Theron’s gaze shifted to Rosalyn.

For the first time since he had entered, she lowered her head—bowing beside her grandmother. There was hesitation in it, a flicker of confusion she could not quite conceal, but she followed nonetheless. Whatever she did not understand, she trusted Leone enough not to question it here.

Theron watched her for a brief moment.

Then he stepped forward, stopping before Archduchess Leone.

He exhaled slowly.

"Since Lady Rosalyn appears so well-versed in diplomacy," he said at last, his tone measured, carrying quiet authority, "she shall oversee the handling of the aftermath."

A simple sentence, but quite a decisive one.

Rosalyn’s head snapped up, the reaction immediate, sharp, and instinctive. But before a single word could leave her lips, Leone spoke.

"Your Highness is most wise," the Archduchess said, lowering her head once more, her voice steady and composed. "House Caelvaris shall abide by your will. I will see to it personally."

Only then did Rosalyn understand.

This was not a task.

It was containment. He would go that far to protect his mistress, he was exiling her from the capital.

She pressed her lips together, forcing the flare of anger back down her throat.

Theron gave no further acknowledgment.

He turned, cloak shifting lightly with the motion, and walked out as though the matter had already ceased to exist.

Kael followed a step behind, sparing the room a fleeting glance before falling into stride beside his liege.

The doors closed behind them.

And the silence left in their wake felt heavier than any confrontation.

-----

"Grandmother, what was that?" Rosalyn leaned against the table the moment Theron left, her restraint snapping. "It’s obvious he did it."

Leone did not answer.

Her hands, resting on the edge of the table, trembled... barely, but enough. It unsettled her more than Rosalyn’s outburst ever could. She had stood before kings, defied nobles twice her power, spoken her mind in rooms where a single wrong word could cost a life.

She had never felt this.

Those eyes...

Cold. Certain. Not anger, but something far worse. Final.

Leone drew in a quiet breath and forced the thought away. Fatigue, she told herself. Nothing more.

"Do not argue with me," she said at last, her voice returning to iron. "You will leave the city tomorrow. Make your preparations."

"But Grandmother, I—"

"Do as I say."

There was no rise in volume. No need.

The finality in her tone struck harder than any shout.

Rosalyn stilled. She searched Leone’s face, waiting—hoping—for some sign of wavering. There was none.

Slowly, reluctantly, she stepped back. She lingered just long enough to be certain this was not a passing command, but a decision already carved in stone.

Then she turned.

The doors burst open. Energy rushed in with him—wild, untamed, disruptive.

Lucian Caelvaris strode inside as though the room itself had no authority over him. His long brown hair hung loose, tangled and neglected, falling past his shoulders. A thick beard obscured most of his face, leaving only those sharp amber eyes clearly visible—bright, restless, alive with thought.

His clothes were clean. His hands, too.

Everything else about him... was not.

"Can you believe what happened in the laboratory today?" he began without preamble, voice alight with excitement. "The aetherstones—they’re reacting differently. I think I’m close to a breakthrough—"

"The Crown Prince made Grandmother kneel."

Rosalyn’s words cut across his.

Lucian stopped.

The shift was immediate.

"That snotty brat did what?" he said, turning sharply toward Leone.

Leone exhaled softly, a flicker of exasperation crossing her face.

And yet...

For the briefest moment, something else broke through. Something fragile. Something she had buried long ago.

Her gaze lingered on him.

Does he... care?

The thought slipped in before she could stop it.

She lowered her eyes, as though to hide it—even from herself. But not before noticing, with quiet clarity, what had always been true.

Even like this... disheveled, unkempt, lost in his obsessions... He was still a man who could have turned heads. Time had not diminished him. If anything... it had only sharpened what was already there.

Her husband!

"Last I saw him, he stood in court with his head bowed," Lucian said, voice rising with each word, anger flaring fast and unfiltered. "And now he walks into my house and makes my wife kneel to a child?"

His gaze snapped toward Rosalyn.

"You—Tathan," he pointed, brows drawn so tightly they nearly met. "Go fetch that brat. I’ll teach him what respect means."

Leone closed her eyes for a brief moment and exhaled.

Of course.

What had she expected? The man before her lived decades behind the present. To him, the Crown Prince was still a boy of twelve—and the granddaughter standing here was still the son he remembered.

"But Grandfather!" Rosalyn burst out, exasperation spilling over. "I am Rosalyn—Tathan’s daughter! Can’t you see I’m wearing a dress?"

Lucian blinked, genuinely taken aback.

"Granddaughter?" he echoed, as though testing the word. His gaze shifted between Leone and Rosalyn, trying to reconcile what he saw with what he believed. "Have I truly grown that old?"

Then suspicion crept in.

"Why are you lying?" he asked, frowning. "And why are you dressed like that? Go on—change into proper clothes. A boy should not be running around like this."

He gave her shoulder a casual pat, already dismissing the matter in his mind.

Rosalyn froze.

Then her face flushed with anger.

"You’re—!" Words failed her for a second. "If you had been here, Grandmother would not have had to kneel!" she snapped, the hurt beneath her anger slipping through despite herself.

And before anyone could stop her, she turned and stormed out.

Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp and uneven.

She hated it.

Hated him—for caring more about stones and theories than the family standing in front of him.

Hated the whispers that followed her wherever she went.

Hated the way power decided who bowed... and who was forgotten.

Her fists clenched at her sides as she walked faster.

She wanted power.

Enough that no one would dare whisper again.

Was that truly too much to ask?

But this was not the end. If power decided who bowed... then she would simply take it.