Chapter Text
Dion stood at the study window observing the palace grounds. The air was fresh from frequent use, not the stuffy room it had been years ago when only occupied between campaigns—a gentle reminder of the current stability the empire was enjoying. After nearly six years of reconstruction there was still much work to be done, but the progress was undeniable—a steady current running beneath all things, even if it sometimes felt achingly slow. Far below, assembly of the scaffolding around the eastern wing was in process.
Resources had been first allocated to the villages and outer provinces, where crumbling bridges meant isolation and collapsed roofs meant families huddling beneath tarps. Then came the efforts to reclaim formerly-blighted land, contracts to encourage innovation, and initiatives to overhaul the existing infrastructure in place of old-world magicks—all driven by necessity.
The castle's battered east side could wait—but now the time had come when at last the palace restoration could be justified. The clang of hammers and steady hum of construction signaled that finally the empire prospered enough to look beyond necessity.
It was a quiet pride, not in gilded halls or marble facades, but the knowledge that each strike of the laborers' tools spelled a resilience that had endured storm and siege. The empire's wounds no longer bled freely. They had scarred—not festered under his guidance—which was more than he dared hope after being elected to the imperial office.
Any other day his heart might have found solace in the simple strength below. But not today. His gaze shifted from the grounds to the writing desk, where a neat stack of parchment awaited him—precisely inscribed reports, a silvered tray of correspondence, and at the very top, a letter bearing a crest of nobility pressed into blood-red wax. A petition in all but name—and a bold one at that—the demand unreasonable and overreaching.
Dion pressed his fingers to his temple, exhaling through his nose in a measured sigh. He considered ignoring it, the notion to let the letter languish beneath less urgent business had been a tempting one. Alas, he knew this was one weed he could not allow to flourish lest it take hold among others.
Moreover, he knew from experience he wouldn't hear the end of it until he granted the audience. He scanned the letter for what must have been the third time that morning, jaw tightening at the audacity hidden behind florid penmanship.
Terence entered without knocking. Dion didn't need to turn; a quarter-century of companionship had attuned him to that particular cadence.
"Your Radiance, I must say, the light in here does wonders for your scowl."
Dion shot him an unamused look. Terence only grinned and crossed the room with a small linen-wrapped bundle in hand. He held it aloft in an outstretched palm, as if presenting a rare treasure rather than—Dion squinted—a piece of honeyed flatbread, slightly misshapen from the wrapping but fragrant with cardamom.
"Eat something," Terence half pleaded, half demanded, "Before you send any young noblemen to the gallows by way of an empty stomach."
Dion arched an eyebrow, "—Are you still sneaking things from the kitchens on my behalf?" Dion accepted the humble parcel, with sincere gratitude.
"One would think, with the entire palace at your command, you might someday graduate to receiving breakfast in a dignified manner," Terence answered with a hint of amusement, "Yet here we are—"
"—Here we are," Dion echoed, tearing a neat corner from the flatbread and casting Terence a sidelong look.
Terence folded his arms. "So—what is our strategy?" His voice lost its teasing, though his eyes shone warmer for it.
Dion considered the question before offering his tactical assessment, "He'll open with flattery and softened words." Dion said at last, with a grim nod, "He'll try to win you over first, I'm certain of it."
Terence's lips quirked, "Flattery is wasted on me. Though I'll admit it's entertaining to watch them try."
Dion tapped the letter with deliberate precision, "Then idle chatter. He may try to leverage his skills, boast of his family's accomplishments, weave minor truths into grander tales to win favor—all pretenses, don't be fooled." Dion's tone was even, not unkind—simply factual, as if laying out troop positions on a field. "If he senses even the faintest acquiescence, he'll press further—concede some minor demand to appear reasonable, then slip in a greater one while our attention's diffused." Dion nudged the letter aside and fixed Terence with a pointed look. "We must answer firmly, but not without grace. To refuse outright gives grounds for grievance which could be used against us later."
