Chương 95: 38-3.Tideguards

My sister looked toward Olivia.

"As for you—""I'll stay." Olivia answered before the question finished, as if she'd decided long ago.

"Until the ledger situation fully settles, I have no reason to leave." My sister studied her, then gave a quiet smile.

"I was going to ask whether you intended to help him or keep watch on him." Olivia tilted her head slightly.

"Are those mutually exclusive?" My head started hurting again. Whenever these two sat down for serious conversation, the air developed invisible currents of needles traveling in both directions. The fact that both maintained perfect courtesy only made it worse.

"Alvira," my sister said, looking across the table.

"Limit your outings these next few days. And stay away from the Mage Tower vicinity." Alvira, who had been staring into her tea, looked up with a slight frown.

"I'm not that conspicuous."

"Sometimes it isn't about whether you're conspicuous. Some places watch everyone who doesn't belong there." My sister's voice was even.

"The Mage Tower in the capital isn't an academy. It's a sieve. In your current condition, you don't want to be filtered." Alvira was quiet for two seconds, then gave a low acknowledgment.

"Understood." Jessi muttered, just loud enough:"So we're all just penned up inside." I heard it. My sister certainly heard it. She lifted her teacup with unhurried precision.

"If you find the house stifling, I can arrange for someone to escort you to three days of church sermons."

"... I suddenly find the house quite pleasant," Jessi corrected herself immediately. Kuroga pressed his palms together, his expression as composed as if he were already mid-prayer.

"Madam's arrangements are impeccable. This humble monk is deeply impressed."

"Save your admiration," my sister said, glancing at him.

"I have one question. If trouble actually comes to our door, do you intend to reason with it first, or throw it out first?" Kuroga considered this with genuine reflection, then answered with disarming honesty.

"If the opposing party proves amenable to reason, this monk would naturally attempt discourse first. Should they prove otherwise—""Then spare me the sermon," my sister said flatly.

"I don't keep guards who only know how to pray." Kuroga actually fell silent, then—to my genuine amazement—bowed his head and murmured his compliance. I nearly turned to stare at him. This monk had maintained perfect equilibrium through everything we'd survived. Yet one exchange with my sister had him folding like origami. The practical arrangements were essentially complete at this point.

How to handle the ledger's aftermath, where to place everyone, which districts of the capital were accessible and which were radioactive, who should serve as a visible target and who needed to disappear—she'd drawn all the boundaries in a handful of sentences. I sat with a particular brand of frustration. Not rebellion.

More the suffocating awareness that the other person was entirely correct, combined with the knowledge that I was about to spend the foreseeable future living inside rules I'd had no hand in writing. My sister seemed to read it straight off my face.

"What's that expression for?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Just wondering whether I escaped Angel City only to walk headfirst into a more sophisticated cage." She actually laughed.

"If you believe you can survive longer in the capital on your own terms than under my arrangements, you're welcome to test that theory." I pulled the corner of my mouth sideways.

"That's not a choice."

"It was never meant to be," she said without apology.

"I'm your sister, Cedric. Not your parliament." Even Olivia von Eisenberg lowered her gaze slightly toward her cup at that—apparently concealing something that had no business being there. I swallowed my frustration along with the last of my hangover remedy. That was when two soft knocks landed on the door. Unhurried. Not heavy. But precise enough that every person at the table paused. Vincent entered with his customary measured stride, crossed to the table, and offered a slight bow.

"Madam." My sister didn't turn.

"Who?" Vincent's voice carried no inflection whatsoever.

"The Commander of the Tideguards has called." Imperial protocol was written with surgical clarity—the kind that bordered on cruelty. Common citizens, excluding essential servants, were forbidden from approaching within a thousand paces of the King for their entire lives. Violation meant immediate execution. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Nobles, legislators, and prominent ministry figures could approach within a hundred paces.

Border marquises like my father, or great houses like the Eisenbergs who controlled the Empire's purse strings, could manage fifty paces at best. Those who sat at the true apex of imperial power—the ones you might call the Empire's helmsmen, or more plainly, the Chancellor—were permitted within ten to twenty paces. And the Tideguards— They could wear live steel and stand within seven paces of the King. Seven paces. That wasn't proximity. That was close enough to read the King's pulse.

Close enough that a fast hand could reach his throat. They were called the King's Shield, the Royal Guard, the Steel Watch of the Throne—the last wall beside the seat of power. The men who earned that position didn't need to be the most intelligent, the most skilled in combat, or the most eloquent. They needed one thing. Loyalty. The kind where, if you split their bones open, every ring would spell the same word.

So when Vincent showed the man in, I didn't look first at his insignia or the uniform that announced he hadn't come for pleasantries. I watched how he walked. Steady. So steady that every floor felt like a throne room. The man at the front was tall, well past his prime years, yet his spine was as straight as a fortress wall. His face held none of yesterday's practiced smoothness, none of the performed authority some men wore like costumes.

What he carried instead was something drier, harder—the settled stillness of someone who had stopped engaging with nonsense a very long time ago. When he entered, his gaze went first to my sister, then to Princess Erina, then swept across the rest of us. Not the way you look at guests. More like inventorying a room for blades that might need to come out. The man beside him, I recognized immediately. Julian Eberhart.

Yesterday's smooth-tongued ornament knight—the one who'd made jokes at my father's expense with the air of someone being terribly clever—was standing behind his father now with the posture of a dog that had been recently and firmly corrected. Spine straight. Mouth shut. Eyes that didn't dare wander. I looked at the two of them and had one thought. These two are actually related? One looked like a military blade honed over thirty years. The other looked like a gilded fruit knife that would complain about being used.

My sister remained seated and raised one hand slightly.

