Chương 115: 47-1. Night of Shared Beds

After the banquet dispersed, everyone parted ways at the inner palace colonnade.

"Parted ways" was generous phrasing. It was more like witnesses retreating from the spectator gallery of an execution ground—each person carefully folding away their expression and carrying their respective portion of silence back into the night. The Blackwell carriage was ready first. Victoria's people moved with the practiced efficiency of staff long accustomed to evenings where imperial commissions materialized halfway through dinner. Lucas climbed into the lead carriage first, Matthews following behind.

Adeline lifted her skirts with perfect composure, her expression even flatter than it had been at table—flat in the way of someone already calculating which methods of dying in the south would be least undignified. Kuroga inclined his head slightly in my direction, still wearing the air of a man who would respond to the capital catching fire by adding two rounds to his daily prayers. Alvira didn't move immediately.

She stood by the carriage, night wind tugging at her cloak, her entire presence as cold as the first frost forming on Cliffhold's outer walls. She looked at me once—no extra words, but heavy enough to feel like someone had pressed a northern gravestone directly onto my chest.

"Three days," she said. I nodded.

"I know."

"You don't." Her tone was perfectly level.

"You only know His Majesty gave you three days. You don't know how many people in the capital will spend those three days arranging your death." Very Alvira. Not a trace of comfort, yet somehow more honest than most attempts at consolation. I almost replied Then remember to pick me a south-facing grave, but decided against it. Her patience tonight was probably as finite as my remaining lifespan—neither resource worth squandering. It was then that Olivia stepped forward. She didn't bare blades like Alvira.

She simply nodded to the assembled group, voice as measured as ever, as if everything still operated within parameters she had established in advance.

"Please return to the Blackwell estate first," she said.

"I will see Lord Cedric back." Matthews raised an eyebrow, clearly tempted to object, then settled for a grunt. Lucas glanced at me, then at Olivia, and didn't argue. Adeline's expression remained unchanged. Jessi, however, shot me a quick look—not surprise in her eyes, but something I recognized immediately. Of course. That particular expression was the most irritating thing about you. As if you alone had known all along that I wasn't going home like a normal person tonight. I'd assumed Jessi would try to follow.

Instead, she stood there with unusual correctness, hands tucked into her sleeves, head bowed at exactly the proper angle, like a servant who had suddenly discovered the meaning of knowing her place. Olivia turned to her.

"Jessi."

"Present."

"Accompany Miss Alvira and the others back. You won't be needed with Lord Cedric tonight." Jessi looked at Olivia, then at me, and then—with remarkable docility—answered: "Yes, my lady." Even I looked at her twice for that. She noticed. The corner of her mouth curved by the smallest fraction, and as she passed close, she murmured: "Young master, don't die tonight. If you're still alive tomorrow, lend me your life so I can laugh at it properly." I let out a short, cold sound.

"Don't worry. This life is currently serving both public and private interests. It won't be decommissioned that easily."

"Good." She stepped back, the mask of obedience sliding perfectly into place.

"Repairs are expensive these days." With that, she actually climbed into the Blackwell carriage. Watching the door close left a worse taste in my mouth than expected. When you were being obnoxious, at least I knew how to respond. When you suddenly behaved, it meant you were taking something seriously. That was almost never a good omen. Alvira boarded last. She said nothing further—only, as the door fell shut, gave Olivia one brief look. Short but unmistakable: If you break him tonight, I'll handle you tomorrow.

Olivia received it without a flicker, like accepting a reasonably polite death notice. Once the Blackwell carriage pulled away, the courtyard emptied with startling finality. Wind poured in from beyond the castle walls, setting the lamps to swaying. I stood there and almost wanted to laugh. One dinner, and everyone's positions had been declared. Who escorted me away was just the next item on the procedural checklist. Olivia didn't look at me. She simply raised her hand toward the coachman.

"Get in, Lord Cedric." Her carriage was smaller than the Blackwell one, with less ostentation on the exterior. Inside, however, it was quiet to an almost unreasonable degree. Thick cushions, dark blankets, a single small lamp fixed in the corner with its shade pressed low, as if afraid too much light might startle the occupant. The moment the door closed, wind and hoofbeats were filtered through layers of insulation, leaving a silence that felt uncomfortably intimate.