Terence reached for the offending letter, giving it another once over, "Have you already resolved to turn him away, then?" he asked softly, his tone almost sympathetic, "You sound as though the answer has already been settled. Is there truly naught he could say to sway you?"
For a heartbeat, Dion regarded Terence with an expression of wounded incredulity. The absurdity of it—as if Terence had suggested trading the throne for a sack of potatoes or inviting the high council to share their marriage bed. The silence stretched just long enough to be dangerous, before Dion's voice emerged harsher than intended, "I would sooner grant him the keys to the treasury than indulge him this—this—this—" He fumbled for a word that encompassed the scope of this imposition but found only a strangled, "…lunacy!" Dion pinched the bridge of his nose, chasing the ghost of a headache from his brow."I thought we agreed on this."
Terence chuckled—softly, so as not to provoke him further—then perched himself on the edge of the desk. "This lunacy is something of a recurring illness among young men, I fear." He hung his head.
Dion crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair, "Perhaps quarantine measures ought to be imposed…" he finished dryly.
The door opened following a soft knock and a maid stepped inside, dipping into a practiced curtsey, "Your Radiance, Commander," she announced, her voice gentle but clear, no louder than necessary, "Your appointment has arrived. I've shown him to the reception chamber as you requested."
Dion allowed himself a brief, resigned exhale, "Thank you, Selene." The woman slipped out as quietly as she'd entered, leaving a hush behind her. Terence slid from the desk and righted his tunic, hesitating when Dion remained seated, fingers steepled in front of him.
Terence sighed when Dion didn't move to rise, "Coming?" He prompted, one eyebrow arched with expectation.
"You needn't make haste, Commander," Dion gestured loosely, feigning indifference, though his gaze sharpened with intent, "Let him stew in anticipation. It's a test of humility and patience."
It was Terence's turn to raise a hand to his forehead, fingers pressing between his brows in exasperation. "You're serious…" the disbelief evident in his voice, then a firm, "No. You're being absurd."
Dion let the silence linger, but Terence didn't yield. His expression—half pleading, half unimpressed—wore down the last of his resistance. With a long-suffering sigh, Dion pushed himself from the chair. "Very well. Call it mercy, if you must."
He strode toward the adjoining reception chamber. Dion would have met him in the receiving hall if not for Terence's insistence on a more intimate setting.
"Try not to let him bait you," Terence murmured, catching Dion mid-step as he reached for the polished door handle, voice pitched so only Dion could hear, "And, for the love of Greagor—smile. Just once. For her sake."
"I intend to be perfectly cordial," Dion's lips shaped themselves into something resembling a smile—thin, brittle, just enough to signal compliance, though it carried a dangerous undercurrent. Equal parts obedient and threatening. Not the more convincing one he reserved for statecraft and ceremonies, but the sort of smile one wore when told to behave by an exasperated spouse.
Terence eyed him sidelong, "That's what worries me."
[ Two hours hence… ]
Kihel lay on the settee, head propped on the armrest, clutching a bouquet of lavender and baby's breath to her chest like she was attending her own wake. Ironic—considering she'd just witnessed a murder. Not a real one. No blood, no mess.
Just the kind of death you can't come back from, no matter how many titles one's father paid for.
In hindsight, she should have seen it coming. The young man arrived precisely on time, which Kihel supposed was his first mistake.
She stared at the ceiling as the events of the last hour replayed over and over in her mind's eye—starting, as all great tragedies did, with a boy and a bouquet and two doting fathers.
"These are lovely, thank you, Caelan," She'd accepted the modest bouquet he'd presented her with equal parts gratitude and awkwardness, unsure whether it was meant as a gesture of respect or an attempt to win favor. Either way she was glad it was nothing ostentatious. The bouquet's stems were bound with a simple parchment wrap and ribbon dyed the colors of his family's crest—purple and blue. Unsubtle, but it matched the old-world etiquette manuals and was lovely all the same.
She held it carefully in her lap, uncertain whether she was meant to display it or simply set it aside. She wondered if it would be rude to dry and grind them into powder later. Caelan cleared his throat, the sound echoing dramatically against the high-vaulted ceiling of the reception chamber.
