Chương 107: 43-1. King, Chancellor, and Secret Council

Varen III didn't scold us. He didn't even look displeased. He just sat there, watching Jessi, then letting his gaze slide over to me, as if he'd discovered some unexpectedly entertaining specimen. That calm of his was worse than anger. If he lost his temper, at least it meant the matter was still operating within recognizable boundaries. But once the emperor started finding it amusing, that usually meant the situation had officially escaped from everyone's control.

The chatter on the second floor kept spreading, rippling outward like an oil slick blooming across water. A moment ago they were just here for the show; now people were already recalculating prices—how many laughs Jessi was worth, how much scandal they could squeeze out of me, and how many different versions they could spin from the surname "Rosa." I didn't have to look up to know how many new mouths the capital would sprout after tonight. Olivia's side was frighteningly quiet.

She didn't move, didn't speak, just stood ramrod straight, as if the whole mess had nothing to do with her. But I knew her too well. The calmer she looked, the more it meant she'd already started doing the accounting in her head, line by line. How Jessi's one little sentence would mutate as it spread. Who would be first to make use of it. Which family would leak it to whom. Which strand of rumor had to be strangled in which cradle—she probably had the whole thing outlined, footnotes included.

Then she glanced at me. Just once. But I saw it clearly. That look more or less meant: You'd better live long enough to clean this up yourself, or I will personally bury you so thoroughly they'll need a surveyor to find the grave. Alvira, on the other hand, was significantly less subtle.

Her expression was cold as the spine of a knife left out on a winter night; the tips of her ears were pulled tight, eyes first locking onto Jessi, then snapping up to rake across the nobles on the second floor who were laughing the loudest. She didn't say a word, but she didn't have to—if this weren't in front of the throne, she'd probably already be putting arrows into something up there. I started to feel sorry for her.

Not because she'd been dragged into this mess with us, but because she had to stand there and not do anything about it. For someone like Alvira, restraint is a much harder discipline than cutting people down. As for me, my head just started to ache. Not from shame. Not even from anger. From the simple, painful awareness that from this moment on, it was no longer a simple case of "Jessi said something stupid in front of the emperor." Once that sentence hit the floor, it grew legs.

It would run all over the capital on its own, and come back with ten times the seasoning—oil, salt, spices, and a healthy dose of gutter water. And the worst part was: nobody knew how the man on the throne planned to interpret tonight's little comedy. So no one dared be the first to laugh it off. No one dared be the first to declare it over. The air in the audience hall just hung there, stretched taut like a rope caught across everyone's throat.

All it would take was one more line, and the whole performance would finally tip over into real chaos. Varen III raised his arm. Silence dropped like a guillotine. The nobles who'd just been whispering and snickering on the second floor shut their mouths faster than the servants cleared plates. Once again, I was reminded why the capital's high society managed to survive this long. It wasn't because they were particularly noble. It was because every single one of them knew exactly when to play dead.

"Everyone, quiet down," Varen III said.

"What was said today will not leave this hall." I almost laughed. Will not leave this hall? Your Majesty, that was a very nice sentence. Elegant. Dignified. Even a touch magnanimous. There was just one small issue: it would be worth precisely nothing. By sunrise tomorrow, my scandal would be traveling with the army rations to the border. By the evening after that, every dinner table in the capital would have someone pairing my romantic escapades with grilled meat and cheap wine.

"The rest of you, withdraw to the side chamber and wait." Varen III flicked his hand. Olivia and the others had no choice but to step back. On her way out, Alvira shot me a look so cold it practically suggested she'd like nothing more than to turn back and shoot me instead; Olivia's expression was so composed you'd think she was already planning my funeral. As for me… I just felt like a piece of meat that had been singled out from the chopping block.

How fine to slice it, which way to cut the grain—that all depended on the chef's mood now. Then Varen III turned to face me and Jessi.

"You two. Come with me." There's a little room beside the audience chamber with no windows. The placement and layout are… interesting. Interesting enough that the first thought popping into my mind when I saw it wasn't Oh, a side chamber, but more along the lines of: This is where certain important people get certain inconvenient things handled before they go stand in public.

As for what "inconvenient" covered—secret talks, under-the-table deals, or other extracurricular activities—given the capital's noble tastes, the correct answer was probably "all of the above." The only thing missing was a price list nailed to the wall. Inside, there were only three other people. Varen III. Galerus, the commander of the Tideguards. And the chancellor, Gilbert—the man who looked like a coffin lid that had grown a human shape and a personality, then decided neither were necessary.