I had barely sat down before my shoulders began to ache. Humans are ridiculous creatures. You can hold every vertebra in place before an emperor through sheer stubbornness, then the moment you step away, realize you've been managing a structural emergency entirely on willpower. Olivia sat across from me and said nothing at first. She simply pushed a prepared hot-water flask across the small table.

"Drink something."

"I'm not that fragile."

"You are," she said. I looked at her and took the cup anyway. The water was warm, without the burn of alcohol, which only made me more aware of exactly how much I'd swallowed tonight—the emperor's orders, the weight of every gaze, the Dragon Kingdom, the Yansha Empire, and that sentence delivered like grace but landing like exile. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

I didn't notice anything wrong until we turned past the second outer wall and the streetlamps outside began following the wrong pattern. I looked up.

"This isn't the way to the Blackwell estate."

"No," Olivia said, tone as calm as if commenting on the weather.

"It isn't."

"Then where?"

"The Eisenberg private residence." I stared at her for two full heartbeats, feeling absurdity creep in. Good news: I'd just been sold south by the Empire tonight. Bad news: before official packaging, another power had decided to store me overnight.

"I don't recall agreeing to this."

"You didn't object either," Olivia pointed out.

"Is it too late to object now?"

"Yes." She pushed the cup slightly closer to my hand.

"You shouldn't return to the Blackwell estate tonight."

"I don't bite roofs."

"No." She looked up at me.

"But you won't sleep either. There are too many people there, and too many eyes. The way you look right now—going back would keep everyone awake until dawn." I wanted to say And you think bringing me here won't cause complications, but the argument dissolved before reaching my mouth. Not because I couldn't win it, but because I suddenly realized I didn't have enough left to maintain even a performative disagreement. Seeing my silence, Olivia didn't press.

She had always understood structural integrity—especially when someone was close to collapse. She wasn't like Jessi, who tested for weak points first. She was more like someone who noticed a table beginning to give way and simply put her hand under it, without asking how it broke. During the ride, she asked only two questions.

"Does your hand still hurt?" I glanced down at my palm, hidden in my sleeve.

"I'll live."

"And your head?"

"Also functional." She watched me steadily.

"Lord Cedric, I'll live is not comforting tonight. It sounds suspiciously like you're planning to experiment with alternative methods tomorrow." I had no response to that and finished the rest of the water instead. Outside, wheels ground over stone, sending vibrations through my bones.

I leaned against the carriage wall and closed my eyes, but my mind refused to clear—candlelight wavering in the long hall, the emperor's raised glass, Gilbert promising preparations in three days, Alvira asking embassy or probe, Lucas asking whether the capital wanted my body or just my reports. Every sentence layered over the last until it felt like someone had shattered the entire Empire and stuffed the pieces into my skull, where they scraped against each other with every jolt. After a long while, Olivia spoke.

"You're quieter than usual tonight." I opened my eyes and let out a soft sound.

"You prefer when I'm loud?"

"No." Her voice was light.

"It's just that you don't look tired right now."

"Then what do I look like?" She paused before answering.

"Like part of you never left that table." I didn't reply. Fortunately, she didn't pursue it. The carriage stopped in front of a residence that was quiet in the way of places that had practiced it deliberately. The outer wall was unassuming; no family crest hung prominently, only two lamps mounted by the gateposts like patient, watchful eyes. When the door opened, cold air cut through the wine haze in my head. Staff were waiting inside, but the house felt barely inhabited.

A maid stepped forward to take Olivia's cloak and reached for my coat—Olivia raised her hand.

"Everyone out."

"Yes, my lady." Once they withdrew, the entrance hall held only lamplight, carpet, and the two of us. Too quiet. Quiet enough that I could hear every uneven edge in my own breathing. Olivia led me to a room deeper in the second floor. Not a formal reception room or study, but something more private—a personal sitting room. Only two lamps were lit, the light softer than anything characteristic of Eisenberg.