Kihel smoothed the front of her skirt, pretending not to notice how many times he glanced at the chandelier. Or the marble inlay. Or the fresco. He hadn't spoken in nearly a minute, which made her wonder if he'd forgotten how.
Kihel tried to fill the silence, "This wing was the first to be renovated after the devastation," she offered, attempting small talk. "But the fresco and the marble inlay are original." She gestured to the painting of Bahamut, wings of chromium splayed across the wall in a blaze of gilded light. The piece was complimented by a dragon-scale motif in blue and silver tesserae sprawling across the white marble floor.
"Sounds…uh, historical." Caelan nervously eyed Bahamut's likeness, his gaze lingering on the dragon's azure eyes, rendered in brilliant lapis-lazuli. Caelan's Adam's apple bobbed, "It—uh…it kind of looks as though he's looking at you no matter where you stand, doesn't it?" He laughed nervously—half joke, half hope for camaraderie.
Kihel gave a small smile, "That's the intent," she replied gently, "this room is used for negotiations and the like, don't let it unnerve you." It was going fine. Not amazing, but fine. He was clearly trying. She could forgive the nerves, though she'd warned him not to stress.
"There's no need to stand on ceremony," Kihel met his gaze with a careful warmth and offered a reassuring smile, softening the tension in his shoulders as he was finally persuaded to take a seat. "It's not like it's a royal tribunal. It's just tea," she murmured, nudging his elbow with hers.
He blinked at her, clearly unconvinced. "Your father is the emperor."
She tilted her head frowned, "Well, yes. But he's also just…my dad. He steals honey biscuits from the kitchens. You'll be fine."
A beat passed.
"The other one commands the entire military," He cast an apprehensive sidelong glance at the chamber doors, "I dare not misstep."
Kihel stifled a laugh, the corner of her eyes crinkling with amusement, "Terence is far more interested in your character than your posture, I promise. Just don't challenge him to chess and you'll survive." She took a measured sip of her tea, letting the quiet stretch just long enough for Caelan's shoulders to ease ever so slightly.
Caelan fiddled with his sleeve cuffs, "I suppose you would know best." He managed a nervous chuckle.
She looked over at the door leading to Dion's study, preparing to barge in and drag him out if he kept the poor boy waiting much longer. "It'll be fine, just be yourself." Kihel's gaze flicked to the bouquet in her lap, then back to Caelan. "Thank you again, for these. They're lovely."
Caelan looked unconvinced but nodded anyway,"I'm glad you find them pleasing."
Finally the door swung open with a click, smooth on its hinges. Dion's presence filled the room as easily as sunlight: composed, contemplative, perhaps more tired than legend would suggest, but no less elegant for it. Terence entered just behind, his quiet warmth a softer counterpoint to Dion's poise—a constant and reassuring presence, always within reach.
Kihel set the bouquet gently aside and rose, smoothing her skirt again, her smile bright and unforced. Caelan stood as well, shoulders drawn back by an effort of will rather than certainty.
"Lord Caelan de Leauxvîleaux," Dion greeted them with that diplomatic edge to his tone—polished but distant. "Its a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance," His smile was court trained—archaic, gentle but not overly familiar, measured with just enough warmth to invite conversation but not enough suggest favoritism. In hindsight she should have recognized it for what it was.
"The honor is mine and more, Your Radiance," Caelan said, with a bow so deep it seemed he might kneel entirely, "I am infinitely grateful to be so graciously received."
Dion didn't move. He merely smiled—thinly—and tilted his head, like a noble hawk examining prey for signs of weakness. Kihel saw his eyes narrow by half a millimeter.
Oh Gods. Is he…evaluating the bow depth? It was her first moment of understanding the intense scrutiny Caelan was about to face.
"Forgive me, but your reputation for brilliance—intellectual and otherwise—did not exaggerate. It humbles me to witness it firsthand."