Jessi and I had barely been brought in; the door wasn't even fully shut yet, Varen III hadn't properly sat down—and he was already turning to the side, laughing. Not the undignified kind of laugh, either. More like someone who'd tried to keep a straight face but just couldn't hold it in anymore. The sound itself wasn't loud, but coming from the emperor's mouth, it was far more unnerving than the second floor's earlier snickers. Those guys were just there to eat melon seeds and watch the show.

This one could eat his melon and decide who owned the entire field. Jessi and I stayed where we were. Whatever we had on our faces was probably identical. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. To summarize: the expression of people who've just been told they're innocent, only to see the executioner start clapping and calling it entertaining.

"This is far too amusing," Varen III said, shaking his head, a smile still tugging at his lips.

"When was the last time I was this delighted…Gilbert?" Gilbert didn't even twitch an eyebrow. His voice was as flat as if he were reading out names at a funeral.

"When Master Dali was still with us, Your Majesty." He glanced at me and Jessi. There was no contempt in that look, but there was no warmth either. It was just cold. Cold in the way of a man appraising two fresh corpses for resale value.

"Master Dali was an old friend of His Majesty's." Old friend. I cursed silently in my head. What a lovely euphemism. That old vulture had clearly paused on purpose.

"Old friend" was not his first choice of words. This is what makes the capital so impressive—you can be merciful with your tongue and still land your cut precisely on the jugular. Polite on the surface, vicious in the follow-through.

"Your Majesty," Gilbert added mildly, "you seem to have other matters to address with Lord Rosa."

"Ah, yes. Almost forgot the main business." Varen III finally smoothed his expression a little and waved his hand.

"We'll start with your reward. Gilbert, give it to him." The chancellor drew a document from his sleeve and passed it to me. It wasn't ordinary paper. One glance at the pressed pattern at the edge and the seal was enough. I knew it at once. A royal certificate of recognition. The real thing—formal, uncompromising, and solid enough to hammer someone's past and birthright back into the Empire's ledger. My fingers felt oddly foreign for a second when I took it. On that page was an acknowledgement of my blood.

An acknowledgement that I was of the Rosa line. An acknowledgement of my status as heir to House Rosa. I stared at those neat lines of text, dazed for a moment. The thing felt light in my hands, but it was heavy enough to crush. Because when they threw me out of the house, what I lost wasn't a mattress, or a meal, or a handful of ugly words. It was an entire name that was supposed to belong to me. Now that name was being tossed back at me by the emperor himself. It didn't feel like a gift.

It felt more like someone had dug up a corpse I'd personally buried years ago, brushed off the dirt, and ordered me to get back inside it. Varen III watched me, speaking in an almost casual tone, as if it were nothing worth more than a few silver coins.

"If you wish to pursue those who cast you out—" He lifted his hand and made a light chopping gesture in the air. Clean. Efficient. Very, very practiced.

"We can have the High Justiciar handle it," he said.

"Handled justly, of course." I stared down at the royal document and silently complained. No, Your Majesty. Not with that hand gesture, you don't get to call it "justly." Whatever that would be, it would not be especially warm or gentle justice. That wouldn't be a court session. It'd be a busy week for the undertakers. I tucked the document away and raised my head.

"Your Majesty, I believe this is something that should be clarified first."

"Oh?" Varen III's eyes sharpened with mild interest.

"Speak." I let out a slow breath.

"When I was first thrown out," I said, "I really did hate my two elder brothers." That part was true, so the words came out surprisingly level.

"But later, that anger…faded. Not because I suddenly became magnanimous, and not because they suddenly became human beings. It was because I kept running into more and more events, and meeting people who were stranger and stranger, and my life kept getting cheaper and cheaper. Looking back…if they hadn't kicked me out, I wouldn't have survived into the person I am now. I certainly wouldn't have met all these…interesting things." I paused.

"So. Let it go." The room went quiet for a moment. Varen III didn't answer right away. He just studied me, then turned his head slightly to glance at Gilbert.

"You see?" he said slowly.

"Holding a grudge is easy. The hard part is knowing when to put one down." Gilbert replied without a flicker of expression.

"Yes, Your Majesty. Lord Rosa is indeed…exceptional." His tone was icy, like he was praising the sharpness of a sword or a horse's endurance. Not like he was talking about a person. But I wasn't going to be picky. Being praised by this old corpse at all at least meant, for the moment, he wasn't filing me under "suspicious waste to be disposed of."

"As for your investiture and fief…" Varen III went on, slowing his speech a little, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

"It was our daughter who promised you, after all. It would not do for us, as her father, to gainsay her publicly." The back of my neck tightened at once. When an emperor says it "would not do" to contradict someone, it usually doesn't mean he actually feels awkward. It means he's about to give you a chance to be sensible on your own. So I bowed my head immediately.