A dark blanket lay across the low couch by the bed; a shawl that hadn't been put away rested on the window seat. The fireplace held a small flame—enough warmth to sustain life, not enough to create illusions. Standing in the doorway, I felt whatever had been holding me upright begin to loosen. Remarkable. You don't need a blade to discover you're coming apart. Sometimes all it takes is stepping into a room where you don't have to perform being human, and your bones volunteer to collapse on their own.

Olivia turned back.

"Take off your coat." My reflex was to say something about her growing comfortable with orders, but what came out was a very quiet "Mm." She stepped forward and unfastened it herself. Her fingers brushed my shoulder, and only then did I notice how tightly I'd been holding everything. Not the tension of someone ready to draw a weapon—something worse, like a string pulled taut for so long it had forgotten how to go slack. She didn't comment. She set the coat aside and looked at my hand.

"Sit." I did. She fetched medicine and clean bandaging, then knelt beside me. Her movements were steady, precise—the manner of someone addressing a task that required care but didn't warrant alarming anyone. When she began unwinding the slightly loosened wrapping, I flinched involuntarily.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's manageable."

"That phrase is invalid tonight," she said, studying the wound.

"You look like someone who's stopped counting how many breaths he has left." I stared at the crown of her head and couldn't find a response. She worked in silence. The ointment was cool; when it touched my palm, the pain sharpened into clarity rather than fading. I watched the fresh white bandage being wound into place and felt something like bitter amusement. The Empire had restored my name by day, and now someone was wrapping my hand by night.

Admirable division of labor—from cutting people open to putting them back together, every step executed with professional grace. When she finished tying the knot, she didn't rise immediately. She remained kneeling, one hand still cradling my bandaged one, as if confirming what I could still hold onto—or perhaps testing whether a person freshly stamped with imperial recognition felt different when touched. After a moment she stood and returned the tray to the side table.

"Don't think about the south tonight," she said. I laughed once, the sound rough.

"That's like telling a drowning man not to think about water."

"Then don't."

"That's harder." I leaned back and looked at the ceiling.

"Tonight it sat too close. I could taste it in the wine." She watched me for a moment, then turned to lower the window curtains further. The room dimmed just enough—not confining, just sufficient that if a person were going to fall apart here, they might manage to close their eyes before hitting the ground. I spoke quietly, almost without meaning to.

"I seem to have signed another contract on myself tonight." Her silhouette paused.

"A private one?" she asked. I looked at her and, after a long moment, managed a quiet "Mm." One syllable. It felt like tearing something from my throat rather than speaking. Not confession—acknowledgment. Olivia was perceptive enough that one word was sufficient. More would turn tonight from wound care into interrogation, and I had nothing left for a complete examination. She walked back slowly and sat on the low couch across from me.

"You can't say what it was. Not yet."

"It's not easy to explain."

"Is it inconvenient, or do you not want me to know?" I closed my eyes briefly.

"Both." She nodded—accepting the answer, or perhaps filing it away in a drawer she fully intended to open later.

"All right," she said.

"Then that's enough for tonight." That was exactly it. That was what made her most dangerous. She wasn't refusing to ask—she was simply keeping a ledger. Like a merchant folding an IOU neatly into her sleeve, waiting until you thought the waters had calmed before slowly unfolding it to reconcile the accounts. And yet, precisely because of that, the breath that had been wedged in my chest finally eased a fraction.

She hadn't chased after names, hadn't demanded what was asked or what I'd answered, and certainly hadn't questioned whether that private oath had been given from genuine conviction. She simply caught the fact of it and set it aside—somewhere beyond tonight. That particular restraint was more dangerous than any comfort, because it made it far too easy to cultivate a certain illusion—that as long as I stayed here, I wouldn't have to choose sides until dawn. A foolish illusion. But warm.

The room settled into quiet, broken only by the occasional soft crack from the fireplace. I looked down at the fresh white bandaging on my palm and found I had no desire to stand, no desire to return to any of the places I was supposed to be. There are moments in a person's life when simply remaining still becomes something close to luxury. Olivia had apparently noticed. She rose, walked to the bed, unfolded the thin blanket that had been resting to one side, then turned back to look at me.

Her gaze wasn't soft exactly, but it was profoundly still—still enough that a person might momentarily believe they still possessed the right to be handled with care. Then she spoke.

"Cedric," she said, "would it be all right if we slept together tonight?"