Her smile had become a balm to him, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to see it again and let it steady the storm inside him.

But on the way, he was stopped by one of his mother’s maids.

Expecting one of his mother’s temper-driven outbursts, he changed course and entered her wing. Yet when he stepped inside, the atmosphere was strangely calm. There were signs of earlier chaos—scattered evidence of a quarrel, servants still carrying the stiffness of people who had only recently escaped a disaster—but the worst of it had already settled.

He moved toward the garden.

And there they were.

His mother. And Rosalyn, of course.

"Join us," Margrethe said.

Theron gave a small breath through his nose and kept his tone controlled. "No. I would rather be elsewhere. I will leave you ladies to your conversation."

He was not trying to provoke his mother. For once, he chose restraint.

"Can’t you join our conversation, Your Highness?" Rosalyn asked lightly.

Margrethe gestured for him to sit beside Rosalyn.

Theron paused, looking between them with a faint crease between his brows. Just how much of a trained manipulator was that woman, that she had his mother sitting so calmly before her? He had expected Margrethe to be furious after hearing that Rosalyn had met with Ingrid. Instead, she had somehow managed to soothe her, soften her, and make herself seem reasonable.

He would at least grant her that much. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

But he said nothing.

He turned to leave.

"The Arcanum," Rosalyn said then.

Theron slowed.

Of course, she knew. She knew he had left Aveline there.

"Classes would have started by now," Rosalyn continued, her tone still pleasant. "Wouldn’t His Highness’s presence there be rather distracting?"

Theron turned at last, a slow smile touching his mouth. It held no warmth at all.

"The Caelvaris family must have remarkably little demanding your attention," he said smoothly, "for you to spend so much time involving yourself in matters that do not concern you."

Rosalyn’s easy smile faltered for the briefest moment. She recovered quickly, lifting her chin.

"Right now," she said, "you are my most important concern."

Theron held her gaze without blinking.

Margrethe added, "She is trying very hard for your sake, Vaelor. It would do you good to listen to her."

Theron did not even look at his mother. His attention remained fixed on Rosalyn, and that alone was enough to make her composure strain.

Without another word, he walked away.

Rosalyn’s teeth clenched once he was gone.

Fine.

She still had other ways to make him bow to her.

---

Barely half an hour later, a maid came hurrying toward her, breathless and pale.

"Milady," she said quickly, dipping into a frantic curtsy. "Her Grace requests your immediate return home. There has been a fire in the cotton fields and the storage houses..."

Her voice faltered.

"Almost the entire harvest has been lost."