Dion bowed his head, slightly, expression unchanged, "You're kind to observe it." The words were smooth, almost weightless, but there was a sharpness beneath the silk—an acknowledgment that neither rebuffed the compliment, nor allowed it to land comfortably. Kihel saw Caelan's confidence waver at narrowly surviving the first volley.
Terence, ever the chivalrous knight for those without armor hardened by years in court, stepped in with a geniality that sanded down the edges. "I trust Kihel showed you the palace grounds?" he asked Caelan, his voice relaxed, steering matters from flattery to firmer ground.
Caelan straightened, grateful for the lifeline. "The palace is exquisite, Commander. The gardens—especially the eastern promenade—are unlike anything I've seen."
"Ah yes, the wild Wyvern's Tails are a relatively recent addition." Terence acknowledged, "It was Kihel's suggestion to reintroduce them to imperial soil." As he spoke he blessedly extended a hand motioning them toward the low table set—Kihel recognized the diplomatic gesture, a signal that talks might proceed on equal footing. Terence's smile was warm, and Caelan hesitated only a heartbeat before accepting both the seat and the offered smile. Kihel relaxed slightly, trusting in Terence's ability to manage his husband's rare lapse into aristocratic bloodlust.
Selene—the ever-unruffled palace attendant—prepared and served the tea. Kihel took the opportunity to quietly observe and assess.
Dion sat with both feet planted firmly on the floor, posture unyielding in its composure. He leaned forward just enough to signal engagement, one hand perched atop the armrest, the other resting lightly on his thigh. It wasn't casual exactly, It was cultivated. Every inch of him radiated the quiet power of someone who never had to raise his voice to be obeyed and a level of discipline that came from years of skillfully navigating the intricate rituals of court.
Terence crossed one ankle over his knee, shoulders back, fingers steepled loosely in his lap. It was a posture of calculated ease. He had that same calm, unreadable expression he wore at military briefings—courteous but somehow still intimidating. Like he was about to negotiate the peaceful withdrawal of enemy forces or accept a surrender.
Selene served their guest first and Kihel didn't miss the slight crease that formed in Terence's brow or the subtle down-turn of his lips when Caelen failed to thank the attendant.
Oh no, she realizes with horror—whatever this was it was a coordinated effort. She glanced wide-eyed at Caelan, who seemed more at ease now, lulled into a false sense of security and blissfully unaware of the peril she'd led him into. Selene finished pouring the last cup of tea and retreated, closing the door with her invisible touch. Kihel sensed her hand in this as well, else they'd have poured the tea themselves. The turncoat. Kihel braced herself, realizing she'd be alone in defending the boy's honor.
Dion's eyes flicked to the bouquet in Kihel's hands, then back to Caelan, "I see you've already made an impression." His demeanor was pleasant—On the surface.
"Ah—just a small token," Caelan stammered, glancing at Kihel as if for reassurance. "I hoped Lady Kihel might like them. Lavender is said to calm the nerves."
"Is it?" Dion asked innocuously, giving the overstrung boy a quick once over, watching him sweat, "I'd never have suspected."
"They're lovely," Kihel asserted, though it came out harsh—more a warning than praise as she shot Dion a look.
"Indeed, very studied of you," Dion's tone was mild, though Kihel heard the non-compliment it for what it was—an apology, a parry, and a challenge at once.
"A thoughtful gesture," Terence offered another lifeline with an air of diplomacy, although Kihel wasn't fooled this time. They'd prepared.
The clink of a teacup settling into its saucer filled the silence. Dion laced his fingers together and regarded their guest. "Tell me, Lord Caelan, how fares your father's estate?"
A faint smile brightened his face, "Ah, yes, Your Radiance, it prospers. Of course, It was a bitter season for all, but our breakthroughs in grain preservation saw us through the worst of it. A few of our innovations have even caught the eye of the southern assemblies." He smiled, genteel and modest in presentation, though his pride was apparent.
"How fortunate," Dion responded, his voice smooth as silk, "that your household found abundance even as so many others have struggled. Such a keen instinct for opportunity is noteworthy." He inclined his head with the measured grace of court etiquette—acknowledging the accomplishment, not endorsing it.