"Commander Eberhart." The man stopped, pressed his right fist to his chest, and delivered a salute that was correct in every particular.

"Lady Blackwell." His voice was low—not performing weight, simply carrying it.

"I am Gaelus Eberhart. I have come personally to offer apology for my son, whose words yesterday were without measure and gave offense to those present." My first reaction wasn't appreciation. It was irritation. An apology? Then face me when you deliver it. The one who'd been used as a stepping stone yesterday was my father, not my sister's family honor. Yet he walked in, acknowledged my sister first, saluted the princess, and let his gaze slide past me as if the debt in this room wasn't specifically mine.

Technically correct. This was the Blackwell household. The princess was present. Proper protocol demanded acknowledging the mistress of the house and the higher-ranking party first. Proper didn't make it less nauseating. It felt like someone stepping on your foot, then turning to the person beside you and saying, terribly sorry, my shoe was dirty. I let it sit for exactly as long as it needed to. Then I smiled. Not warmly. The kind that says: I see exactly what you're doing. Let's see how far you take it.

"Commander Gaelus, there's really no need for such formality." I leaned back in my chair, affecting relaxed ease.

"We're all people who serve the Empire in our own ways. Making a special trip over a few careless words—that's far too considerate." Julian looked like he'd just been thrown a lifeline, nodding so vigorously I was briefly concerned for his vertebrae. Gaelus looked at me. Just once. Not hard. Not hostile. But like a blade's flat side tapping lightly against your throat: I know what you're doing. Good. He could read people. Which made me want to push further.

"That said," I continued, turning my teacup half a rotation, "making jokes about the dead is still somewhat past acceptable." The hall went quieter. Even Jessi let her spectator's grin fade, shifting to watch me with her chin propped on her hand. She'd figured it out. I wasn't venting. I was performing. For this father and son, and for every person in this room who understood how these games worked. In situations like this, if you played the genuinely wronged party, the scene became about managing your feelings.

But if you played the pampered scion—the kind who knew exactly which nerve to press and pressed it anyway—the other side had no clean response. Because they couldn't actually flip the table. And if they did, they'd lose worse. I met Gaelus's eyes with an expression of genuine concern for his position.

"Having someone step forward out of nowhere and make jokes at the expense of their own dead father—as if it somehow reflected well on someone." I let the pause breathe, then delivered the second half slowly.

"It sounds rather like someone saying that a man permitted to stand within seven paces of the King cannot even protect his own family's honor." The moment those words landed, the hall felt like it had been doused in ice water. Julian went white. Not slightly pale. The kind of white where blood evacuates completely and takes the lips with it. Jessi turned her face away, shoulders trembling—almost certainly suppressing laughter. Lucas developed sudden fascination with the bottom of his teacup.

Kuroga pressed his palms together, projecting the spiritual composure of a man who had transcended all worldly concerns. Alvira looked at me for a moment with an expression somewhere between have you lost your mind and that was actually worth something. And Olivia— She hadn't moved at all. But something passed through her eyes, very briefly, that looked like exactly as expected. She understood. This wasn't a slip. It was deliberate.

I had specifically chosen to make the man who could stand within seven paces of the King swallow that sentence—in front of his son, the princess, the Blackwell household, and every person at this table. Gaelus finally directed his full attention to me. In that moment, I understood why the Tideguards were permitted within seven paces. It wasn't official authority. It wasn't killing intent. It was a particular quality of cold steadiness.

The kind that, if the sky fell, would first confirm which section was coming down, then decide which hand to use. He didn't react. Didn't frown. Didn't change expression. Which was precisely why the pressure was heavier. I understood, with equal clarity, that if I pushed one sentence further, this man wouldn't reach for steel. He would remember. And some people's memory was considerably more dangerous than their blade.

"Cedric." My sister finally spoke. Just my name. Her voice wasn't heavy. But I was sensible enough to spread my hands, lean back, and communicate: Fine. I'm done. That's enough for today. I had landed what I needed to land. Anything further would stop being calculated provocation and start being a genuine death wish. Gaelus was quiet for half a beat, then spoke.

"Lord Rosa's rebuke is warranted." Delivered without inflection. Without visible emotion. Which made it worse. Because it told you exactly what it was—not admission. A swallow. Something forced down with considerable effort. He turned slightly, not looking back.

"Julian." Julian flinched as if struck, stepped forward immediately, and dropped his head nearly to his chest.

"Lord Rosa. My words yesterday were inexcusable." His voice was stripped of everything—the oil, the practiced ease, all of it gone.

"To speak disrespectfully of the departed was without conduct. To show disrespect toward the Marquis of Acros... I offer my apology." I looked at him and felt the anger settle, fractionally. Not because an apology brought anyone back. But because some debts need to be acknowledged aloud, in the debtor's own voice. I pulled the corner of my mouth up.

"Mm." One syllable. I didn't have a spare word for him. Julian looked like he could breathe again, though he still didn't raise his head. Princess Erina spoke next.

"Commander Eberhart. I believe this matter is concluded, yes?" Her voice was quiet but steady. That wasn't intercession. It was reclaiming jurisdiction over the scene. Gaelus turned toward her immediately and bowed.

"As Your Highness wishes." I didn't follow up. Not because I'd suddenly become generous, but because I could see what the princess was doing. She wasn't smoothing things over. She was taking the stage back. Which meant the Commander of the Tideguards had not come today simply to deliver an apology. Gaelus straightened. His expression returned to that rigid composure.

"However," he said, "there is another matter of business for which I have come." I saw Erina's lashes move, just slightly. My sister said nothing. She raised her chin, indicating he should continue. Gaelus's gaze settled on the princess. His tone was without fault in every technical regard.

"I am here under orders to escort Your Highness back."