"Your Majesty's grace in restoring my status as heir is already more than I could ever deserve," I said.

"I wouldn't dare hope for anything beyond that." At that, Varen III finally looked properly satisfied. Very good. Looked like my head would get to stay attached to my neck for at least the rest of the day. He nodded slightly, then shifted his gaze to Jessi.

"Miss Jessi," he said.

"If you do not wish to be ennobled, that is also acceptable." In the audience hall, Jessi had looked like her soul was halfway out of her body. Now that we were in a windowless little chamber, she was still a bit pale, but there was a spark slowly coming back into her eyes. That was very like her. Put her in a crowd and she'd practically act like she was about to drop dead. Put her where the real talking needed to be done, and suddenly the annoying little glint in her eyes would show up right on schedule.

Sure enough. Varen III had barely asked his next question—"Or is there another reward you would prefer?" —when Jessi turned her head and glanced at me. I knew that look far too well. Well enough for my stomach to start aching in advance. Then she grinned.

"I just want to stay by the young master's side." I closed my eyes. Perfect. Marginally cleaner than the line she'd dropped in the hall earlier, but only by a hair. Like stepping from a mud pit into a shallower puddle—it's still filthy, and I'm still the one getting splashed. Varen III was clearly enjoying himself. His expression hovered between amusement and the need to maintain imperial dignity, like an old father reminding himself that he shouldn't laugh too openly in front of his subordinates.

If, that is, the old father in question happened to own the entire Empire and could ship both of us to the frontier at any time to test whether our "devotion" could survive frostbite and bandits.

"This does not seem quite right, Lord Rosa." He finally spoke, voice faintly teasing, without once letting anyone forget that he was still the one in this room most qualified to decide the rest of our lives.

"Miss Jessi follows you with such unswerving devotion, yet you keep pushing her away. Even if you are already betrothed to Miss Olivia—" Here, he stopped deliberately, like he was savoring the way my face was steadily draining of color.

"Considering her…single-minded affection, you ought to at least provide a respectable arrangement, no?" I forced my head to remain lowered.

"Your Majesty," I said, "I only just managed to pick my family name back up today. I hardly dare tidy up my household on the same day. If word gets out, people will say my appetite is far too good." Varen III chuckled outright at that.

"Too good an appetite?" he said, eyeing me.

"If your father were still alive, he'd probably say you lacked courage." My heart skipped. Then he went on, slow and unhurried, driving the blade in with impeccable timing.

"Back in the day, Arklos was far bolder than you. He even had the nerve to set his sights on someone at our own side." If I managed to get out of this alive, I'd practically be doing my ancestors a favor. At the rate this conversation was going, I was one joke away from becoming a permanent feature of the seaside scenery beyond the palace walls—complete with a signboard for public viewing.

While I was busy wondering if the ancestors of House Rosa would claw their way out of their graves to strangle me for being the punchline of imperial humor, Varen III rose to his feet. The moment he did, the air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Jokes were jokes. Fun was fun. But as long as he was standing, this place was his, and the people in it—myself included—were just part of his evening's entertainment.

"Don't be in a rush to leave," he said calmly.

"It's getting late. You'll dine in the palace tonight." The tone was flat, as simple as if he were telling someone to put on an extra layer because of the cold. Unfortunately, coming from the emperor, that sort of sentence was effectively a decree. Never mind staying for a meal—if he told you to stick around and count plates, you'd be counting while thanking him for the honor. As he passed beside me, his steps paused for a heartbeat.

He leaned down, close enough that only I could hear him clearly, and murmured:"Go see Erina." My spine went rigid on the spot. Varen III, of course, acted as if he hadn't noticed. His tone stayed just as mild.

"Ever since she returned, she's kept herself shut in her room." I looked up in horror and turned to Galerus. Go see Erina? Your Majesty made that sound so casual, as if he were asking me to go pick a flower in the garden. Not as if he'd just ordered me to go visit a princess who'd locked herself in her chambers and, not too long ago, had kissed me in front of half the Empire. Galerus, meanwhile, had suddenly discovered an intense, life-altering fascination with the craftsmanship of the magic lamp on the wall.

The commander of the Tideguards kept his face perfectly neutral. His gaze remained fixed on the bronze pattern around the lamp's base, with the calm concentration of a man whose priorities were clearly: the lamp's decorative engraving, the lamp's structural integrity, the lamp's long-term maintenance needs—and somewhere far below that, the safety of the Empire, the dignity of the royal family, the emotional state of the royal princess, and my miserable little life.