Kihel held her breath, bracing herself.
"Thank you, Your Radiance—that means a great deal," he said quickly, sitting a little taller, his nerves momentarily soothed having mistaken the edge in those amber eyes for genuine approval.
Kihel bit back a sigh and reached for her tea. Perhaps he would survive after all—if only by blissful ignorance.
"Of course," Dion nodded almost warmly, and Kihel realized he'd yet to deliver the final blow. "Turning scarcity into profit requires a certain… shrewdness. One might even say a particular talent for navigating the misfortune of others." Dion's words hung in the air, not quite accusing but carrying an uncomfortable quiet weight.
Caelan's smile faltered for the briefest of moments, perhaps sensing the drop in temperature. "Er…Well, yes. It is true, we seized what opportunities presented themselves, but fortune favors those who prepare," Eagerly quoting a household maxim.
"How very prescient," Dion said. "And the excess?" He sipped from his cup, looking at Caelan. "No doubt, it was offered generously to relief caravans."
There was a pause, Caelan floundered slightly but pressed on, "Of course, Your Radiance. Our family has long served as a pillar of stability in uncertain times. Though naturally, some had to be—ah—retained for sustainability."
"Naturally." Dion repeated, his tone soft, almost warm as he sat back in his chair relaxing his posture slightly. His gaze lingered, golden and inscrutable, before turning to Terence with a grin—as if to say ‘I rest my case.' Terence's eyes flickered upward just briefly, shooting Dion a look, a silent signal advising mercy.
Kihel suddenly felt for the poor boy, he'd just been eviscerated with nothing sharper than a smile and subtle emphasis on the wrong words. She glanced at him risked an encouraging nod, offering hope like a candle in fog.
Dion merely inclined his head, granting Caelan the reprieve of a measured lull. When he opened his mouth again, Terence stepped in with the soft authority of someone accustomed to diffusing powder-keg situations with a just a few words.
"—Lord Caelan," Terence began, his voice as gentle as chamomile, setting his cup aside. Kihel let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, knowing that while Terence might not be entirely sympathetic, whatever words next left his mouth couldn't possibly be worse than Dion's methodical dismemberment of the young lord's pride.
He leaned forward forearms resting on his knees, his eyes narrowing slightly, "What are your intentions with our daughter."
Oh Gods.
This can't be happening.
Kihel's jaw dropped in utter mortification, watching Caelan faltered under their combined gaze, a bead of sweat glimmering at his hairline. He swallowed nervously, shifting slightly in his seat, "ah…I—" He glanced at Kihel, for clemancy or perhaps hints on how to navigate this sudden shift. "I—"
Kihel cut him off, abruptly redirecting the conversation, "—You know, Caelan remembered lavender's use in poultices when he chose these," Kihel interjected, holding up the flowers as if presenting evidence before a tribunal.
Dion stared, a slight frown on his lips, seemingly unimpressed. Terence, however seemed to take note of the new information with a certain scholarly interest. She hadn't lost him yet, maybe this could still be salvaged.
"Most nobles default to roses," Kihel continued, "But these?—" She shook the bouquet haphazardly at Dion, causing a few buds to fall loose, "—These are the ones that I like." She pivoted to Caelan, "Tell them." She demanded urgently, with far too much intensity.
Caelan blinked at her as though she'd switched languages mid-sentence. "Uh—um, er…yes, I remembered." He answered weakly, sinking slightly into his chair, now facing interrogation from all three members of the household Lesage. "And I—I wrote a poem..."
"A poem?" Dion's eyes lit up, almost maniacally, a sudden spark igniting behind his composed façade. He leaned forward with interest, prey drive now fully engaged. He fixed Caelan with an intensity that made the young lord falter, "How lovely! Care to share?" Voice now edged with a sort of deranged glee.
Caelan swallowed hard, looking between the three of them—Dion's bloodthirsty smile, Terence's quiet judgment, and Kihel's wide-eyed panic—before reaching for the folded parchment in his pocket with trembling fingers.
