The heavy silence that followed Xie Yan’s entrance was thick enough to slice with a dagger.
Marquise Hanyang swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her teacup as the Supreme General strode into the center of the hall. The crushing, suffocating weight of his alpha aura filled the room, pressing down on the shoulders of the three high-society matrons until their self-righteous postures stiffened into rigid discomfort.
"General Xie," Marquise Hanyang managed to say, forcing a tight, trembling smile onto her wrinkled face as she dipped her head in a shallow, hasty bow. "We were merely... welcoming your new consort. Passing down a few friendly lessons in capital etiquette to ensure he does not bring shame to your illustrious name."
Xie Yan did not look at her. His dark, piercing gaze remained locked on Wen Yu, who was still sitting gracefully at the head of the table, perfectly playing the part of the overwhelmed, trembling omega spouse.
"Etiquette," Xie Yan repeated, his voice dangerously smooth as he closed the distance between them, stopping just behind Wen Yu’s chair. A large, warm hand rested lightly on the back of the carved rosewood, an unmistakable gesture of total protection and possession. "Strange. From where I was standing, it looked less like instruction and more like an ambush."
"Not at all, General!" Duchess Feng chimed in quickly, her face pale as she hastily set her teacup down. "We were simply discussing the upcoming spring poetry symposium. We only wish to ensure Consort Wen is prepared for the high expectations of the imperial court."
"My consort’s preparation is entirely my concern," Xie Yan replied, his tone dropping an octave into a chilling, absolute authority. "And as for the symposium, I believe the military code explicitly states that spouses of active frontier generals are exempt from compulsory court verse if their duties lie within inner household management."
Marquise Hanyang’s eyes flashed with a sudden, bitter spike of anger. She stood up abruptly, smoothing down her heavy brocade skirts with a sharp, dismissive jerk. The humiliation of being cornered in front of the empire’s most terrifying alpha was too much for her fragile pride to bear.
"Very well, General," Marquise Hanyang sneered, her voice dripping with venom as she tossed her head back. "Keep your little scullery favorite hidden behind your coattails. But let us see if he can protect himself when the rest of the capital realizes they have welcomed a common servant into the inner sanctum of power."
With a sharp flick of her silk sleeves, the marquise turned on her heel to storm out of the reception hall. As she passed right beside Wen Yu’s chair, her eyes darted downward with malicious intent, and she slyly shot her foot forward, aiming to send the omega sprawling across the polished jade floor in front of everyone.
[Oh, you dirty, low-class playground bully!] Wen Yu screamed internally, his modern reflexes, honed from years of dodging rogue skateboards and rushing for subway trains, kicking in instantly.
Instead of tumbling forward like a helpless victim, Wen Yu used his faux-clumsiness as cover. He dipped his shoulder, pivoting smoothly on his heel while letting out a loud, theatrical gasp. "Oh! Heavens preserve me!" he cried out in a breathless, terrified register.
His foot shot out, catching Marquise Hanyang’s ankle just enough to completely derail her momentum. At the same time, his hip bumped the low tea tray, sending the heavy silver platter spinning through the air in a wild, physics-defying arc.
Porcelain cups and saucers flew in all directions before Wen Yu’s hands flickered out like a tired editor catching a falling mug off a cluttered desk. With absurd precision, he caught every single falling cup out of mid-air, stacking them neatly back onto the spinning tray just as it landed softly back onto the table without spilling a single drop of remaining tea.
At the exact same moment, Marquise Hanyang tripped over her own heavy brocade, letting out a very un-aristocratic shriek as she tumbled forward, landing flat on her hands and knees against the cold marble floor with a resounding thud.
Absolute, stunned silence filled the room.
Lady Wu and Duchess Feng froze, their jaws dropping so low they nearly touched the floor. They stared alternately at the unspilled teacups and the sprawling, humiliated marquise.
Wen Yu blinked wide, innocent eyes, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. "Oh, Marquise! Are you quite alright? Such a terrible stumble!" he gasped, his tone dripping with fragile distress. "As clause forty-two of the imperial military and household code explicitly states: ’Visitors within a general’s private quarters must maintain proper footing to avoid disrupting garrison discipline.’ Truly, your lack of balance is a direct violation of protocol. Should I have Butler Zhao call a physician to check your joints?"
Marquise Hanyang’s face turned a brilliant, violent shade of crimson. Humiliated, bruised, and utterly defeated, she scrambled up from the floor with the help of a frantic Lady Wu, sputtering incoherently. "You—you wretched little—!"
"We are deeply grateful for your visit," Wen Yu interrupted sweetly, pitching his voice into a breathy, submissive quiver while giving her a deep, mock-reverent bow. "Please do travel carefully on your way out. The capital’s stone paths can be terribly treacherous for those whose... balance is failing."
Lady Wu and Duchess Feng didn’t wait another second. They grabbed the furious marquise by the arms, practically dragging her out of the reception hall and fleeing down the corridor as fast as their silk skirts would allow, desperate to escape the terrifying aura of the general and the absolute psychological terror of his terrifyingly competent consort.
As the heavy oak doors finally clicked shut behind them, the hall descended into a profound, breathless quiet.
Wen Yu let out a long, silent sigh of relief, dropping his hands into his lap and mentally collapsing into a heap.
[Thank God that’s over,] Wen Yu hyperventilated internally, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. [Did I pull off the helpless servant act? Did I look pathetic enough? Wait, did I catch all those cups too fast?! What if they think I’m an assassin trained in martial arts?! Oh god, I’m going to be executed for treason by Tuesday—]
Standing directly behind him, Xie Yan listened to every single frantic, looping panic-spiral echoing straight through the mental bridge. A deep, chest-rumbling laugh broke the silence.
Wen Yu jumped, instantly straightening his posture and looking up with wide, innocent eyes. "General? Did... did I handle that appropriately? I tried my best to be respectful, but they were so overwhelming..."
Xie Yan walked slowly around the table, his dark eyes shining with an intense, helpless fondness that he didn’t even bother trying to hide. He reached down, picking up his own teacup from the tray, and took a slow sip.
"Respectful," Xie Yan murmured, a slow, devastating smirk curving his lips as he looked down at his husband. "Is that what you call quoting obscure military codes while systematically destroying an arrogant noblewoman’s dignity without spilling a single drop of tea?"
Wen Yu’s face burned bright red. He opened his mouth to stammer out an excuse, but the look in the general’s eyes stopped him dead in his tracks.
"You were magnificent, Wen Yu," Xie Yan whispered, his voice dropping into a low, intimate timbre as he set his teacup down and reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from Wen Yu’s forehead. "The capital’s vipers didn’t stand a chance."