"No!" Kihel half-shouted. Her hand shot out, awkwardly-entangling with Caelan's, before he could hand over the keys to his own demise. All eyes shifted to her and she cleared her throat, "He—he forgot to bring it," she stammered, voice pitched high.
Dion's lips twitched into a triumphant smile that carried the false promise of mercy, "A shame," he said softly. "Perhaps next time—"
"—Yes, next time." Kihel stood abruptly, taking the opportunity, "I just remembered I haven't tended the herb garden today," not bothering to devise an excuse with any sense to it.
Caelan opened his mouth—probably to protest or offer yet another uninspired pleasantry—but Kihel didn't wait.
"Come, Caelan." She yanked his arm, pulling him to his feet, dragging him from the gallows, "I have pressing matters, I'll show you to your carriage."
He stumbled to his feet, bewildered, offering a rushed ‘thank you' as he was pulled along. Kihel abandoned all pretense of ceremony, pushing him out the door.
She shot a venomous look back over her shoulder, "We'll talk about this later." She hissed before letting the door swing closed behind her.
That was an hour and forty-five minutes ago, the tribunal had lasted all of fifteen minutes. Now, Kihel lay draped across the settee like a tragic widow in a second-rate opera, the bouquet still clutched to her chest as if it might shield her from the sheer force of secondhand embarrassment. Not that Caelan had grievously misstepped—he'd been polite, deferential, painfully earnest—but even if he wanted to see her again after that, she's not sure she could look at him without cringing.
She'd watched his confidence slowly unravel while Dion measured and analyzed every syllable for intention with the deadly precision of a man who had a distaste for courtly formalities and knew exactly how to weaponize it. Terence—bless him—somehow managed to make things go from bad to worse with a single honest question.
The lavender's scent turned cloying. Kihel sat up abruptly, setting the bouquet on the end table, before marching down the corridor. She slammed open the door to Dion's study, finding them exactly where she'd expected—Dion at his desk, framed by midday light streaming through leaded windows, and Terence seated across from him. Their synchronized glance upward held matching expressions of parental innocence that set her off.
"You hunted him." Kihel jabbed an accusatory finger at Dion, who blinked slowly like he didn't know what she was talking about, "Like a—a falcon diving on a crippled songbird!"
They shared a look between them, a silent conversation she wasn't privy to. Dion set his quill in its stand, "We merely exercised our due-diligence as parents and assessed his character through civilized discourse."
"Civilized? You flayed him alive!" She rounded on Terence, "And you!—‘What are your intentions?'—ugh!"
Terence hesitated, glancing at Dion then back to Kihel, "It's standard for security—"
"—Standard!? Oh, don't even start." She interrupted. "You're a terrible liar."
For five years she watched them rebuild nations with patience and wisdom—yet faced with one nervous boy bearing flowers and poetry, they'd regressed into overarmed sentries guarding a vault.
"Courtship requires a level of scrutiny," Dion justified with a scholar's calm, but she didn't miss the way he sat a little straighter in his chair. "We can't permit just anyone to—"
"It's not like he was asking for my hand in marriage. He wanted to accompany me to the Harvest festival!"
"—Ah, yes. He never made it to his request, did he?" He picked up Caelan's letter, waving it with a flourish, and gave an accommodating little nod, "Granted." He declared, before setting it down and sliding it across the desk, knowing full well the ship had sailed. It would've been comical if not for her rising fury.
Kihel made a noise somewhere between a scream and a growl, "You're impossible!"
"We'll do better next time," Terence looked almost apologetic, offering her an appeasing smile, "full military honors—trumpet fanfare, honor guard, we'll fly his house colors…"
Kihel stared at him with a look of blatant disgust, before finding her voice again. "Deranged!" She pointed accusingly between them, "Both of you!" She threw her hands up before storming out.
The door shuddered in its frame and Dion and Terence shared a look as Kihel's footsteps faded down the corridor.
Terence leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "That went well, I think."
"Mm." Dion picked up the letter, casually flicking it toward the fireplace and watching it burn, "Yes, I quite liked him."